Dio Cane!

That double meaning lives inside my work “Dio Cane,” carved in 2015 on Carrara’s Cathedral Square during the Simposio Internazionale di Scultura a Mano, one of those rare moments when Carrara found itself again. Friendly, noisy, and rhythmic, hammering out the old marble song.

For days, the square rang with the sound of iron on stone, no motors, no grinders, no compressors.

Only hands, chisels, and sweat.

The local newspaper wrote: “Solo subbia e scalpello… una manifestazione dove non si usano attrezzi elettrici.” (Only chisel and hammer, pure handwork) The residents were still annoyed by the beautiful noise. Newcomers, most likely.

From a single block of Ordinario marble, the white flesh of these mountains, I carved a relief inspired by Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, but replaced the divine finger with a dog’s paw.

Not just any dog, but the paw of Ragnar, our Maremmano-Abruzzese sheepdog, born above the rooftops of Carrara, in Castelpoggio and shaped by the same wildness that runs through the people here.

Ragnar was no pet, no accessory, but a quiet guardian, a being who understood without words. He growled often, not out of anger, but as a reminder of presence. He embodied those old virtues Carrara seems to have forgotten: loyalty, strength, calm, and patience.

For thirteen summers he lay beside us, in the dust, in the shade, in the workshop. When he died in summer 2019, we buried him between the marble mountains, in a megalithic grave, like those once built for warriors. There he lies now, surrounded by stone, part of the same material that this work itself is made from.

Dio Cane was not meant to be a grave sculpture, but in hindsight, it became one. The work shows the moment before contact, the tension between hand and paw, between man and animal, earth and sky.

The Pinokel, my recurring figure, half man, half mirror,lies stretched across the relief, its body painted in pink, almost childlike, almost embarrassed. Eyes of Murano glass. The paw above him is calm, gentle, but certain. No divine spark, no beam of light, just nearness. A buddy.

A quiet, almost sacred recognition, that true touch might not come from God, but from the one who lives beside us.

The title Dio Cane remains ambiguous, a shout and a declaration of love. An ironic yet honest dialogue with the language of my surroundings. In Carrara, Dio Cane is an everyday curse, a spontaneous outburst when something goes wrong. I use it often, and I like it.

The dog as god, god as dog, so the circle closes.

The stone bears the mark of the hand. You can see the blows, the irregularities, the unpressed life on the surface.

The color of the Pinokel, a funky pink, already that early F.A.C. pink, contrasts with the cold skin of the marble. The relief is not perfect, not symmetrical, not smooth and that is precisely where its truth lies.

And it is, at the same time, a self-portrait: the sculptor, Dominik, striking into emptiness, and hearing no reply.

Perhaps he still barks when the wind carries the dust, perhaps then, faint and almost reconciled, one can hear again that old word:

Today, when you leave the Cathedral Square and look toward the mountains, you might imagine Ragnar still up there, tall, white, calm, among the rocks.