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Pictures of the exposition
Private collection

Contacts: mostra.dado@casasanmatteo.it

Dado
was born 100 years ago

Picture exhibition
from December 30, 2008 to January 6, 2009

il mediterraneo

galleria-ristorante
via pasitea 236, positano
Tel 089 811 651

THANK YOU, UNCLE

The memory of the nephew Giulio Predieri, journalist and President of the Academy "Tarocchino Bolognese".

"Drinks for everyone!" then, in an under tone, "Ugo, you pay the bill". I don't know how many times I will have heard Dado say these words in the five-year period that we spent together in Calabria more than forty years ago. He was the head of the society for reclamation of the Cassa del Mezzogiorno (Funds for the South) and his cousin Ugo, my father, was his righthand man. Like any real gentleman of his time, Dado never had any money with him and never spoke about money and this peculiarity of his was often subject to affectionate, domestic teasing.

Dado flew higher than everyone, in every sense, and although being still an adolescent, I was perfectly aware of this, so much so that once I said to him "Uncle, you could have been anything in life from neurosurgeon to nuclear physicist, from notary to sociologist, from judge to minister and, instead, you have a degree in Forest Sciences. "I know", he answered, "but I am happy that way and don't forget that a minister isn't a technician but a politician. Remember that technicians can do without politicians but politicians can't do without technicians; become a good technician and you will see that it will be the politicians, of whatever colour, who will come looking for you."

Our meetings always happened in the deep of the night in the dining room in Catanzaro where, escaping from paternal control, I pretended to study. Dado would appear between three and four in the morning and, notwithstanding the boxer pants and slippers, maintained that austere behaviour that inspired respect, especially in strangers but only tenderness in those who loved him. He made himself comfortable in an armchair, crossed his legs and with a guitar quietly played a few notes of some piece. Before going back to bed he would stay a while to chat with me - sometimes he enchanted me with stories of his life: the youth rebellion of the School of Forestry in Florence; the time of the war and his experiences as an officer, a mission as secret agent abroad, his Africa, the herbarium in Somalia, the booze-up with the witch doctor in Congo and then the discovery and infinite love of Positano and the cheerful neapolitaness of "Tuppe, Tuppe Marescià…

Each of his sories was a romance, every detail a surprise - I can see again gthe silent tables listening to him. I can hear the laughter at his jokes, see him chastising Roy, the craziest Irish setter in our history, guilty of having made disappear in a flash the cutlets that were for our lunch. "From now on", he told him, wagging a forefinger, "you won't be called Roy but Barabba!"

After having left Calabria, apart from sporadic meetings in the home of the other uncles, we didn't meet up again for about ten years up to the autumn of '75. I was in Rome for an exam, staying in an hotel behind Via Veneto and in the study breaks I would go for a walk. One morning, in a little street at the side of Trinità dei Monti, I saw in the distance the back of a figure, it was that of an elegant man bent over by a wall - there was something familiar about him but I couldn't understand what he was doing. It looks like Dado, I thought and I went up to him. It was really him. "Look", he said, "against this wall they have made a bonfire of dry leaves and brushwood, look how black it is, I was studying and admiring the shades of colour". Then he took my arm as if we had only left each other the day before and took me to a trattoria in a crossing off Via del Babuino.

I was happy to be with him again talking about everything - it wasn't a Roman lunch but a Calabrian night. When it was time to pay the bill, I was quick because I wanted to be the host but, reading my mind, he said "Don't get any wrong ideas." It was a blow - to my amazement he paid with a large banknote and, once again, I said to him "Thank you, uncle!" and he gave me one of his flashing smiles that lit up the air.

Medy, Dado, Marco e Massimo (Ciuffino) nel 1957