Statement

Pentidattilo, Italy, Silver Gelatin, 20 x 23 inches, 2023.

Pentidattilo, Italy, Silver Gelatin, 20 x 23 inches, 2023.

My Italian American childhood had a profound influence on my decision to become an artist. I was not raised in a typical middle-class family. My grandparents and parents had their own ideas about life: eccentricities that leave me, as an adult, often confused and searching for answers. Much of my work stems from memories, both real and borrowed, that I have fused with present day social commentaries. I translate memories and current observations to create a celebration of life in Italy and the U.S.; at times being satirical about the family spectacle. My artwork draws contrasts between sheer raw experiences and manipulated tension.

My grandfather grew up in a two-room farm house in the southern-most tip of Italy. To get to this house today, my family and I needed a 4-wheel drive vehicle that took us up and down dry river beds. At one point, we jumped out and hiked up the mountain that was dotted with olive and fig trees. The small house had dirt floors. I could imagine the donkey, cow, and other animals living on the bottom floor. In this moment of seeing his childhood home for the first time, what was real in front of my eyes and borrowed from the hours of sitting and listening to my grandfather’s memories of beauty and struggle collided. Like many Calabrian people, my Roda family ancestors left their homeplace in search of a better life. Yet, like the structure of the house left behind, our family heritage lives on.

Growing up in suburban Pennsylvania, my siblings and I were taught to appreciate history, art, and music over temporal material possessions that would grow old long before memories. As a child, my grandfather taught me to make money by painting houses or harvesting dandelions from our backyard to sell at the local farmer’s market. My father wanted his children to eat steroid-free meat. Every year we raised a calf that we would carefully name and bottle-feed in our backyard. When grown, my father would slaughter the cow in my sister's bathroom using a crosscut handsaw. The stench of flesh and warm blood lingered in the air for weeks. Flies hovered outside. Friends didn't want to come over and play at my house because we did not have cable TV. The bread we got from the discount food store sometimes had mold on the crust. Instead of spending money on Christmas presents, we traveled all over Europe; packing canned potatoes in our suitcase to save money during our trip.

Most third-generation Italian Americans have assimilated into the American culture. They do not speak fluent Italian or seek out the stories, people, and places of their Italian beginnings. My work looks backward to keep my Italian roots alive and relevant. It is a bridging agent between the past and present; intentionally using black and white aesthetics and earthenware clay and other found objects to honor the ways of life that my Calabrian family holds dear.
Tim Roda