Milan, April 25, 2022
Dear Raffaella,
The other day in Albisola I saw you with the emotion of someone opening her first art gallery and not her fourth space. You create a place on tiptoe, with the desire to be mimetic within the nature of the landscape that welcomes you. It is as if you had a sort of wild desire to give life to a small monastic cell, like an impossible addition to the constellation of little rooms painted by Fra Angelico in the Museum of San Marco in Florence. We seek, even if from different cliffs and different distances, a glimmer of the sacred, so that the past may be our revolution written in an armed voice. CERCO L’UMANITÀ NEL DIMENTICATO DOVE ERO . Making reality happen, making the sacred happen, is the task of art.
Opening your space and exhibiting one of my writings of light is like creating a parenthesis between the wind and the sea, between the rubble of a today dead in the face. Before a horizontal horizon you would like all your artists facing the sea while you lose yourself in the chiaroscuro of the sea.
By now death SI MOSTRA and wounds hide, poetry wins by losing, mortally wounded. PER ME LA LIGURIA È IL PORTOGALLO DELL’ITALIA. Traditional Ligurian houses do not seem painted or plastered, but made up, like cheerful girls at their first attempt at seduction, AMORE DI TIEPIDA NOTTE A RIDERCI SOPRA LE STELLE.
The low voice of the sea is heard only by you from the walls of Albisola, SOLO TU DAL MURO SENTI IL RUMORE DEL MARE.
On Via Colombo no. 54 there are only shop windows except yours — meaning, your space is a shop window but with one pane less, as if the body of the space were holding its breath. Eyes leave words on the clean windows in FESTA. With visions we give presence to an absence, DIMENTICATO APPARE . For distracted passersby, it is like stumbling over their own eyes.
You are your work and your work is you; art accepts no boundaries: art is the instrument for making experiences happen and rekindling the world.
As if to say to everyone, AMORE PORTAMI DOVE SONO
Yours,
Marcello