The story of an artist's project and the unexpected twists and turns in the creative process. In un'alternanza di immagini e descrizioni di momenti leggeri come una notte a Ibiza e di inquietudine come l'inspiegabile lucidità di Rothko nel togliersi la vita, il breve racconto “Eyes Wide Open” nasce spontaneamente alla fine di un periodo di lavoro denso di curiosità e noia, alti e bassi, tentativi apparentemente senza logica. Published by Fortino Editions

The American “wheel charts” tell us it’s possible to measure and assess all matter by inserting it into an ordered progression of boxes. An ironically post-modern version of that same classifying illusion, this chart seems to confront itself with the anxiety of defining that accompanies today’s marketing strategies: giving a label to every artistic product, a name to every style. In this modernity of ours, the kingdom of reckless hybridizations, this mixer is a product ambiguously poised between extreme hope for order and a somewhat perverse pastime.

This time the game is even harder: classifying the unclassifiable material of feelings and moods, each possible nuance of theirs. If some conceptual artists had already checkmated the positivistic ambition to classification this tool is the youngest and most emancipated child of that tradition. To bring with you at every mundane event. Your friends will be happy to know in real time every imperceptible mood change of yours.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.

Once painters—abstract angry alcoholics absent—threw violent colors onto large canvases. This was the space where the Self finally revealed to the world its true nature, without ambiguity and without reticence. Our “being-in-the-world”, to put it philosophically. These agglomerates of thick colors are instead tricks, random combinations determined by a mechanical prosthesis, like a blast of compressed air. The French language has a term that’s right for us. These images are maquillage.