I'll have a new Solo Show in a beautiful ancient gallery in San Gimignano, Italy.
Oniriche, like a Martian dream, the Towers of San Gimignano materialize a bit the time in the fog that it wraps to them. Goodness knows what would have thought Dante in front of these colors: perhaps to the city of Dite, with its low reverberates of flame, in pagan red of its Hell. I always ask ' goodness knows what thought' or it would have said someone of the historical personages who I frequent, watching what I am watching: the things that survive, that they were 'they' and hour they are ours, consumed, rielaborate, metabolizzate, modeling the continuous one to flow of a time/sea that are left over and re-enter, cutting sea cliffs, smoothing down capes, reducing to tiny sand men and things... I asked to myself, and then do not know to answer. These roads, these ends, these forests bewitched of reverberate purpurei and violets, of acid green, these fields burnts from the fire of infinites sunsets, these summery hazes in which forgiveness the contours, tremuli in light waving of the sultriness... These same chromatic feelings others before we have perceived, before that Alexander Andreuccetti immobilized to them in intense throbbings and most personal and testified to us on thick papers, intrise of colorful and dense waters of emotions. As they will have seen ' they to them ', ours ' before’ - and then as ' they ' will be able to see others to them, ours ' after ' - the fable narrow lanes to the end of which, far away far away, are sure the house of an old fairy in attended of children to begin, or the forests where are flying in the wind sea-elf, salmastri, silent, forgotten... We are moving on background that others have thought, constructed, narrated, painted, carved, planned, demolished, re-built, in continuous changing of scene in the magical spider of screw lived and forgotten; Giotto, or Lorenzetti, or the Angelic one, have covered this same our background, the same colors that Andreuccetti imprisons in its watery net, observing the tormentosa survival of the olive three, the restless tangle of the forest with the bushes profile of the spot, soft, the femmineo one to unfold itself to hills of the clay and grass rumps; the changing one to become of the light in the order of the day, from the pearly inconsistenze of the dawn to the screziato lapis-lazuli indigo that precedes the night, or in that one of the seasons, hour sparkling spring greens, hour torpide of summery gold already screzia you of autumn, hour wood, algid of nakedness winter. Also Andreuccetti, like already the sweethearts of the ' country where the oranges bloom ', the untirings watercolorists of the Great Tour, or the English painters lost in the campaigns roman between sheep and ruins, us guide in a travel between the colors of the time in the extraordinary variety of a space to hilss where the legal profile of the borders defines with graphical artifice of the cypresses, where the greed of the possession stempera in the harmony of the shape, where the ' houses for the lord' are nearly less beautiful than those ' for worker '. Therefore its paint-brush leads to us, onlooker, between the warm ways of Saint Gimignano, red of history or nocturnal of china, tclose to the forests to butterfly leaves, in the bluesy stormy or the green infinite of the young grain fields. With its chromatics it succeeds, much better than how much it is not possible to the historian, to evoke the thickness of the time inborn in the things, their meant ucronico of compendium. Therefore thanks to the light, before between '
ieces' of the creation - also of that artistic one - it expresses the immaterial substance of the duration, the patina of becoming, the essence of the generations that that time they have crossed and lived covering the same places and watching the same colors.
October 
Neutral
!!! 
