Three years ago Isabella Tirelli, artist and professor at the Art Academy in Rome started a video project called “Dialogo con l’artista”.
The project was based on collective interviews to artists in their studio and was realized under the direction of videomaker Leonardo Settimelli.
Tirelli gathered students and ex students from the Art Academy – I fell into the latter category – and we visited the studios of the most amazing artists in Rome.
The most notable visit for me was certainly the one to Luigi Ontani’s studio in Piazza Popolo.
I wrote about Luigi Ontani work before (for this blog, Artribune and I-Magazine Bali) and I obviously love his art. Who doesn’t afterall?
Once I was in Naples and, going down the Museo Madre’s stairs, I saw Ontani around the corner. I was wearing his typical blue silk suit and there were two guys literally throwing at his feet whispering:”Maestro… maestro…”. Even if Ontani’s physical presence is enough inspire devotion among many, the artist himself is much more down-to-earth than his public persona.
I recently visited the studio of artist Alessandro Cannistrà in San Lorenzo.
It consisted in a white, neat room, pretty bare, except for some books, stucked in an arch in the wall over the door, and a black sofa with some black hats on it.
“This is an original gaucho hat.” he said grabbing a wide-brimmed leather hat on top of the stack “I bought it in Argentina, during my artist residency in Buenos Aires”.
Alessandro has travelled quite a bit lately and he recently relocated in Rome. His work keep on travelling internationally through exhibition and fairs, that’s why his studio was almost empty at the moment.
My attention was attracted by some 3D reconstructions that were pinpointed on the wall.
“Is that what are you working on at the moment?” I asked
Alessandro explained me that he was working on these pyramids for his new solo exhibition at Toselli Gallery, in Milan, curated by Luca Tomìo. The title was “Oggetto di Pensiero”, namely “Object of thinking”, and will open on March 28.
Milan is a strange city. It’s not like Rome, where beauty is blatant and majestic.
Milan is more discreet, its beauties are hidden and only locals and curious people living there for a long time are aware of them.
Sometimes it feels like falling down the rabbit hole. What I mean is that you wouldn’t expect to find conceptual art, Dan Flavin to be precise, in a quiet suburbia at the end of the green line, Abbiategrasso (which in an English translation sounds like “Be fat”).
Ho recentemente ritrovato nei meandri di internet un mio articolo del 2008, riguardante gli esami di ammissione in tre delle più prestigiose Accademie di Belle Arti italiane, Roma, Napoli e Firenze. Al tempo mi recai nelle tre città per ovviare alla latitanza di informazioni sul web riguardo agli esami di ammissione, quello che trovai invece fu una sorta di specchio dell’Italia. Agli esordi del 2014 non penso che la situazione sia molto cambiata.
Viaggio tra le Accademie di Belle Arti d’Italia
Le informazioni sulle Accademie di Belle Arti Italiane sono scarse, i siti ufficiali poco aggiornati, le segreterie avare di informazioni, i forum a cui si rivolgono i ragazzi telegrafici. Abbiamo dato un’occhiata alle prove d’ammissione nelle Accademie di Belle arti di Firenze, Roma e Napoli: ecco il verdetto.
“Di dove sei?”
A farmi la domanda è una ragazza dall’aspetto un po’ alternativo, lunghi capelli castano chiaro e look hippie: “Io sono di Bologna, ho fatto il test di ammissione anche là, ma dicono che sono tutti raccomandati, e comunque è meglio farlo da più parti, perché se non entri hai sempre un’altra possibilità”.
C’era insomma un tempo dove il garage non era più quel luogo dove parcheggiavi la macchina e stipavi il televisore rotto.
C’era un tempo dove tutto era spartano e vivido. Basico. Come dire, un garage, un gallerista e la centralità dell’arte.
Grossomodo è così che l’arte moderna in Italia si è incamminata verso la contemporaneità.
Erano tempi mitici, dove le gallerie venivano allagate o nelle quali passeggiavano cavalli.
L’unico problema a quei tempi, piuttosto marginale per l’arte contemporanea, era dove parcheggiare l’automobile.
Adesso probabilmente la gente prende meno multe per divieto di sosta, ma quell’atmosfera grunge e sincera sembra essere sparita. Diversamente da altre città europee, a Roma e a Milano le alternative alle immacolate stanze dell’arte contemporanea sono veramente poche.
“L’arte contemporanea italiana è diventata sempre più istituzionalizzata. Non c’è traccia delle esperienze d’avanguardia degli anni sessanta e settanta. Sono sorpreso in particolare dagli artisti più giovani. Sono infatti proprio loro i primi a cercare di entrare in un sistema dell’arte già bello e pronto, e nemmeno si sforzano di immaginare soluzioni alternative. La stessa pratica artistica sembra essere diventata una faccenda secondaria”, afferma l’artista Alessandro Cannistrà.
Since no one cares about the 55th Venice Biennale anymore, I feel like sharing my definitive thoughts about my favourite pavilion, without anyone there to contradict me.
So, chart lovers, my favourite pavilion was the Indonesian one, curated by Rifky Effendy.
In no other pavilion the installations of different artists work so perfectly together. The show almost looked like one single artist and yet it encapsulated such a richness of discourses.
If you were at the Venice Biennale in October, you would have seen me wandering in the Arsenal looking for the Indonesian Pavillion.
I actually overshot the main entrance, so I came in by the back door.
It was dark inside, and there was a soft music that I didn’t notice in the first place. The music though ended up being a background noise influencing the entire experience of the pavilion.
The soundscape was actually by Solo composer Rahayu Supanggah, the guy who reinvented traditional Indonesian music. For the Biennale’s composition he was inspired by the theme of the pavilion, which was “Sankti”.
As the press release stated, Sankti is a sanskrit word that refers to the primordial cosmic energy and the personification of the divine, feminine creative energy, as well as indicating change and liberation.
The first dark-metal work I encountered immediately struck me with his expressive power.
A group of man wearing a Muslim hat were sitting at a table. One man was laying with his head on the table, like someone who had been shot or something. One man was pointing his finger to another gentleman, who looked baffled. If you looked better at these two figures and you would notice that their legs where stretched under the table so to touch each other.
But the figure that really stood out was a matriarch in traditional clothes, upright at the end of the table. She was bringing a hand at his chest like saying: “Who, me?”
A weird lamp was falling from the ceiling, almost touching the table. It was shaped like something between an octopus and a tropical fruit.
Dunque, per quanto surreale possa sembrare, è veramente successo. Ashley Bickerton, Luigi Ontani e Filippo Sciascia si sono effettivamente incontrati nella stessa stanza.
Chiaramente c’è qualcosa che questi tre eccezionali artisti, così diversi tra di loro per pratica artistica e personalità, hanno in comune. Bali.
Bickerton e Sciascia ne hanno fatto la propria dimora, Ontani vi soggiorna spesso fin dagli anni ’80, da quando ha cominciato a far produrre le proprie maschere agli artigiani locali.
Dico, riuscite a immaginarvi Ontani, aristocraticamente vestito di seta e con la sua elaborata parlata infarcita di giochi di parole, dialogare amabilmente con Ashley Bickerton, camicia da surfista e flip flop, il quale dichiara candidamente di sentirsi in certe situazioni “Come una scorreggia in una cabina telefonica?”.
Fortunatamente c’è Sciascia che funge da elemento di raccordo. Lui, molto gentiluomo noncurante col sopracciglio lirico, ma spiegato come un radar alla ricerca di stimoli tra cultura alta e bassa.
Ashley Bickerton possiede un dipinto di Sciascia che tiene in bella mostra a casa sua, una Giuditta dal seno rifatto e le labbra impertinenti che brandisce la testa di Oloferne: “Mi piace perché è un soggetto della pittura classica, ma è così chiaramente un’immagine presa da qualche porno!”
Ontani, il quale pure inserisce elementi suggestivi nelle sue ceramiche, conosceva Ashley Bickerton fin dagli anni ’80, momento più fulgido per l’artista americano. Sciascia invece Ontani l’ha incontrato proprio a Bali.
Il fatto è che Bickerton, Ontani e Sciascia sono bulè, è il nome con cui i balinese chiamano l’uomo bianco.
In una splendida mostra al Museo Archeologico di Napoli, curata da Maria Savarese, il trio si appropria ironicamente di questa parola, e dissemina balinesità tra le statue antiche della collezione Farnese del museo.
Coming back from Australia, I decided to see the Venice Biennale before it ends.
Maybe it was not the greatest Biennale ever, but there are some artworks worth talking about. Here you are, my personal list of favourites:
- Arthur Bispo do Rosario
I didn’t know about this incredible Brazilian artist before. Apparently he spent fifty years confined to the attic of a psychiatric institution because he started telling people about his visions. In the institution he started making art not with the idea of becoming an artist, but for his own eternal salvation. His work was first shown at the Venice Biennale in 1995 and now he is exhibiting again at the Arsenal.
I have always been attracted by work that relates with paganism, religion and folk tradition. His clusters of waste material, paper, wood and rags are just beautiful. His installations look like toys or fetishes.
Obviously openings are not for art appreciation. Openings are for networking, for the glamour of being there, for “bella figura” and so on.
Sometimes though, if you talk with a friend about the opening of the night before, she may happen to mention the art.
Sometimes she would even have an opinion about it. Maybe she went there, she wouldn’t meet anyone she knows already, everyone was grumpy and unfriendly, no buffet even! (so rude).
What was left was to pay attention to the art.
Well, that’s not certainly the case of the recent opening at Volume! Foundation in Rome.
Forget about people being there reporting you about the art. In the opening aftermath the only comment you could collect was: “There were so many people.”
I mean, it was Kounellis opening we are talking about, not a light weight.
You certainly know who Kounellis is, but maybe I can repeat it for the guys who failed in the contemporary art test.
You may argue Kounellis’ worship is mainly in Italy, but then I remind you that his work is exhibited all over the world from Minnesota to Paris.
So, to keep it short, Kounellis is a talented Greek guy who decided to subscribe the art academy in Rome when it was still reputable. (There are still tons of people lured to the art academy in Rome from far countries, and I really feel bad for them).
1960 is the date of Kounellis’ first exhibition at Galleria La Tartaruga in Rome, and in the following years he contributed to the emergence of Arte Povera.
Kounellis, according to the principles of Arte Povera, started using materials from everyday life, animals, fire, bed, stones, iron in his artwork.
He also did some fun stuff artists use to do in Rome in the sixties, like unleash twelve horses in the gallery L’Attico. Just like that, for the sake of art.
We have seen plenty of celebrations of the sea. The only subject that is as hackneyed as the sea is the sky. And love.
But really, to be innovative is not to talk about a new subject for the first time. To be innovative is to be able of talking about a corny subject in a new, or personal or moving way.
If you are a musician, go ask Ivano Fossati about it. If you are a painter, ask Piero Guccione. If you are a photographer, do what Monitor Gallery did. Go ask Antonio Rovaldi.
“Incalzatrice della storia Freno del tempo Tu Bomba / Giocattolo dell’universo Massima rapinatrice di cieli Non posso odiarti”
Correndo giù per Via dei Mille nel caldo di un aprile napoletano del duemilaundici, cercando di arrivare al Molo Beverello in tempo per prendere l’Aliscafo dell’una e cinque, vale a dire essere a Sorrento per le due meno un quarto circa, ecco in questa corsa (perché si sa che il movimento fa arieggiare il cervello, purchè non vada in iperventilazione) le immagini della mostra di Zabetta si sovrappongono, si alternano in rima baciata, alternata, incrociata e slogata ai versi di “Bomb” di Gregory Corso.
Sulla rampa di legno vigilata dai Vucumprà, a fianco al Maschio Angioino, inevitabilmente parole e immagini sono già tutta una pappetta, sbatacchiate come un frullatore nella mia testa, non resta che sedersi sull’aliscafo e fare un po’ di ordine.
Dunque, Coda Zabetta non penso proprio che abbia scritto una lettera d’amore alla Bomba, quello è stato Corso. Piuttosto quello di Coda Z. si tratta di un lavoro ordinato che ha condotto a un risultato efficace, puntuale e profetico, come ci hanno tenuto tutti quanti a rimarcare con occhi da Cassandra color acque di Mergellina, alludendo chiaramente alla recentissima tragedia nucleare giapponese.
I recently interviewed the artist Twoone (Hiroyasu Tsuri) in his studio in Collingwood.
The studio was quite empty because he had brought all the paintings at the Backwoods gallery, for his upcoming solo show “Define Nothing”.
Twoone’s Japanese background is evident in his paintings’ balanced composition. His mystical-looking characters with animal heads, realized in his unique style, are his trademark in the Melbournian thriving street art culture.
The exhibition has been a success. I took some pictures of the Twoone’s artworks in the gallery, and then I followed him in a street nearby where he was painting a wall.
