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EnglishIF I WERE BORN IN THE FREUD HOUSE
Marco Vallora
CRITIC AND ART HISTORIC
For me, since I haven't seen him for so long, 'mimmocentonzemmo'- -the' joke 'so, affectionately, he takes it out for a while, but then he laughs about it, loudly, and the storm of the phone unleashes unstoppable, swerving - 'mimmocentonzemimmo', or rather 'mimmi', as it has now become in the last text message (whether it is a mistake in the communication hurry or an intensification of confidence?) however, 'mimmocentonzemimmi' (which has something, euphonically, of the explosive dantesque 'immillarsi') has become, for me, since I did not see him, that he was like a kid in need of a hand, while now he has become an official painter, from a palazzodelle exposizioni, well for me he has become a sort of telephone elf , of telematic Puck, of computerized cip-cip (I did not say 'virus' or 'troyans', gentlemen! of those who camp cowardly, for an ilidic battle, inside your mechanical bowels, and suck your blood, illocatable , computer) but no, for heaven's sake, a sweet reassuring Bernard hermit crab, from my odd profession! But, as soon as I put on a household appliance, a desk appliance, I press a cellular button, I turn on the PC steel, he is already there, always, always and always quarreling me: "Come on, it's only you!", "Come on, that the Professor has already sent!", "But you can't betray me this time!" "Keep in mind that Vittorio is already at the level of the drafts!". I take into account, 'arriving after Vittorio is too much!'.
In short: a very exact bulletin of peace and war, updated to the millimeter, which as a sly precaution and vile defense I let swarm, a little worried, but not too much, behind the scruff of my breathless life, like a slow, percussive sound tapestry , not that I ever really said yes, or made big promises, but he is already there, waiting, crouched in the telephone sleeping bag of his boundless friendly trust, sms, skype, e-messages, dispatches, twitters, telegrams tires, even fidippide who, like a breathless dog, reaches you, with the capitoline night notice in his mouth, through the twisted threads of the ether that is no longer there (for science) and how can you say no, damn it , if in the meantime he: "but he cannot afford us so many figures that you like so much". Well, in short, I'd be 'what he likes stickers'. So be it. Perhaps because he once thought that I did not love those empty workshops of his, avalanches and fiery ebbs of material tripe, which I already knew from Ossola, from Papetti, from other artists, even contemporary Belgian artists, flow away lutulent and a little breathless , summary, of the brushed pictorial time, as in a sick, irritated throat-gora.
And consequently I advised him a reasonable 'rappel à l'ordre', with anabasis annexed by a prodigal return to the paternal cippus (which is then a radiator-trap) to his Freudian 'family novel', between the domestic bed entrenched by Ulysses, and the chromatic, eternal shawl of his bride, which makes a widow into a Savinian knit. I don't know if that's true, he thinks so; but I realize that the fierce pictorial 'caress', of which Sgarbi speaks effectively and softly, and that surrounds and burns his affections, in a bonfire of spatulated material stratifications, as in a very innocent but entertaining kiss from a Rembrandtian Jew, that everything consumes what it touches, and tac tac gives you the tac, and thermodiagnostics, and resonance, magnetic and myo-maoplacentesa, and rather than radiographs it is a deep, echoing sentimental ultrasound, the one that he probes, in the drenched and turbid background, of the soul of things, and by and by, it penetrates further down, sinks, scratches, swims, untangles, wags its tail, contours, eviscerates, chooses, scales, reveals, as they say of an 'unveiled' restoration, of a canvas , which has lost its glamor, mirrored, here, its "caress" has gradually become more and more invasive, underwater, infiltrating, insinuating, torturing, gnawing, subcutaneous, compulsive, consuming, corrosive (without exaggerating too much, however. ..)
But after all, why on earth do I insist, and he will give it to me, lovingly, over this hammered and pounding idea of the "mimmocentonzeallinabreath"? Because this omnipresence of ritual prayer, unstoppable which I feel behind me, is already something pictorial, omni-visual (in fact, perhaps: the figurines). I really see him, the busterkeatonic 'mimmocentonzo', like the virtual 'Navigator', flaning a little drunk with turpentine (now they say alkyd, which almost stands for alchemical ... but, believe me, it's the same thing in the end , everything dries up a little earlier, without having to put the ruinous Leonardesque braziers on the ulcerated feet, which melt all the surprise ice cream, as for the Battle of Anghiari) and inevitable I see it right next to me, in the crumpled threads of life , here it is, springing up like a puck dripping with woodland oils, always there, unbreakable, like a Maxwellian wave, which every time starts wandering, wandering, zigzagging, pilgrimage, jogging, inexhaustible and then finally camping, and implanting, and encysting, and finally falling asleep, just for a moment, like a forced sailor of lowered, set veils on the tired and worn hammocks of the telephone spinning mill, of the computer babel, of the communicative guesthouse.
And to re-enter the scene again, like an imperishable erection of the portrait corvé. And if not, how could it be 'always there', fluttering lightly between the celestial and non-celestial sheets of the Sbertoluccian familyistic 'bedroom', where the oedipus ran away like a glutton squirrel, but meanwhile he is inexorably one step away from the innocent and undone sleep of his old father, who takes a small radio to bed unarmed, as if it were a pressure Holter, or a ghost-killing machine, and the mother defends her offended and annoyed eyes, from this sort of ice glare to the satin, that the painting puts on her, like a preventable saprophytic and aluminic blanket.
Even the girl Mirianna, a bit defeated by the exhausting task, literally, of the interminable pose, who knows why, has brought herself beside her, protective, on the worn belly of the sofa, a sort of apotropaic biscuit, which is only a tube of paint, removed from the inflexible eye of the brush. As if asking for respite, at least a modicum of comforting sleep, perhaps even the extreme one of the faiyumic afterlife.
But have you ever wondered, in front of these anatomical traps, where that goblin of eye or camera of the 'mimmocentonze' goes to position himself, who is always everywhere, spread in the air, but you never know well overlooking which optical balcony?
Sometimes he took refuge on the chandelier, like a voracious insect, to map from above the exhausted and captured nakedness of Gioanna, as in a now distant novel by Alcide Paolini, hanging by the thread of desire. Sometimes she dives into the plush brindle of another girl, who has also landed, in the ring of positional exhaustion. Dead to every reaction.
Gripping ko. What you can't stand, in certain opera directions today, which for some reason, with all the kindness of the theatrical theatrical troubadour of yesteryear available, and with the potential imagination of today's scenographers, and the desaignic scialo, are all resolved close to the ground, with Attila who converses with Pontifex in a sort of incongruous country picnic, at the babi piano, and the rest of the stage remains terribly clear, even recently a melancholy noble Marshal of the 'Rosenkavalier' , who lives in a sort of reconstructed Kunsthistorischer, but scratches on the ground, on an improvised tatami or rather a cheap sleeping bag, with his dapper dandy trapped by cushions, and woe betide the luxurious shade of a hefmannsthalic canopy, as if it were a hippy-drug scene, a la Nan Goldin.
And here instead you accept it, as if nothing had happened, as if it were physiological and natural, that all these relatives, trained as needed, as soon as they see the painter bursting out of his boxed, messaging world, armed with his inarginable panoply of spatulas, brushes, brushstrokes and brushstrokes, already in the air of approach, between flaming glances darting like lustful tongues, all immediately throw themselves to the ground, at most clinging to the sheets, like joyful and confident blessed dogs. To lapping the contiguous language of painting. Oh, yes, you have little to rebel against, that pirouette of gendarmic and stunning painting, which gives you no respite: sit down! down to earth! But have you ever tried to be born into a family that is not a normal and ordinary family, but is exactly a cloned painting of Lucian Freud, and you don't even know if this family is full-bodied, three-dimensional, round, or perhaps it is imaginary , virtual, reproduced, you see it right here, mirrored and 'beaten', like a worn upholstery or a felted carpet, and you wonder if the Materano Mimmo Centonze material does not live in a sort of Flatland, flat and landed: a frayed texture , but very solid, of chromatic relationships, but without any thickness, without body, other than the fleeting, mirrored, flowing Ophelia of the pictorial surface.
It is as if Kafka's cockroach took its revenge, in this sort of interminable 'Letter to the Father', but turned upside down, overturned, winning. Only I am standing, up in the sky, and now all of you, down, down to earth! Thus, even in Casorati's 'biblical' pyramid of nursing family idyll, the lively sulky child has already understood everything: “all down to earth”, as in a metaphysical circle, to cheat on the orders of the brushed marshal. Here: I raise a little the edge of the carpet, curious to understand if it is real, concrete, hairy, and I find immediately, buried under it, as in the " Hashish Smokers " by Previati, ‘mimmi’’s ventriloquist voice, who was lurking. A little while ago I asked him: “Am I still in time? Do you accept all my nonsense? ". He was already ready to answer me, and meanwhile, ubiquitous, like a cosmic freschista, he was painting who knows where, hidden in the folds of another material incest. “Perfect, you can do it. Great. But in 2009 you told me ”even the aorist, by bacchus, I tremble! “Do you want a serious text or an excessive one? I chose the excessive. This year do the other one ... "Oh my God, that has become institutional, my" mimmocentoneze "- since when did you climb the staircase of the Palace? No for heaven's sake! I have never promised anything, I don't see myself proposing this millennial aut aut, nor do I ever propose anything serious or excessive in advance, let alone: only affectionate nonsense.
But that's how he is: he kneads, prepares everything, asks himself questions, answers, paints reality as he wants, as if it were a face to be targeted with brushstrokes. Yes I know, I'm not, unusually, good, this time, as the ex-rude Vittorio has become, I really can't see God, no matter how hard I try, inside on top of these cartilages, but not because I deny him blasphemous or I can't imagine him, diligent, next to Centonze's flourishes, as a good angel; but I am more fascinated by that infernal sewer of the rubbery, loose “old irons”, where all the spasms and food intolerances of the leaden brushstrokes thrown away, wasted, dispersed, converge and explode. Or rather: I only see the maniacal Warburg 'god of detail'. Fierce and pounding. Only one thing gnaws at 'me', but not malicious, sincere: but Mimnmo Centonze's family will really be so 'Lucienfrudiana'. But is such a spiritualistic miracle of suggestion possible? Try to think about it too...
