Written contribution from the artist on the occasion of an Exhibition held at the Galleria Falaschi in Passariano di Codroipo, 7–31 January 1979.

There is only one way to make use of tradition, to make sense of it, and that is to confront it, break it, destroy it. What we need to grasp is that the past is irrelevant, that historicism is nothing but a fabrication, a myth, and that the human mind is a space within which both the past and future reside.
The purpose of painting is not to represent, for representation is something else and often nothing more than a deception. Painting is something which is both active and expressive.
Man and his world, one matter, one soul.
A true homo sapiens is not he who has arrogantly raised himself up from the ground, convinced of his own superiority; a true homo sapiens is rather one who has gained a true consciousness of himself and who fully identifies with his world, in all its tragedy and joy.
Time, undocumented and without sequence, is within all objects and within space. Man is therefore memory, past and present: his shout rings out within time and space. It is a shout of both pleasure and pain, for they are one and the same. For deep within even the most intense moments of joy there is a muffled anguished scream.
The history of art has never been written, for only what is considered art is chronicled and this is invariably not art at all. Yet, understanding is easy: one need only open one’s mind, rid oneself of the junk which passes for culture and get ready to receive. And in the same manner one can open one’s ears to what nature has to say, although few do.
Few receive and even fewer share.
The mind has, from the moment it was opened, been corrupt and violent. I have always painted the “obstacles” which bar the way to understanding. There has always been a line dividing mankind; and I have always counted myself amongst, and on the side of the many. By the many, I refer to those whose suffering and misery have robbed them of the joy of living, to those very few communists, to those scattered few with sharp and vivid minds, and perhaps even to the very early Christians. All fought and continue to fight for justice, but what is equally important is that at the heart of that struggle there is the desire that man be different, different in his very essence, not that he be one kind of man or another, but that he be a real Man.
Power destroys. The communists, in substance if not in form, overcame the obstacles only to be swallowed up within the same old quagmire, leaving us without even hope.
This is why I want to shake off this revolting mud, and free myself free from its grasp, its deceptions and its vile historical betrayal.

And so I paint the sun, the revolving sun which penetrates the earth like a man who enters his woman, and who, with frenzied ardour, penetrates her vagina with warmth and passion. And then I paint trees, earth and nature, and the memory of the world. So that those foul monuments will crumble, and turn to dust. Then perhaps, and only perhaps, we may catch a glimpse, a shimmer of light in the colour of the world, and might begin, in the individual silence of our minds, to prepare a place for true awareness, understanding, and life.

Albino Lucatello

Obviously you can not accept this!
For between that which happens within us and that which takes place around us, there is increasingly less possibility for compromise.
And even if there were, you would not want it anyway. Your have never wanted it.
You do what you do so well: here there is room for your hot–headed, irascible determination, your conviction and your overflowing vitality and energy.
Painting is your life blood, the humus of your being.
And how aware you are of your affinity with the earth.
To paint is to plunge your perspiring open hands into the wild bushes, and to feel the intense green leaves between your fingers.
To paint is to sense and taste a red wine, even before you drink it.
THE IMAGE AND ITS REFLECTION – INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT, JUST ONE AND THE SAME/ ONE ENTITY, ONE .

Renzo Viezzi

 

translated by Amanda M. Hunter