|
But of originality by now there is very little. Everything has already been done or attempted. The true originality consists of, still and always, in the perspective from which each artist looks at and sees the subject-object of the art; it consists of in his/her feelings, in his/her living and suffering the harms of his/her time, in enjoying and dreaming the supreme goods, in the understanding the great "whys" of life. The rest are intellectualistic games, which rarely can be pleasant.
Pasquinelli is a portraitist, who loves to depict also the landscape. He studies it deeply, before proposing it on the canvas. For the landscape, he does what the ancient painters used to do for the portrait of people. They were going around with them, they were carefully studying them, they wanted to see them in all of their possible attitudes. This is why, when we look at a portrait by Velàzquez, Raphael, Rembrandt, Titian, besides admiring the mastery of the sign, we understand the psychology of the character.
I've been knowing Pasquinelli for years, I saw him working. He is still a en plain air artist. He studies the landscape, he feels it, lives it, he is immersed in it. He does what the police chief Maigret by Simenon does when he says he immerses himself in the turbid atmospheres in which the crime matured; he breathes them, lets them slide over him, lets his heavy overcoat with the velvet collar become soaked with these inklings. And Pasquinelli, with his light touch, from the atmospheres filters the poetry in halos of light, solar clarity, enchanting stirring of memories.
His world is of stunning and dreaming simplicity. It is the little Medieval village of Montecarlo, clinging on the Cerruglio hill, which dominates the Nievole Valley. From the Montecarlo Fortress, the fabulous and discussed character of Castruccio Castracani of the Antelminelli guided his army to the victory in the battle of Altopascio in 1325. They are the marsh of Bientina and Fucecchio, the plain of Lucca, the sea of Viareggio, the rocks of Castiglioncello.
He is a solitary worker, charcoal, brushes and colors, who day-dreams, but above all thinks, meditates, reflects.
The verb he tries to take possession of is "to understand". He has been around Italy and Europe, but he always unequivocally returned to Montecarlo. The theater of Montecarlo is of
The Reassured Ones and he feels reassured when he walks in the village, on the up and down streets, when he passes under the ancient arches, from which the shining flat land appears in the sun.
He is happy, in the middle of the famous vineyards of the most joyful white wine of Tuscany.
The country civilization is the last one that remains to us, after the collapse of the industrialization, globalization, the ruinous crisis of the ethical values.
Raffaello Bertoli
|