Con i fiordi negli occhi. Omaggio allUrlo di Munch

«I was walking along the street with two friends when the sun went down and all of a sudden the sky turned blood red. I paused, exhausted, and leaned against a fence. There were blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city. My friends walked on and I was still shaking with fear∑and I sensed a great, infinite scream pervading nature». And so, Nature‚s silent scream is matched by an equally dramatic, intimate and profound human scream. The exhibition starts with the most classical reference to Munch‚s masterpiece, Mamma Oslo (Mother Oslo, 2014) by Alessio Gessati. It is a quote inside a quote. Anna Magnani‚s face, distorted and deformed in the famous still image from Pier Paolo Pasolini‚s „Mamma Roma‰ (1962), takes the place of the original, almost skeletal and worn-out, whilst the scream turns from silent into shrieking. The background remains almost intact, with the sky still tinged with blood red and the tongues of fire looming over the city. Mariella Relini‚s Io nel vortice dell‚urlo (I, in the scream‚s whirlwind, 2013) also presents itself as another undeniable d‚àpres: every reference to the city of Oslo or any other recognizable place is now lost; the main character, an actual asexual self-portrait of the artist, is funnelled into the same scream that seems to suck him into a deep black hole. Conversely, in Solitudine (Solitude, 2014) Tommaso de Paola develops the original by mirroring it. The diagonal of the fence splits the composition in two, from left to right, whilst the focus is on the faceless man on the foreground, rather than on the screaming main character. The idea is the lack of communication; hence the loss of man‚s „social‰ attitude gains the upper hand. Though surrounded by the city and by their peers, both characters resemble ghosts, and escape notice of each other. Moon(k) (2014), by Kat Elagina, shows a creature that may look frightened and unsettling at the same time, its hands turned into claws clutching at the parapet. The author plays with the homophony of the English word moon and the name of the Norwegian artist. All hints at the scream are now vanished and only the bat and the looming moon seem to portend a sinister omen. Agnese Cabano‚s canvas, Omaggio a Munch (Tribute to Munch, 2014), develops the initial idea of the great scream pervading Nature to the point of banning human beings from it and replacing them with a tree. The latter is completely at the mercy of an invisible movement that makes the branches and trunk rise and fall,though with a brush stroke that is nothing like dramatic and broken, but delicate and fluid. The terrifying scream returns as a main feature in Omaggio a Munch (Tribute to Munch, 2014) by Sergio Boldrin. The three-dimensional face, entirely made of papier-mâché, seems to attack the space and swallow up the observer, whilst the red-black colour palette heightens the sensation of anxiety and drama. I like to ascribe a similar interpretation to Lo sgomento (Dismay, 2011), in spite of the undeniable technical and chromatic differences and particularly the lack of figural references to objects that set apart Teresa Condito‚s work as a completely „different‰ creation. In my eyes, that sort of black hole acquires the value of a gaping mouth, though even more disturbing: a voiceless, dull scream, unbearable because it cannot yell out, but rather implodes, trapped inside the human being. The impossibility of the scream returns in Kat Elagina‚s second work on show, Not Munk. Scream (2014). The diagonal, an identical mirror image of that in Munch‚s original, drops a hint of spatial depth, and identical „tongues of fire‰ loom over a diaphanous, demonic face with stitched lips, as to highlight that the impossibility of communication with the external world forces man to concentrate more and more on his phobias, on his dark side, on all the terrible and unpronounceable things hidden in the depths of his inner Self. Another unheard, horrific scream is that staged by Daniele Sasson in Urlo 6 (Scream 6, 2012). It has been achieved by photocopying a female body ˆ the work is actually a part of a much wider digital research project dated 1987 ˆ the deriving idea is that of a person fighting to come out of a dark, claustrophobic place. It reminds me of Quentin Tarantino‚s „Sepolto vivo (Grave danger)‰ (2005), with the Perspex coffin showing the victim fighting for his life. The difference is that, the film‚s happy end aside, in this case physical death would probably be „more tolerable‰ than a slow, irreparable inner evil, that appears to have become the existential leitmotif of modern man. Io che vedo in nulla (I, who see in nothing, 2012) by gaudiofasto also witnesses a deep inner disquiet, though differently expressed. The face remains unperturbed, the mouth sealed, but what is verbally repressed finds anyway an outlet at an even subtler level. The way the inner scream is expressed changes, but the substance, made of solitude, incommunicability, the absence of contact with the outer world, remains unchanged and equivalent. This is also my interpretation of Locked in (2004) by Katrin Alvarez. That impossibility of communication, in the shape of a metal block screwed onto the mouth, is literally splitting in two the woman‚s torso and dissolving her hair. These two opposing conditions, hardening and melting, perfectly express the sense of futility of the woman‚s effort. She can split herself in two and sweat, but she will never manage to tear away that iron block. Alvarez‚s second work on display, Pain (2013), shows once again a woman with her torso split in two. Mechanical, artificial, robotic hands grab her, pulling her up by the arms, whilst foreign elements inject or extract, depending on the point of view, alien or own liquids. The painful scream mentioned in the title intermingles with the scream of she who recognizes the reality around her as completely alien and alienating. In Desperation (2010), by Christine Cézanne-Thauss, the figure ˆ presumably male ˆ grabs his head as in the original by Munch; he literally puts his hands into his hair. The clashing colours, that acid green cut through by blood red streaks, like wounds dripping on the canvas, do accentuate the separation between the inner reality, perceived with such desperation, and the outer one, perceived as unnatural. The limbs are cerulean, grey, and only the mouth is marked by a red line, gaping open to let the umpteenth existential scream out. By contrast, Isaac Leventer‚s After the war (1984) is, like Guernica (1937), a war-child. The work is two-dimensional and plays with large painted surfaces and the near complete absence of nuances, which contribute to exasperate its expressionism. Black and white, good and evil, there‚s no space for nuances. On the other hand, the mouth gaping open onto the black chasm does not allow any other interpretation: the war is a black pit that swallows and destroys everything. Cristina Mantisi‚s Libertà perduta (Lost freedom, 2014) features yet another scream, this time a literal take on Munch‚s original idea of Nature. The subject is treated from another point of view, that of a man provoking the fierce reaction of a leopard. This, in its own way, opens its jaws, sending out a scream that reveals at the same time fear, rage and the promise of revenge against mankind for invading its habitat and relegating it to the role of armchair or circus beauty. Josefina Temín‚s Ansia (Anxiety, 2009) is a work of extraordinary strength. The sculpture is made from repurposed eucalyptus‚ bark and not only maintains an organic, vital shape, but perfectly embodies the idea of Nature, at once offended and offensive. At first sight, my mind was quickly crossed, one by one, by images of a cavern, of an ogre‚s or a whale‚s mouth and of a Venus Flytrap, perhaps the carnivorous plant that more than any other has captivated collective imagination. It is absolutely extraordinary that something as simple as tree bark could morph „into something else‰, with such a huge pathos and renewed meaning, when treated by the artist with such workmanship and sensitivity. Andrea Pierus‚ Cry baby boy (2013) offers yet another interpretation of Munch‚s masterpiece. In spite of the sunny yellow and the chromatic and floral cheerfulness imparting here and there a note of apparent lightness, this ceramic piece is the expression of the very same existential unease that we have learned to recognize. Here is a small head, minuscule when compared to the rest of the body, with its equally minuscule open wide mouth, a (to say the least) skeletal torso and a second mouth ˆ positioned on the solar plexus? ˆ that, given its dimensions, seems to emit a scream that‚s even more threatening and distressing than the first. The neck ring, certainly not an elegant ruff, heightens the sense of oppression of the work. We find the same sensation once more in Siegfried Pichler‚s work. Neither Akt rot (Red nude, 2014) nor Seil (Rope, 2013) refer any longer to the scream as a sound, be it more or less dull and audible, but still emitted from the inside out. Here the scream turns into a preface or a prequel. The rusty barbed wire entwining the naked flesh is a real torture implement; our imagination runs against an excruciatingly painful and terrifying scream that the woman is about to emit. Conversely, the rope and the clock hands, marking just a few minutes to midday or midnight, probable X hour for he who is the unseen protagonist of this work, become the mouthpiece of a quiet scream, internalized but certainly no less dramatic. The idea of the quiet scream returns also in Kat Elagina‚s third work on show. Evoking Munch in the stunning dense flaming red hair that closely reminds Vampire (1895), The unheard cry (2014) shows a young woman apparently portrayed as relaxing on the beach, but actually surrounded by skyscrapers. Is it the metropolis that lays the human soul bare, stripping it of every frill and showing all the solitude there is? Before reaching the exhibition‚s turning point, where drama slowly tones down, winning a few smiles out of the visitor, one need to mention Sylvie Poinsot‚s Sans titre (Untitled, 2011). Here is a face that appears to melt under the weight of existence, the mouth reduced to a grimace. Only the eyes maintain a cold lucidity. This is the portrait of the awareness of the drama of human existence. At long last, the geometrization that distinguishes Abraham Dayan‚s work gets to diffuse the sense of oppression described so far, giving a more rational form to drama. Man crying (2013) shows a man ˆ maybe a man of church? - kneeling and crying with dignity, while another work of the same year, The scream focuses on such a rigid face, secured onto such a narrow tubular neck, that even the sound coming out of it acquires a solid consistency, splitting the pictorial surface in two along a diagonal line. Mai più (Plus jamais ˆ Never again), the first of Antoinette Pallesi‚s two works on show, both dated 2014, combines Munch‚s sense of drama with the lightness and innocence of a sign that is more childlike than naïf. It shares the same freshness as Chagall, as reminded by the two animals that look as if just come out of a medieval bestiary, such is the uncertainty of their definition, despite strongly and clearly suggesting the idea of danger and treachery. The same happens in Stufo (Je m‚étouffe ˆ Fed up), in which the close-up silhouette of the snake loads the mucked-up and rudimentary sense of colour with heavy omens. Regina Di Attanasio‚s work, Mare nero (Black sea, 2012), finds its right place here, within the same sense of omen and imminent drama. Linked to the said Nature‚s scream that is Munch‚s primary inspiration, the dark, heavy, looming mass is about to swamp all there is in between, including us. Rossana Bartolozzi‚s Acqua (Water, 2014) also reflects the idea of the giant, all-engulfing wave, though with a palette that leaves a glimmer of hope, reminding us that Nature is not hostile per se. From the outside, the attention shifts again towards the inside with Yajaira M. Pirela. Sguardo interiore (Internal gaze, 2013) puts up a show made of a tangle of markings, scratches, wounds that make up the prequel (or prologue) of Munch‚s scream. It‚s the part that is most hidden and profound, not only invisible, but certainly reached and healed with utmost difficulty. Anneke Hodel-Onstein‚s Bursting out (2012) also lights up a spark on the same internal drama; this aniconic image lends itself quite well to the complex idea of the all-blowing, all-annihilating implosion. In addition, the monotype technique is well suited to the concept of unicity implied in the human spirit. In Susana Diaz Rivera‚s four photo shots, all dated 2014, the Mexican artist tackles the subject of the estrangement, hence of the incommunicability with the outside. When unbalanced, man loses that inner stability that forms the fulcrum, the cornerstone of his existence and this generates an inability to focus on himself and his own role (now, hic et nunc), also losing sight of his roots (past) and life goal (future). It‚s no surprise, then, if everything looks out of focus, blurry and confused. The outer and inner worlds don‚t match any more. The slippage is too strong now, hence the deafening, existential scream. But how many times, even in the middle of a crowd, are we seized by the very same sense of estrangement? Amedeo Pedaletti‚s L‚urlo sopra (The scream above, 2014) shows Munch‚s masterpiece reduced to an icon of the Œ900s. It‚s what was indirectly suggested at the beginning of our itinerary, i.e. how it is notorious and known to everyone, how it‚s become more famous than the Mona Lisa itself. We could stop here, but there‚s another aspect in the different kites fluttering in the air: a looming presence that, in spite of its playful aspect, actually demonstrates that our society is crushed by a sense of isolation and incommunicability that, forgive my pun, doesn‚t flutter any more in the air, but hovers over it. The concept of incommunicability returns in Enrico Carniani‚s Autoritratto (Self-portrait, 2013). The face is „assembled‰ through the use of rigid, compact, plain materials, which perfectly convey the idea of closure to the outside, but also, at the same time, of the impossibility of turning one‚s gaze to the inside. It‚s a total isolation. Lost dreams (2014), by Cindy Lopez, is one of the most lyrical works on show. The sentence taking pride of place in the middle of the surface suggests a sense of resignation for all those dreams and, above all, aspirations that one has not been able to guard or even reach. In spite of this, this work opens up a door on our innermost wishes and on the hope of having again other chances to make sure this time we‚ll able to reach what we hold dear. The colour blue cradles us and invites us to drift off. The idea of hope returns inthe work of Gaby Muhr, Cry of hope (2014), where the grey, featureless, completely impersonal inhabited space opens up onto a natural setting where it‚s possible to see trees, clouds, birds. In one word: life. Thus, oppression leaves way to a glimmer of positivity. It‚s a slow, gradual move from the bleakest despair towards a lighter sense of solitude. In Francesca Uccello‚s Indifferenza (Indifference, 2014) a man, curling in his nest, covers his face with his hands. There are no desperate screams, just the will to protect oneself from the outer world, taking refuge in a cave, within a benign earth ready to accept us in her womb. Roberta Moresco puts Peter il sognatore: una vita inquieta (Peter the dreamer: a restless life, 2012) in the difficult condition of having to overcome an obstacle bigger than him. It‚s the enormous wall that makes him restless, but he will soon discover that, instead of climbing over it, he may well go around it and, who knows, his dream may become reality. Contortionism (2013) is a landscape that has nothing to do with Norway. It‚s actually an original interpretation of a Venetian setting and, albeit with the usual lightness characterizing Rusp@‚s work, it expresses that sense of unsteadiness and unbalance besetting modern man. We are, though, clearly far from any existential drama. Hélène Cortese‚s I fiordi. Omaggio ai colori di Munch (The fjords. Tribute to Munch‚s colours, 2014) is yet another, to say the least, sunny work. The scream has vanished, leaving space to an idealized Norwegian landscape, with colours that express joy, though maintaining those „tongues of fire‰ that, however, don‚t suggest gloom any more. With Stefan Havadi-Nagy Munch‚s work appears by now completely relieved of any sense of drama. On the contrary, Car with tree Munch (2014) shows an ironic Scream wandering about by car, all one and the same with a large crown tree, to remind us how the notoriety of this painting has literally gone around the world, despite being sometimes better known for the gadgets than for its real content. The last painting on show, with which I like to close this long itinerary, is Trudy Bersma‚s The scream (2012): an artwork as fairy-like, playful and ironic as only children and a few great artists can conceive. Speaking of which, Paul Klee once wrote: «Those gentlemen, the critics, often say that my paintings resemble the scribbles of children. I wish they were! The pictures that my son Felix has painted are better than mine». Adelinda Allegretti Como, 14th March 2014

Con i fiordi negli occhi. Omaggio all'Urlo di Munch

artists:
Katrin Alvarez, Rossana Bartolozzi, Trudy Bersma, Sergio Boldrin, Agnese Cabano, Enrico Carniani, Christine Cézanne-Thauss, Teresa Condito, Hélène Cortese, Abraham Dayan, Tommaso De Paola, Regina Di Attanasio, Susana Diaz Rivera, Kat Elagina, gaudiofasto, Alessio Gessati, Stefan Havadi-Nagy, Anneke Hodel-Onstein, Isaac Leventer, Cindy Lopez, Cristina Mantisi, Roberta Moresco, Gaby Muhr, Antoinette Pallesi, Amedeo Pedaletti, Siegfried Pichler, Andrea Pierus, Yajaira M. Pirela, Sylvie Poinsot, Mariella Relini, Ruspa, Daniele Sasson, Josefina Temín, Francesca Uccello.

curators:
Adelinda Allegretti