Camillo Gannelli - "Cielo lontano".

"Cielo lontano". Acrylic texture on board What immediately strikes is not the color, but the material. It’s not a painted picture, it’s a constructed painting. The surface is rough, layered, almost geologic. You can see the artist worked by accumulation, with a spatula, with bare hands. Three horizons, three states of mind: At the top, a ash-gray, powdery, matte. It’s fog, it’s lime, it’s a city sky at the end of winter. It has a coarse grain, like old plaster. It conveys suspension. Then, the fracture. A thin, nervous line, of oxidized turquoise, almost verdigris. It’s the only cold breath in the whole composition. It’s not decorative, it’s necessary. Without that blue the work would collapse on itself. It’s water that isn’t there, air that’s missing, the memory of a sea. And below, the rest: burnt ochre, rust red, the deep orange that leans toward burnt black on the lower edge. It’s earth, it’s solidified lava, it’s a summer-plowed field. It’s warm, material, almost violent in its saturation compared to the rest. If you approach, you’ll see craters, cracks, bubbles. It wants to be touched. The black frame, thin and essential, is a perfectly wise choice. It contains without domesticating. It isolates the abstract landscape and turns it into an object, into an icon. What works exceptionally well: The balance is textbook Mark Rothko, but with the brutality of Anselm Kiefer. It is minimalist in composition but maximalist in material. It is a painting that changes completely depending on the light — and your photo proves it: the oblique afternoon light gives it a shadow that makes it seem suspended from the wall, alive. It doesn’t decorate. It inhabits. It’s not a painting to put above the sofa because “it goes well with the cushions.” It’s a painting that forces you to pause for a moment when you pass by. An ideal place is a white wall, completely empty, with plenty of space around. It needs silence to speak.

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