Usually when I am writing a critical text I am always surrounded by books, magazines and anything else that could creatively influence my writing.
When Sergio asked me to write for him this did not happen. The reason is one. His work attracts me. I'm passionate. Like his person, his painting
is overwhelming, it's real. It is not the usual "fuffa" ( gas.. ) but "solid reality". Someone defines him a landscape artist for me is a poet. In this case,
he reminds me of Ungaretti. Sibylline but exhaustive. Bare and at the same time redundant. Beyond the technical gesture (superfine and masterful)
beyond the "pleaser" colors (for me aphrodisiacs) his works are a "I enlighten of immense". In their pictorial minimalism there is a world to discover.
A world that reminds me of childhood in Forlì. A territorial universe, that one, made of rocky coast. The calcareous white that makes love with the blue
sky in August. In his paintings I immerse myself without taking breath because to die in it would be a beautiful death. In a look at the sky I could
breathe the immortality that we all want and an artist even more. Sergio's paintings beyond the spatula strokes, the overlapping material, beyond any
atavistic memory make you feel good. To live one of his paintings you have to touch it and then sniff it and then to close with a flourish you could
lean on one ear and listen to the jabber of his land or the voice that maternally invites you to feel comfortable. Enlightenment of infinity is not
impossible. It is enough to believe in it and have the good fortune to meet the one who has been given a gift: to make you live emotions that today
we risk not knowing how to live anymore.
We have lost a lot of time discussing the actual contemporaneousness of painting: is it still "licit", in the tradition, or is it anachronistic? What pushes an artist in this glimpse of the third millennium to express himself (still) with painting and, rarer, with landscape painting, is one of the many phenomena that crowd the contemporary art world, which manages without difficulty spacing from the deepest glow of a "white cube" - that presents itself as an artistic object or exhibition space does not matter, always with ice remains - up to the painting and duly framed to hang in what once called the living room. Sergio Aiello is now an expert painter, behind that school, messy was called a century ago, who not only teached the essential bases for being able to exercise a "job" ... "While painting a picture, at the same time it is destroyed," said Giovanni Frangi , on which impulse I approached Sergio Aiello when I first saw his landscapes - not thinking about Turner, that he confides me to be his ideal, but Turner melted colors them ("utque erat et tellus illic et pontus et aer "sang Ovidio), Aiello overlaps them: it's the difference between a sauce and a dish, Turner is an exquisite menu made up only of sauces, superbly unreal, impossible, a marvelous exception that was able to invent only him - because it does not flaunt the mere documentary data, and in the image that creates can transmit a sense of distance and loss. His paintings thus become pure desires for the horizon, "possible encampments within the infinite" (Luigi Meneghelli). In the last works, presented in this exhibition, we are faced with landscapes that, despite the artist programmatically taking the moves from reality, avoid the descriptive reproduction of nature. With a chromatic rhythm marked by blues, burnt and worn lands, traces of burning reds among dusty coals, there are the views of the seascapes, often innervated by transversal drippings of virginal enamels. Earth and water touch and collide, embrace and intertwine. Real space and imaginings follow canvas after canvas without cracks, dissolving in the space the realistic details in homogeneous areas of color. Aiello acts in a synthetic way isolating by menas colors the subjects from the context (the subject seems in fact to have become, at the limit of relevance, conceptually fluid and lacking carrier of interest just for its possible manipulative potential), while the drawing, the "form mentis" who designed the scene, only acts to define the lines of force in which the main elements of the composition are unrolled. He proceeds by synthesis, by concentration, layer by layer, thickening to the core, mixing at the margins, diluting to the borders, seeking dissolution, chasing the soul of the figure (of a pedestrian imitation) just disappeared in the horizon, sublimated in the name of a broader perspective in which she flew to take refuge after being pushed out of the scene. The spots of color draw its landscape, mixed, overlaid, scratched: dense spreading material on a different, extraneous, dazzling and intimidating canvas that embodies the stylistic outcomes of the artist, bringing the pictorial grammar to the extreme. The painting thus remains in a stage where the image, still recognizable, is irreparably transformed, even flawed, into a personal and lyrical vision, with the intention of showing a luminous sensation, a formal allusion. On the canvas re-emerges the atmosphere of a real landscape that, in the viewer, penetrates and resonates deeply and in which one can plunge more vigorously and rediscover that same reality from which the painter seemed to have removed it. In the elimination of details, in the almost total absence of description and narration, the exhibition thus seems to indicate the tendency towards a total autonomy of Aiello's research, parallel and therefore detached from that continual flow of images that is reality. To the mimetic copy or to its figurative reinterpretation, the artist contrasts a gestural force able to lead him towards a total independence of (his) painting from any outlook of the world, seen or pre-existent. It is precisely here that it is right to exist as a painter and as a landscape painter even on the threshold of the third millennium, in the full and almost total globalizing dominance of Contemporary Art.