Interview with Giancarlo Frisoni, Biennale 2017

I'm standing on looking at fake stones stuck to a ceiling, in a corner hanging scraping colored fabrics from a wall. There are people who come in and out of a dark pavilion where they glimpse blinding glows of laser lights that light up photographs. I have already seen so much paper clenched in a corner, another hanging, a man sweeping dust over a light panel of gravel imprisoned in a metallic grid. And then crumpled drops on a floor, cubic blocks of piled wood, the path of a Christ from the cross to the rotting accompanied by nauseous odors. This is the ultimate expression of art that tells us our time! I'm at the Venice Biennale 2017. And I'm here with my art too, who asks for some explanation or truth because we know that art does not speak to everyone, but in these shrill and contemporary forms, more and more often We do not recognize ourselves, and we remain perplexed by trying to guess the thread that shrinks the conceptual from the craft or deceit, the interesting from the misleading, the substance from the nullity. I close my eyes a moment, and I see baby, with all my heart in the heart and without words to say, all the colors of the fields, the scents, the people of the earth. Earth that has never betrayed and still suffers. It had been normal to steal the copper and paint the old wall, try the color of pollen, elderberry juice, malt, and sulfur, until it all went over the canvases. To tell the sweetness I was living, the sincerity I was listening to, the breathing harmony. My stories, tales of earth and sky, of air and water, of people and of life have become my stories. Earth that still excites me whenever I pass my hand, because she knows of sweat and fatigue, grain and vineyard. No one thinks but we are like grain and vine, the aroma of time. They tell us about signs metaphors, mass spaces, pain in scratches, balance harmonies, in the rough word of dough and color. They tell the beauty of feelings, the streets full of stones, the lost, the decent values, the memories left, perhaps this time. This is my pictorial world, my way of seeing art and life! All two delicate and mature, poor but rich, fluffy and strong, sincere, clean, mysterious. Anyone who will find us something that shares him, who represents him, who speaks subtly, who discreetly invites him to seek, to discover, to think. He will find him because he will read my soul soul, my catharsis. On a journey that every time offers something not seen and gradually releases the message of a farmer who knows how to pick up again and read the poetry of the trees, listening to the wind and his peace inside. Who knows how to be like the grass that lives in the wall, and would like to leave this inner serenity where and to whom all of what is said has lost meaning.

Giancarlo Frisoni, for the Patrizia Diamante's blog