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the young Italian painters, Bergamask Marco Ceravolo's case is a particular
one as on the one hand it makes us look at the recent past that insisted
on a return of a painted painting and, on the other, at the obsessive,
concrete use of materials that became part of the painting, of materials
or rather large canvases that mingle relation planes, the determine space
itself, that graft some sort of poetic algebra that continually brings
into action and inlays ideas, forms, the universe's mimed time.
Ceravolo has always insisted on the sea to mobilise his poetics, opening to myth, to man who faces himself, his anxiety. This painting is not a replay of the realist or impressionist landscape then, but rather it tends to makes us interpret the landscape as a symbol, a strong metaphor, an autre reason 
that opens a clear page, a substrate of moral life.
This sea is the pretext of the artist's deep feeling, of the personal identity fluctuating in the identification impetus with the cosmos, and sometimes it expresses itself in a tactile way where the sea meets the waterline, now turned concrete, that is part of Whitman's great poems “Seadrift”, already mentioned in line 22 of “Song of Myself”. This same animistic sea that stretches forward in the form of prehensile fingers really makes us think of the devilish billows painted by the Japanese Hokusai against Fujiyama's backdrop. So Ceravolo besides the creative witness of the English Hockney who creates environment paintings, stressing the artificial situation captures the cosmic strength, sky, earth and sea, an actual slang, as it were a dizziness born from a burning desire. Like Ulysses, Homeric hero, traveller who sails every historic time, every sea, Ceravolo forces the guiding thread in a restless flight journey among different places and moments of human history and of his biography. And watching his recent works, filled with the same earth and sea poetics, where painting aggregates the strong glaze of colour with the diaphanous and solar light and space builds a subjective sadness, as if a backward invitation from the world to the I, we can see the cold colour of a blue overwhelmed by ghosts, the shapeless scenario and journal of meditations and humours. Ceravolo reinterprets the sea with an excited matter, and a lethal light disfigures the real, going towards an experience of immersion in virtual reality with an almost metaphysical attention. Today matter, colour, is master of the painted space to a greater extent, the strongly opened spots are almost affable, nature speaks with substantial features that the scene shows to the eye and brings itself to be painted in the brain, and the sky sinks in the heart and keeps it as if in a dream. It seems that today there is more artificiality, more visionary memory, all is divided between colourmatter and that fragment, a canvas of earthly crust that becomes addition and subtraction. The whole space is as if imbued with an abyssal calmness, and a light vibrates in the air and in the sky and mirrors a mirage that stays with the artist now left alone to live this agonisingly loved landscape. Just as interesting is the construction of the paintings that is almost an attempt to make the landscape absolute, that becomes a world more abstract rather than visual and organic, as if Ceravolo were imposing search and aesthetics to his painting, a finished and never ending aesthetic world, in which emotions and obsessions, present and future, tragedy and serenity intermingle. This is the meaning, livelier today, of Marco Ceravolo's paintings. We will all happen to mark an enclosure and find this among the four corners that the artist has now flooded with colour. Blue, once again.  |
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