MORGANA MOON
Sandro Negri - 1940 - Italy
The whole art by Sandro Negri expresses a perfect communion between man and nature; the harmonic and symbiotically union nearly suspendedbeyond time, originates from themes suchas the rasping and lavender's picking, strongly anchored to a centurial past and marked by regular gestures. Farmers are silhouettes moulded by labour's heaviness: they perform and only slightly modify the harsh and inexorable rhythm imposed by earth and yield to it through a daily struggle, carried on with sincere and admired respect.
This artist gives his paintings a temporal dimension, thanks to an essential pictorial idea, which,although in a fresh figuration of a traditional kind, does not indulge over a descriptive detail with gratification, but returns an interiorised vision of endless plat lands.
Negri's gesture is quick, spontaneous and aggressive; the thick oil, directly poured on the canvas and the use of the spatula at the start create mellow colours with a swift and unravelled stroke of the brush, with a modern European root. Fluid and musical intervention of the painter evolves into a joyful chromatic outburst. The burning wheat, golden mimosa and scented lavender.
Some paintings, although with a firm colour tone, narrate in a low voice, nearly in silence: a fire-chain is hanging, the wood pell-mell is staked, old walls of farmers houses with old chairs in front the door, the broken branches of the “calicanthus” are whispering in a murmur of silent harmonies, simple events,which assume a loving and pregnant meaning and exhale a sense of familiar warmth. At last other works are more restless and permeated by a feeling of incipient caducity.
Stefania Romani
MORGANA MOON
Sandro Negri - 1940 - Italy
The whole art by Sandro Negri expresses a perfect communion between man and nature; the harmonic and symbiotically union nearly suspendedbeyond time, originates from themes suchas the rasping and lavender's picking, strongly anchored to a centurial past and marked by regular gestures. Farmers are silhouettes moulded by labour's heaviness: they perform and only slightly modify the harsh and inexorable rhythm imposed by earth and yield to it through a daily struggle, carried on with sincere and admired respect.
This artist gives his paintings a temporal dimension, thanks to an essential pictorial idea, which,although in a fresh figuration of a traditional kind, does not indulge over a descriptive detail with gratification, but returns an interiorised vision of endless plat lands.
Negri's gesture is quick, spontaneous and aggressive; the thick oil, directly poured on the canvas and the use of the spatula at the start create mellow colours with a swift and unravelled stroke of the brush, with a modern European root. Fluid and musical intervention of the painter evolves into a joyful chromatic outburst. The burning wheat, golden mimosa and scented lavender.
Some paintings, although with a firm colour tone, narrate in a low voice, nearly in silence: a fire-chain is hanging, the wood pell-mell is staked, old walls of farmers houses with old chairs in front the door, the broken branches of the “calicanthus” are whispering in a murmur of silent harmonies, simple events,which assume a loving and pregnant meaning and exhale a sense of familiar warmth. At last other works are more restless and permeated by a feeling of incipient caducity.
Stefania Romani
MORGANA MOON
Splashes of mellow oil colours not dried up yet are still on my hands after setting up Sando Negri's art exhibition. Hues of white and blue, the colours of the night and of the moon.
The evening is the best time to prepare exhibitions. In the silence of my gallery already closed, I am looking at my hands, at the night sky through the window and the paintings of Sandro Negri. Many night landscapes, many moons in the woorks peeping through as windows on the walls around me.
Each work a world in itself, an emotion, a journey. Each painting has a story to tell, a silent place for an intense spell to be a drown in and sensed.
Who has never lived a moonlit night , the silences full of noises like the melody of whispering leaves, crickets, breeze and scents the night sharpens?
And now I am lying on a meadow, and there, in the distance, a cosy house, and an enormous moon hanging over it. I fency life animating that modest house, the housewife plying her evening care while a worn out peasant from the fields is lighting the hearth to spread warmth. Hungry children are lying the table while some others are doing their homework before falling asleep. And outside the whispering of the night and the silent, loving moon waking.
And further works. From the borders of a fild I can behold the dark outlines of bare trees, vine shoots looming up against the sky and cypress trees night sheltering clouds of exstused birds from flight on a sunnydsy. Everything is sleeping, floodlit by the silvery reflections of the moon.
Light pool-rushes round a pond are lulled by the night zephyr while plying and dancing with it. And then, the enchanting sea just before the embrace of darkness. The sky over it stages a fight between light and shadowiness. Lit by orange and embers like fires just fading at the top from violet to indigo, louring clouds somersault while quieting down to welcome the falling night.
The exhibition is ready. Just another look around. I put the lights off and softly leave not to spoil the quietness of these magic nights.
Isabella Del Guerra
