Nanni Valentini
Nanni Valentini, exh. cat., Galleriaa Lo Spazio, Brescia, october 1977
Woven words walk inside and upside down, they do not hatch anything except themselves. Only the place of the transformation is whole. The colour slithers beneath the feet, where the thing is irritated.
Colour is not an additive, a replica, something very fine: it is – unspeakably – the general vicissitude of the thing.
The contour, that which closes off the thing, which is without form if it is not closed.
If, however immense, it cannot encompass it, it is lost in the sleep of enunciation – think of the shape of a word.
The margin, therefore the hinge, rotation of experience, minimal odyssey, what exceeds or lacks, turns or falls. Limit that awaits the distance, the margin is exile, wary fatality and turning-point to be removed. The limit is the certainty of the narrative.
The thickness is hard to deny: never instantaneous, it takes time to slowly proceed towards the weight.
And the surface is the insomnia of the layer.
Intermittent, subject to dissolution, the form reveals discontinuity.
Form is not the edifice of perception.
Form is where the attention creates inequality. Form is the destiny of the thing thought, dialogue of the plenitude of the void, elusive tremor that returns to the eye with a sound.
You are here to touch – in the void of the object – abstraction.
Look out of the corner of your eye if you want to see.