Legend has it that Pinocchio planted gold pieces in order to gain riches for himself, and yet instead he was looking for his identity.
The Fox and the Cat robbed him of the gold, perhaps for greed, or perhaps because the anxiety of possession is the desire for identity.
Jesus Christ walked the path of his whole life from his birth to his death; he bore on his back the cross and then he died on it; he hurled at humanity the symbol of the symbols and he, someone who never lost his identity, called out in anguish, for our good, so that we might rediscover our own.
The Fox and the Cat robbed him of the gold, perhaps for greed, or perhaps because the anxiety of possession is the desire for identity.
Jesus Christ walked the path of his whole life from his birth to his death; he bore on his back the cross and then he died on it; he hurled at humanity the symbol of the symbols and he, someone who never lost his identity, called out in anguish, for our good, so that we might rediscover our own.
As a symbol of the name, superbly outlined the confines of God into knowledge and wisdom, the cross became a symbol of death as well as a forewarning of salvation.
Rome expanded an encroached toward the edges of the known world, and bellowed at the ostentatious displays of power, and were the attempts of the contrary: the powerlessness of those who look for their identities outside themselves.
The pathetic, childish accumulation toward infinity of those who do not understand where the limits lie.
History tends to repeat itself and the story again becomes topical: the great, powerful banks were no longer enough; they need mergers and reciprocal agreements to become even more aggressive in the new global world.
The sense of inadequacy becomes an institution.
These are the symbols of a humanity that has no awareness of itself and does not understand that the only possible power in the non-discontinuity of the infinite is the power that comes from the continuity of itself with the universe and stubbornly faces the problem of identity as a rationale of quantitative accumulation.
Humanity as a whole cannot grasp that infinity, of which we are an expression, cannot be expressed in terms of quantity, but only in the energy of eternity.
And the energy, that comprises infinity itself, ceases to be our benefactor when we disconnect ourselves quantitatively from its source.
Thus, the problem with identity is the problem of man, the only problem, because its solution is the same of the others.
Talking about globalisation, the union of Europe, paedophilia, uprisings, philosophies, and religions signifies delivering the intelligence of man to the false purpose of quantity. No moral principle can possibly be manifested in quantitative terms because it tends to separate the yes’s from the no’s, and the body of the separation has a single name: nothingness.
The quantity is nothing.
The humanity that we face in the future has no truly human qualities, because it doesn’t offer any of the characteristics for which man was created.
Nietzsche said that the superman, by which term l mean the sense of the all-around man, begins where the state ends.
It’s just that the state is the sum of all inventions, meaning all the quantities that man has accumulated between itself, in the sense of the “ego”, and his own universal nature.
Without sacrificing all those outgrowths, the being, by which l mean the “identity”, can no longer be found, because it has been buried at the most abysmal depths.
We welcome the series of sculptures that Mario Romano Ricci offers in tribute to identity.
His works are extremely timely, even in art world that reveals its powerlessness to illuminate the path towards identity a wide rage of means and languages.
As faithful interpreters of a moment when the decadence of the pillars of learning appears, in all of its devastating latitude, the representations of art that have been expressed in the recent two hundred years, the 19th and 20th centuries, have offered well-earned clarity to the eyes of those who have understood how to look. Far from representing uncommon laxity and lapses of good taste or self-control, to the eyes of art, Ricci’s works have used infantile language and, thus, exceptional clarity to successfully convey the collapse of the world of science that even back in the Renaissance expressed its failure to offer certainties and solutions of a human dimension.
Holes, incisions, extroversion, single colour effects, and objects are perspectives transformed into ingenious educational tools of elementary legibility.
The 19th and 20th century ushered in with them the expressionist monochromatic works, the futurist poetry, post-modern ideas of Joyce and the candour of Henry James, the loss of the tonality of the twelve-tone musicians, the ready-made objects by Duchamp, the gashes of Fontana, the stillness of John Cage, and the monochromes of Yves Klein... which have reiterated that the opinion, the accrued knowledge, is the nothingness, or the cancer that seeks to destroy humanity.
Ricci is not an iconoclast, though his exuberant spirit comes to the surface because it is not tethered in the anguish of presumption and because it is not blunted in the timid genuflexions of historic legacies.
Ricci does not seek advice from the oracle of sacred art for authorization toward the inclination of the scalpel.
He waits, simply, for the child to knock at the door, to open it and to greet him every honour and attentiveness, so that once grown up and in the fullness of his identity, he will become a legacy of all of us.
The structures listen to the sources and reverberation of life that continues in the pulsations in our spirit. The golden wedge, the word that is insinuated, the elegance and authoritativeness in the smiling extent of the infinite wood, to grant and receive an identity.
The word, the sound that becomes music, for man to become aware of himself and his own continuity with God.
The word, the artifice of a structure from which listening leads to the reality of our identity.
The intelligible from that is outlined in the boundless wooden stretch between the ordered confusion of infinity, that smiles extends ad father, as mother, as son on the single line that draws the mystery and non-mystery of creation.
The gentle countenance of life that smiles its certainty and opens out from the prismatic representation of artifice, which is the fanfare of God, which formulates the impossible of identity in the possible and in the non-discontinuity of infinity.
Rome expanded an encroached toward the edges of the known world, and bellowed at the ostentatious displays of power, and were the attempts of the contrary: the powerlessness of those who look for their identities outside themselves.
The pathetic, childish accumulation toward infinity of those who do not understand where the limits lie.
History tends to repeat itself and the story again becomes topical: the great, powerful banks were no longer enough; they need mergers and reciprocal agreements to become even more aggressive in the new global world.
The sense of inadequacy becomes an institution.
These are the symbols of a humanity that has no awareness of itself and does not understand that the only possible power in the non-discontinuity of the infinite is the power that comes from the continuity of itself with the universe and stubbornly faces the problem of identity as a rationale of quantitative accumulation.
Humanity as a whole cannot grasp that infinity, of which we are an expression, cannot be expressed in terms of quantity, but only in the energy of eternity.
And the energy, that comprises infinity itself, ceases to be our benefactor when we disconnect ourselves quantitatively from its source.
Thus, the problem with identity is the problem of man, the only problem, because its solution is the same of the others.
Talking about globalisation, the union of Europe, paedophilia, uprisings, philosophies, and religions signifies delivering the intelligence of man to the false purpose of quantity. No moral principle can possibly be manifested in quantitative terms because it tends to separate the yes’s from the no’s, and the body of the separation has a single name: nothingness.
The quantity is nothing.
The humanity that we face in the future has no truly human qualities, because it doesn’t offer any of the characteristics for which man was created.
Nietzsche said that the superman, by which term l mean the sense of the all-around man, begins where the state ends.
It’s just that the state is the sum of all inventions, meaning all the quantities that man has accumulated between itself, in the sense of the “ego”, and his own universal nature.
Without sacrificing all those outgrowths, the being, by which l mean the “identity”, can no longer be found, because it has been buried at the most abysmal depths.
We welcome the series of sculptures that Mario Romano Ricci offers in tribute to identity.
His works are extremely timely, even in art world that reveals its powerlessness to illuminate the path towards identity a wide rage of means and languages.
As faithful interpreters of a moment when the decadence of the pillars of learning appears, in all of its devastating latitude, the representations of art that have been expressed in the recent two hundred years, the 19th and 20th centuries, have offered well-earned clarity to the eyes of those who have understood how to look. Far from representing uncommon laxity and lapses of good taste or self-control, to the eyes of art, Ricci’s works have used infantile language and, thus, exceptional clarity to successfully convey the collapse of the world of science that even back in the Renaissance expressed its failure to offer certainties and solutions of a human dimension.
Holes, incisions, extroversion, single colour effects, and objects are perspectives transformed into ingenious educational tools of elementary legibility.
The 19th and 20th century ushered in with them the expressionist monochromatic works, the futurist poetry, post-modern ideas of Joyce and the candour of Henry James, the loss of the tonality of the twelve-tone musicians, the ready-made objects by Duchamp, the gashes of Fontana, the stillness of John Cage, and the monochromes of Yves Klein... which have reiterated that the opinion, the accrued knowledge, is the nothingness, or the cancer that seeks to destroy humanity.
Ricci is not an iconoclast, though his exuberant spirit comes to the surface because it is not tethered in the anguish of presumption and because it is not blunted in the timid genuflexions of historic legacies.
Ricci does not seek advice from the oracle of sacred art for authorization toward the inclination of the scalpel.
He waits, simply, for the child to knock at the door, to open it and to greet him every honour and attentiveness, so that once grown up and in the fullness of his identity, he will become a legacy of all of us.
The structures listen to the sources and reverberation of life that continues in the pulsations in our spirit. The golden wedge, the word that is insinuated, the elegance and authoritativeness in the smiling extent of the infinite wood, to grant and receive an identity.
The word, the sound that becomes music, for man to become aware of himself and his own continuity with God.
The word, the artifice of a structure from which listening leads to the reality of our identity.
The intelligible from that is outlined in the boundless wooden stretch between the ordered confusion of infinity, that smiles extends ad father, as mother, as son on the single line that draws the mystery and non-mystery of creation.
The gentle countenance of life that smiles its certainty and opens out from the prismatic representation of artifice, which is the fanfare of God, which formulates the impossible of identity in the possible and in the non-discontinuity of infinity.
Brescia, October 2000 - Giorgio Fogazzi