Velieri alla fonda
La bufera
 
Painter - sculptor - engraver
 

Anchise Picchi's Tuscan countryside

by: Lido Pacciardi

 

We wish to thank doct. BELINDA SERRA for working on English translation.

Collesalvetti's Municipality intends to publish, for the year 2007, an illustrated calendar with Anchise Picchi's artworks: one for every month. It's a new tribute to the artistic activity of this master, which has always remained connected to the Tuscan people and land, particularly to the Collesalvetti countryside, where he obtained most of his inspiration that, however, has concerned themes and models of universal breath.

 


Anchise tells us about his country and his story, that is, of most men life's story. He introduces and leads us, with sensibility and poetry, into a world hidden already inside the colours of a twilight which announces evening and night… There shady figures that dissolve and merge into an illegible background and fogginess suddenly relive, wandering along roads towards unknown destinations: as “soul” places, with spiritual goals. Ideal figures, perfect and painful models of a hard environment that shows labour, effort and suffering as costant conditions, daily friends of the humble man. He is represented crooked, alone, as being courageous protagonist of the country and difficult environment. There he is continously exposed to changing weather and challenges of fate, without any certainty beyond the constant precariousness of his existence.

Somebody said: everybody does nothing rather than meet his own death and all pity gives up in front of the awareness of eternal pain and the cruel persistency of necessity.

“…sorrow is eternal

has only a voice and doesn't vary…”

Anchise's voice is the same of the bygone days that, however, regrets and indicates a lost world, which seems to subside more and more into the oblivion as time goes by. But fantasy transforms memories and remembrance into new colours. With eyes half closed in dream, reality looses the hardness of objectivity, becoming a new and an alive part of a feeling spurting from remote depths, subdued echoes; faint nuances of a fading story which the artist's way proposes during the continuous change of existence …

In Anchise's Art that world becomes myth and “… becomes symbol and myth only what's timeless”.

There's, indeed, a sideral and eternal time, companion of stars, unchangeable in its unrelenting flow. It orders history and regulates human events and the Universe's continuous motion.

But there is also a time of the soul, adhered to the spirit: liquid, inconstant, elusive, which is only and entirely inside us. It doesn't regulate events but only recalls and arouses our sentiments. There, our hopes and wishes live, grow and change. At this pure spring, the human wish untiring of dreams refreshes itself.

Anchise loves that time and those figures. He pushes an incessant search to achieve and keep an ever more evanescent echo, a secret and ancient voice, which still strongly vibrates within us.

If it's true that these all are already concluded situations they, however, are still able to arouse “Poetry”. They still stimulate our souls to pursue the primeval and deep essence of these fundamental motives, in an attempt to discover and refresh their traces, maintaining their fervency, in daily events of life.

To remember is somewhat to die, because everybody is linked to his own solitude.

Among Tuscan land figures, peasantry are the most interesting and human protagonists; steady figures which live in a tiring, rough, suggestive and charmed environment, where together with intense summer colours and spring and autumn sweet nuances, we can often see petrified naked rigidity of trees' branches in winter. Under a plumbeous sky or with a furious wind, when it seems to liberate a primaeval cataclysm storm, in Anchise's painting bright sceneries appear, air and colour flashes, which all have a foggy and translucent deepness, where the most fanciful dreams and touching delusions go to multiply and hide in themselves. It is the colour of hope, as indigents' weapon, that Anchise's brush gives to protagonists' pain, so giving vitality to a rural epic world which has constructed our present time.

Nevertheless, the artist's anxiety in attempting to come to life once more a world in a reality adapted to what he feels and remembers, springs up from his touching consciousness to haven't no certain reality. But only trusting to developing and, in such a manner, tricky strength of his imagination and inspiration and so losing the rational part of himself, the artist is able to reach and read, over the imaginary border of reality, into a fictitious and changing world, that is the deepest and most perfect of Art's mystery.

So the artist transforms reality into myth.

Only when he looks inside the essence of things, Art is born.

The memory inadequacy to revive reality, as Anchise says, really consists in the fact that the artist often dresses in, even unconsciously, Medusa's mask, which crystallizes everything and transfixes it, so making all the world immobile, fixed and unrecognizable. He may wake to it a new life only if he is able to divert his sight, consigning all his emotions to fantasy's multiform variability and fertility.

Reality isn't outside but inside us. Behind the stone mask there is flesh and blood and the magical light of all the things, “of those which don't become, but come into world already completed and perfect…” , so they seem to have always lived, to have always been. Neither time corrupted them nor use ruined them… They are ideas, sentiments, affections, wishes: as ancestral models and archetypes which they all preserve and protect our “humanitas” and nourish our “pietas” .

In Anchise's world reality appears in layers, while fogs descend their veils over all things to hide and suggest, over a hidden horizon, another immense sky, to give shape and soul to the fugitive dream of indefinite spaces, of larger and remote plains…

“…and shipwreck is sweet to me in this sea.”

“If you really and entirely want to see, in Art, you must not look at it: we see and remember, in its truest essence, only what we don't look at…”

Will your eyes be able to pick up the soul's reflections?

Lido Pacciardi - Collesalvetti, October, 25, 2006

 

 

 

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