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Lot Essay
Finding adjectives to describe this terracotta with cut by Fontana, is not easy for me at all: I am still too immersed in it, despite all the years that have passed gazing at it and studying it, down to the smallest detail. Sublime, powerful, impressive: I wanted it placed on a low glass table. In some ways to protect it, but above all so that I could best enjoy it, sitting on a sofa, rather than kneeling, so close as to be able to perceive every small movement in the material. The colour is very beautiful; the cut that crosses it in depth from one side to the other is perfect, inferred with energy and precision, so as to leave in relief the "crest" of the material cut. It is a deep, silent wound, but one that leaves around it an aura of mystery, of nobility, of absolute beauty. In "her", I have always followed, on the surface, the play of Fontana's hands that gave form to the terracotta, modelling it with great elegance. Merely looking at it creates excitement: so intact, so "unique", so powerfully expressive.
I still remember the day it should have arrived at our house: I was like a man pacing up and down outside the delivery room; I walked nervously, waiting for the bell at the gate to ring, continuously checking the video entry-phone to see if the van had arrived. Everyone asked who I could possibly be waiting for in such an anxious way.
Opening the crate, perfect, like the segments of an orange, and then, at last, "her": too beautiful even to breathe, without uttering a word, other than those necessary to ensuring that the carriers took the greatest care in handling her and placing her carefully on a small felt base to protect the underside. Because when I am waiting for a work, I already know where and how I want it placed. I have already dreamed of it in my mind and positioned it.
By now, even if selfishly I am speaking in the singular, "she" has become an important presence for both of us. In any home, she will require only love and passion, respect for the universe that she so admirably represents.
I still remember the day it should have arrived at our house: I was like a man pacing up and down outside the delivery room; I walked nervously, waiting for the bell at the gate to ring, continuously checking the video entry-phone to see if the van had arrived. Everyone asked who I could possibly be waiting for in such an anxious way.
Opening the crate, perfect, like the segments of an orange, and then, at last, "her": too beautiful even to breathe, without uttering a word, other than those necessary to ensuring that the carriers took the greatest care in handling her and placing her carefully on a small felt base to protect the underside. Because when I am waiting for a work, I already know where and how I want it placed. I have already dreamed of it in my mind and positioned it.
By now, even if selfishly I am speaking in the singular, "she" has become an important presence for both of us. In any home, she will require only love and passion, respect for the universe that she so admirably represents.