because the artist can only be a humble flower bed, ASKING FOR APPROVAL (AL SERVIZIO DEL CONSENSO) Giuliano Nannipieri from Livorno, Italy.
THE CHALLENGE OF UNDERSTANDING by Rosanna Albertini
Here we are again. It would be a revolution in the arts if artists could give up being eccentric, like stars that refuse to rotate around the sun. Money perhaps? It would be simple if artists were spreading around their visions, images not needing the walls of a cave to exist for a long time. Or, some of the time.
Giuliano Nannipieri didn’t see limits to what an artist can be. Still does not. Philosophical weeds fed him deeply, but ideas became disposable for him if they were not bringing sparkles to his heart. Patient enough to graduate in philosophy, he couldn’t accept rules and impositions from the organized art world. He teaches art in a primary school.
He never gave up being a vessel of provocative, meaningful actions. Not far from Hirokazu Kosaka throwing arrows in the space between naked bodies in movement. But the Italian artist was the only one at risk: why not be, uninvited, at the Venice Biennale? In June 6, 2001 he went, exposed his physical metamorphosis, was thrown out. Yet, there was no violence on his side: he was just a tree. The metaphor of the artist’s body showing bandages over the painful transformation into a decorative commodity. Yes, with no price, he will not be purchased. It’s in the premise. Such a derisive, self-destructive commitment would lead, no need to say, to the death of any artist.
GIULIANO NANNIPIERI – The artist can only be a humble flower bed, al servizio del consenso.
VENICE BIENNALE unofficial performance 6/6, 2001, 6 Polaroids
That’s why I’ll try to uproot his tree and show what Nannipieri did in Venice, as in many other circumstances, by rewriting a page by Emmanuel Levinas. Impossible to translate word by word. It’s a verbal performance, mine after his.
How can we be if our living time disappears and
we walk through the void?
Let’s imagine things
and people never were, so we could
breath such emptiness in and out
and feel murmurs of silence
subject and names are gone
a field remains of impersonal vibrations
the simple fact of an existing energy field
as impersonal as ‘it rains’ ‘it’s cold’ ‘it’s foggy’
names can’t tell about it, verbs maybe can
no offense to time and space they don’t count
compared with human energy
incurable daughter of fate
no one nothing will change her
what kind of art now?
(free reference to Emmanuel Levinas, Le temps et l’autre, 1979, pp.25-26)
Although I couldn’t tell, I do know some artists feel it in the air, in their blood, in their longs. And it’s against the fossilized values of this marketplace. Now, not in the future. Listen to the silence.