The author’s root.
Genetic passage of sound, that craft which feels and listens to materials, recognising secret forms, to be freed , in waiting.
And the artist on two fronts, just able to stroke the larva to make it take flight – on the tension of tautened strings. And she entrusts the chosen selection – a small birth – to the new compound, in the air, to play, to sculpt. And it’s now that you hear violin parts, the smells of varnish that rise from trilled passages. Tactile and invisible, fissured with light. Reflected and disposed to understand, for a human polyphony.
I have been able to follow all Domenica Regazzoni’s progress that has led to these sound forms: the first words that, sculpting instinctively, forged the project, with devoted passion, capable of calming the tensions of the heart to follow, stubbornly, the clear line of foreseen work. It was the moment of thought, the pause for feeling, for transferring into art the daily work of father and daughter. Then the strategy of work, discipline, patience and tenacity, consistent research, the need to understand, grasping all through nothing.
Afterwards, when one is left alone to live, one understands more, According to the logic of taking away in order to have, it is the price to pay for rising further. Domenica Regazzoni has passed from the sound to the instrument, to wood in the form, through abstraction and refining the capacity to communicate with the language of nature, supporting it in silence, speaking also to us of the maple wood of an ancient tree or of a nest from the highest roof.
The artist has searched, she has gathered, sublimating into materials and thicknesses the will to link a thread to his heart.
She has generated her father, sculpting the sound and the smell.
It is thus that concrete painting, which dispels and dilates in flaking or congealed materials, has here found a common medium: manuality translated word, the resounding of knuckles, of plectra, of shavings, to keep unwritten confidences.
Domenica, do you remember Morandi?
... Following Galileo: "the true book of philosophy, the book of nature, is written in words unknown to our alphabet. These letters are triangles, squares, circles, spheres, pyramids, cones and other geometrical figures ...thus the feelings and the images produced by the visible world, the world of forms, are difficult to express, and even impossible to translate into words". (1)
And in fact...nothing is more abstract than reality thought Morandi.
(1) Interview with Giorgio Morandi, in Voice of America, 25/04/1957