Highslide JS
55x40 cm

Highslide JS
40x60 cm

Highslide JS
45x30 cm

Highslide JS
60x98 cm

Highslide JS
33x70 cm
Highslide JS
55x95 cm
Highslide JS
55x46 cm

Highslide JS
60x27 cm

 

Highslide JS
25x30 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
30x40 cm
oil on copper

Highslide JS
20x30 cm
oil on copper

Highslide JS
40x40 cm
oil on Aluminium

Highslide JS
50x50 cm
oil on aluminium

Highslide JS
70x50 cm
oil on aluminium

Highslide JS
60x50 cm
oil on aluminium

Highslide JS
19x25 cm
oil on copper

Highslide JS
40x20 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
14x18 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
35x60 cm
oil on canvas
Highslide JS
17x12 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
12x19 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
22x17 cm
oil on copper
   
    Highslide JS
17x22 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
14x18 cm
oil on copper
Highslide JS
13x13 cm
oil on copper
fortina
27.5x39.5 cm Oil on Slate

39.5x27.5 cm Oil on Slate

27.5x39.5 cm Oil on Slate

24x34 cm oil on slate

24x34 cm oil on slate

24x34 cm oil on slate

34x24 cm oil on slate

24x34 cm oil on slate

24x34 cm oil on slate


34x24 cm oil on slate


29.5x19.5 cm oil on slate

Work in Black

by Andrea Fortina

(Italian version)

The black, turned off screen is one of the very few things I have ever  liked about television.
And the documentaries filmed in the deep and darkest abysses of the sea.
I have always being moved by the ray of light that uncovers and reveals never-before-seen creatures, born in water nights and in the absence of light. Beings of inconceivable shapes, life of abstraction and oddity, complicated mathematical equations in motion where time is woven with darkness.

A flash exposes them, evokes them perhaps.
Annoyed, they go back where we will no longer see them, to an extremely private world of silent labours and pleasures.
And so, I am often seduced by the image of a figure that appears in the quick photogram of a window, more desired than seen, always beautiful, always nude, and always intent upon nameless sensual doings.
Or the memory of flesh revealed by a lamp and that for an incalculable moment we have stolen from the darkness and the secret.

Memories, fantasies, dreams. Precious bodiless objects made of a single substance, denizens of the same labyrinth.
It is hard to search for them when they prefer lo sleep in hiding and maybe it is even harder to get rid of them when they decide to invade that territory that we foolishly claim for our lucidity.
Wild and precious fumes, dangerous and unpredictable.
Painting, perhaps, could fabricate a call capable of evoking them from the folds of the invisible, luring them onto the stage of imagination with artificial appearances.
I was thinking about these years ago, while I was admiring, or better, was overwhelmed by the magnificent slates painted by Orbetto.
Magical boxes of night abducted from the violence of time, images that are absolutely true because, just as in the memory, they do not comply with the rules of completeness and coherence.
The stone that centuries revealed a deep dark blue became the black mirror of a Magician who could evoke with terrible sorceries the reflection of lives now hidden in shadowless territories.
Over the years I have watched, well hidden behind the frames, the Sabbaths and the bacchanalia of Bramer and Schonfeldt, fearing that a nymph or, worse, a witch would see me and imprison me in stone.
Other times, the painting of Rubens at the Vallicella, where slate is no longer night but pure and glorious infinity, gave me vertigo.
l too have tried, as many of our forefathers did, to leave a mark on the stone. It was not vanity, I believe, l was just simply seduced by it.