I had spotted a couple of Andrea Starinieri’s artworks in an art shop in Pescara, in December, just before meeting with him.
At first I didn’t understand them.
Straight after, I contacted him and asked him to bring something to the gallery.
He came, I put the paintings on the ground and waited. I’ve been waiting for days.
If a painting comes from beyond the canvas, you need time to wait for it, you have to give it time to travel the distance that goes from side to side. Andrea Starinieri’s paintings have millimeters as kilometers.
The short and flat strokes of his brush have dug a ditch from which we lean out looking at the bottom of an abyss, which is the substance of a glance.
The introspective soul of him knows it well; his portraits say it well, how far you can go looking inside more than looking outside. Where does the sideral light that illuminates these faces reside? Where does the darkness lead to, which these colors approach distorting themselves?
Who, in truth, do these “eyes of ice so difficult to avoid” belong to?