Piero Racchi's Page

Peter Racchi was born June 27 th 1948 to Melazzo (Á. the) he/she Lives and manages his/her pictorial activity in Acqui Terme. (To the).
Racchi, in the fantastic world of the pictorial art you/he/she has landed only you to the age of trentatrè years. It has nevertheless initiated in the fior flower of the youth to devote his/her leisure time to the activity of the spirit, trying to develop his/her own abilities in the way most multilateral possible. In fact, him, besides painting, it plays the battery, it composes music, he/she writes texts and novels.
The graphics has been its first passion. Subsequently you/he/she is passed to the painting to the oil painting surreal pictures. After various techniques and experimentations, you/he/she has created an one man show series of pictures entitled polimaterici "spatial views". Finally, abducted from the pleasure to realize works using material different, you/he/she has landed in the actual kind.


The sculptures "everything round" and pictures, have an only meaning: the nature that tries hopelessly to free him from the human enslavement. It, with his/her long vegetable fingers, it winds, it grasps, it penetrates in every crack and hole of the icy and ambiguous human manufactured articles and, as a sepulchral sheet, with the conceitedness to make to be born a new cycle of life, it covers them.

Peter Racchi or the cry of the Nature

The true travellers - it said Baudelaire - they are those alone that depart to depart without being destination neither right. And they risk him, rash, in the unknown one, also at the cost to be shipwrecked, entrusting in their fancy of visionaries. As the wandering riders of the medioevo that forwarded him in the forest, at random: so much they knew that sooner or later something would be happened. So also Peter Racchi, artist to his/her unique way and poliedrico, that it spends with boldness from the poetry to the novel, from the music to the figurative art, reaching in the circle plastic-pictorial results of great originality and sure relief. The forest in which he stirs is the world twisted by the technology and by the consumerism, where the nature, torn and mortified, it seems relegated ancillare to a role. The artificial one dominates uncontested, disseminating however the earth of sewages and garbage. Of ruins and of rubble. The man himself is by now imprisoned of the "steel cage" from him forged: a cage that assumes to lines the semblances of a gone crazy locomotive, that it proceeds to insane speed in a phosphorescent night of unnatural illuminations. The perspective is obviously the catastrophe, divined by Racchi with lucidity of clairvoyant. The forest becomes a sort of labyrinth where, to every turn, the monsters meet him produced by the sleep of the reason. To every footstep it is the waste. Discards, wreckages, refusals encumber the path. Sunt lacrimae rerum. The nature cries, to the stregua of the "rejected trash" on which the double triumph of the fashion and the technology founds him. Here the snake the tail indeed him: the fashion devours every day herself, the technology it nourishes him some his/her own obsolescence. You renews so the myth of Crono that swallows his/her children. It is the parable - obscene - of the modernity.
But if the apocalypse is a destiny that crowds of nightmares and of premonitory dreams the uneasy vigil of Racchi, he also does its inspiring muse of it. Not only because, from good samaritano, detains him to contemplate compassionate the breakdowns and the lacerations provoked by the "system" - to say her/it according to the lexicon sessantottino -, to pick up for street, among the cinders and the defecations that are bundled to open sky in the cemeteries of cars, the poor relics, invain and inanimate, of so much fool - his "ossi of cuttlefish" -, yes also because it is risked to recycle her, to give back to them a dignity, a sense (what perhaps you/they have never had), inserting her, as to plot of mosaic or, better, as cells of an organism to his/her living way, in an artistic project that doesn't have anything of intentional, but that they are them same to suggest, to propose, to address. He doesn't treat so much - on the wake of Kurt Schwitters - to aesthetically retrain useless and obsolete objects, is them scorned wastes of the technology or rimorti lacerti of nature, how much of insufflare in them a new life. The operation has in itself something artificial, but, to well to look, goes to opposite direction to that it continues with from the technical-scientific progress, that has the tendency to replace the car with the man and the inorganic one to the organic one. The dream of Racchi is not that Faustian to dominate the nature, but, if never, that prometeico to safeguard the humanity, vindicating the character of it, note, "natural". not being is not rescinding the roots from the earth or, worse, raping her/it and slashing her/it without reason and without measure, that the man can hope to live better. Life is an alone and sinks its roots in the nature.
The art of Racchi is yes tekne, to the letter, but nothing has some hybris of the modern technology. It is born in fact from the respect for the things, also the humblest, and it puts on to their service. The message that derives is not therefore volontaristico of it, spoiled by a redundant subjectivity. It is not even rather intentional, being to a large extent expression of the unconscious, of a strength that transcends that is the narrow confinements of the self and, perhaps, of the same person. To speak of assemblages could appear then riduttivo, in how much the painting-sculptures of Racchi are in reality of the living concretions, which seems autogenerarsi, in an assiduous and free to spring forth that he/she remembers the inexhausted proliferation of the madrepores. Branches, radiche, trunks, seeds, valve of shells, ferns, pine-cones and street enumerating they are the materials - the alphabet, would say - of which the artist uses for developing a discourse that, also in the variety of his/her results, you/he/she has the peremptory and paroxysmal ossessività of the fixations. The weeping (and the regret) of the nature he makes desperate cry of report and protest, but also of retaliation. It, in fact, fagocita and it absorbs in also exasperates him vitalismo of his/her metamorphoses the other-from-itself, the forms and the extraneous bodies of the technology, imprisoning them in his/her cobweb. Assimilation passes through a thin and complicated process of pepsi that ends up redrawing the native forms of the finds or, better, to alter of it - or to abolish of it - the functionality.
Chaos and calculation cohabit in an equilibrium of contrasted tensions, giving efflorescences life fanciful, to sculptures polimateriche that has hallucinated her appearance of certain chimeras. On all he stretches then, favoring a technique already experimented by Claes Oldenberg, the shiny drivel of the color, that freezes in a dimension onirica, strongly estranged, the amphibious ones, ambiguous "visions" of the artist. An algid cromatismo and turned on it invests the particular ones of it and ago of the objetses trouvés that they form the connective fabric of it all other things, as more unreal as more to the appearance individuabili. The translucent patina that waterproofs them contributes to srealizzarli, escaping them to the hic et nunc, but only to give form ectoplasmatica to the hopes and more anchor to the fears of the artist. Premonitions or auspices, these surreal halves creations between the painting and the sculpture are therefore mere projections of the unconscious (even of an incoscio in sense hartmanniano) and they have the insolence some left - and therefore anxious - of the nightmares. They are flowers that are born, montalianamente, from the rubbles of the abyss, disturbed expression of a soul mundi that feels him threatened in his/her integrity by the technological challenge and by the connected wish of power of the modern civilization of the cars. Flowers, if not of the evil, of the discomfort that pervades our society. As it had to write Italo Calvino: "More our houses are illuminated and prosperous more their boundaries ghosts; the dreams of the progress and the rationality are visited by nightmares". Now, to whom - as Racchi - it has eyes to see and ears to hear the signals of alarm (the cry or - to say her/it with Lucrezio - the "barked") that they originate from the nature they are not able certain to escape. And from artist qual is it makes audacious and punctual interpreter.

CHARLES PROSPERI


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