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Chaos
is what you perceive, silent and creeping, in Luisa
Raffaelli's hypertrophic atmospheres. Perhaps millenaristic, apocalyptic,
definitive
or perhaps the usual delirium which we no longer
notice unless with new visual perceptions.. in any event a chaos
that insinuates itself beneath mimetic masks, enveloping daily life,
bodies, ways of dressing, interior design, streets
A vital
chaos, whichever way you look at it. Which has nothing to do with
another chaos, that of an idea of bulimia (the current portrayal)
where the unresolved approaches confuse the view of the weak spectator.
A chaos from which fewer and fewer artists manage to escape from.
Incapable of feeding an archetype of rescue (let's call it antichaos)
with a well-engineered form and theory. However, Raffaelli seems
to be on the right road, creating an art based on chaos (within
the themes and narrative methods) and antichaos (within the grammar):
the first (chaos) is characterising, treated as a regulator that
feeds the vision; the second (antichaos) denotes, divided between
synthesis, recognisability and coherence. The final balance gives
rise to a harmonious fullness, an enthropic process that outlines
dense images. Functional works, for the sake of clarity. It is up
to you to discover them, perhaps without chaos.
Antichaos
a natural antidote that certain artists maintain
for a spontaneous creative approach. A resistant material with a
complex use, suitable for combating various figurative ills. An
element you cannot buy nor invent. It lives in direct relationship
with manageable chaos. When it works in creative terms, it has no
time limits.
Luisa Raffaelli transports us to a day of normal urban madness,
including implosive signs and conflicting antagonisms, extraordinary
attitudes, watchful fear and the sensation of extended waiting,
postures in timid defence or decisive attack. The settings are singular
rooms or cities that pulse with warm blood and rising adrenalin.
A woman (more than one, diverse guises, several modifications to
the same figure?) dominates the individual scene, with red hair,
clothes in a modern style, accessories which are just as suited
to the generational style. She seems to be on the brink of maximum
emotional tension, we do not understand the apparent reason but
something is condensed in the atmosphere surrounding her. She is
our red woman, a sensual female with elaborately designed clothes,
bouffant skirts, sandals and high heeled court shoes, fetish-style
lingerie, transparent bodies and tops, tailored jackets, Japanese
style clothes, well-matched accessories and jewellery. She lives
in a perfect contrast between her way of dressing and an environment
of vigilant chaos. She seems to have landed from another planet
onto places that reject her while she reacts, pushes to free herself,
runs, looks for help, physically resists. She wants to escape from
the picture, perhaps save herself from intrusive eyes. She is there
to unconsciously incriminate our voyeurism. She certainly has a
future, even if it cannot be interpreted in terms of a cause-effect
relationship. For our part, we attempt to guess at an interpretation
inside the moment, without logical answers, concentrated on the
gesture which becomes absolute.
Is the artist the star of the show? Having reached this point, having
touched the relationship between the individual and collective projection,
it seems unnecessary to specify the identity in question. Because
she, whoever is outside the digital manipulation, remains the archetype
reached by a doubtful, frightened condition, ferociously weak (but
solid for just this reason) in her everyday life. No longer a woman
but the Woman who tells of her interior condition. A courageous,
autobiographical woman. An artist. And this, at least for now, can
satisfy our gaze.
Gianluca
Marziani, 2005
Luisa
Raffaelli's women are part of a plot which is partially hidden,
concealed. They wear tailored clothes and coordinated handbags,
they all have a classy air, the air of belonging to that group of
women who know how to move and behave. The artist removes them from
social life (and from us, the audience, as they never look at the
camera), relegating them to private areas in empty rooms or anonymous,
deserted alleyways.
Here, these characters, whom one would call elegant, controlled
figures, lose their way and their equilibrium, they are decomposed
in electrified evolutions, they slide up or jump to the ground in
unlikely athletic performances.
In other cases, far from peering eyes, they touch their own secrets,
in a ritual of small, crazy gestures, manias or experiments on themselves
and on the area. For example, neatly emptying the contents of their
handbag onto the pavement, sitting down to look at pharmaceuticals,
cosmetics and accessories as if they were looking for a further
representation of themselves among the objects. The loss of memory,
like narcolepsy, apart from being the result of a physical trauma,
can lead to an involuntary flight from the stress of reality. About
the phenomenon of the reconstruction of memories, art, literature
and cinema have said, especially during the past few years, all
there is to say. Nanni Moretti in Palombella Rossa (1989), Harrison
Ford in Regarding Henry (1991), Guy Pierce in Memento (2000), Laura
Harring in Mulholland Drive (2001), Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity
(2002), Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates (2003), Jim Carrey in Charlie
Kaufman's wonderful screenplay Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless
Mind (2004). Among the photographers who evoke a similar upheaval
bordering on science fiction we must mention at least Gregory Crewdson
with his series of tele-transported characters, suspended, who can
find themselves completely naked in a well to do suburb, in front
of a housewife without knowing how they ended up there, and even
the works of the younger Tim Davis who transforms a familiar, reassuring
provincial landscape into a place of anxiety or wonder.
We are dealing reproduction mechanisms of "intimate desperation"
which Luisa Raffaelli also works on, similar to what Rod Sterling
used in the series The Twilight Zone (1959) for some of his characters
(with no way out), like the banker in the episode Time enough at
last, a bookworm who lived submerged by books, seriously short-sighted,
who loses his glasses and goes mad as a result.
Luca Beatrice, 2004
Photos,
installations, videos. Luisa Raffaelli presents a journey that by
the sheer plurality of the media used seems to aspire to some kind
of multiplication, delirium, and imaginative oneiricism. The dominating
theme here is a nocturnal epic in ambiguity and metamorphosis, rather
like Joyce's "Finnegans Wake". In other words, it is the
myth of universal death and rebirth that prevails, in which each
and every figure can be found taking the place of all the others,
and the different kingdoms (human, vegetable and mineral) are seen
to be mixed up with one another. Only in dreams (or in advertising
appeal, one may add), do the orders of the universe bond, merge
and melt into one another. Space/time conditions become fluid, the
symbols ambiguous, leading one's senses astray. So it is with this
idea of immense coupling of infinite metamorphosis and free association
in mind that Raffaelli presents her subjects. These figures logically
outgrow their institutionalised confines and expand, undergoing
self-perversion; something that can be observed in the work entitled
"Flying in the wind;" where we see a female form whirling
in the air whilst leaves are sucked in around her. But where at
the same time the very same body starts to show signs of fracture,
loss and defeat. In fact, the body struggles to free itself from
its own weight, from its own fleshiness; attempting in vain to make
room for itself, a heavenly passage, exposing its transition in
suspension, unaccomplished; possessing polyvalence but in some way
encumbering and oppressing it. In other images (many of which are
entitled "The Fall"), the figure actually suffers a fall
(a fall into decay) and experiences Icarus's defeat, the end of
the adventure and the disintegration of its own cohesive unity.
The figure literally "loses" its head, its torso, its
whole being, whose presence can be felt only by means of a metonymical
game (objects used to recall subjects). Moving on to look at the
installations created in acetate, we find a real tangled mat of
human details that are at once flimsy, tenuous and in movement.
One realises that these are pure spatial apparitions, mere fragments
that prove to be fragile, transient and yielding, so much so that
they give the impression of keeling over, buckling under one's gaze,
like wax exposed to fire.
It is the theory of appearances not being sustained (or of brushstrokes
that melt away or of the magic of the artifice that liquefies).
And not even this suspicion in the immutability and univocality
of the forms is kept locked up in itself, it does not all stop at
the simple realisation or exposure of a world that is artificial.
Raffaelli actually uses this artificiality ("the deprivation
of the body, of substantiality or definability as she calls
it), to imply a new way of looking at the world. A world that is,
as we mentioned, inverted, undreamt-of, if not just plain grotesque.
It is as if the transparency (or lack of equilibrium), of the images
did not remain in their own dimensions of negativity but opened
towards the beyond, the polydimensionality of reality and its infinity
of possible horizons.
Luigi Meneghelli, 2000
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