It was a mild October Sunday when I first met Andrea Benetti, a contemporary artist, in his atelier—a beautiful early 20th-century house on the Osservanza hill in Bologna. Tall, imposing, yet kind, he stood as a true artist against his vast artistic production, which, covering the walls, seemed to envelop him, almost shielding him from the bright reality beyond the graceful mullioned windows of his home. He immediately introduced me to Barbara, his charming partner, who understands very well (by sharing in it, rather than enduring it) what the “artist’s life” entails. He then began narrating his deeply personal creative structure while offering me a glass of dark Piedmontese wine.
Being incurably teetotal, I did not drink the wine. But as I stepped into that house, covered from floor to ceiling with Benetti’s canvases—perfectly framed within what I would call a containment perimeter for an otherwise uncontainable imagination—I did not immediately sense the painter or the painting, which in this case had been largely transcended. Instead, I felt an elegant and aristocratic “detachment through abstraction” from the artist, despite the delicately evoked figurativeness of his work.
Without resorting to the inevitable “brochure lexicon”—as unavoidable as it is treacherous—nor to the inescapable citation (more a crutch than an embellishment) that often accompanies the sophisticated critique of another’s art, I gazed at Benetti’s flowers, born from nothing. In a displaced thought, I found myself recalling the fantastic garden flowers of Monsieur Hulot in Jacques Tati’s films (perhaps the most cryptic of French directors) before surrendering entirely to Andrea’s imaginary journey, retracing time in that early 20th-century house, where it seemed as if time itself had paused—like the fine, still wine resting in its transparent glass.
I sincerely believe that today, nothing can be said that has not already been said before (this is the harsh, inescapable curse of contemporaneity). However, in broadening the discourse, I consider that contemporary abstract art, in its titanic attempt to annihilate all rules in order to affirm just one—its own—is, by its very nature, as claustrophobic as it is ruthless and sincere. It is elusive and extraordinarily adept at “not” being recognized, even as it claims its space—space that can be commented upon, discussed, analyzed, celebrated, or criticized, yet remains inaccessible, unattainable, immovable, like a gigantic monolith, albeit one with an imperceptible soul that silently mocks the most self-satisfied digressions on the subject.
And so, how does one position oneself in front of contemporary art? And, in this specific case, in front of Andrea Benetti’s work? What can one ask of it, confined as it is in its intimate relationship with the demiurge who brought it to life? That is why, although fascinated by Benetti’s a-pictorial and hyper-visual art—he, too, enclosed in his luminous atelier, sealed off by his works, which daily bear witness to and comfort the joys, struggles, and anxieties of his creativity (here, purer than ever)—it was not the assured and fertile art of the artist (and Benetti certainly is one) that moved me. Nor was it his account of his artistic journey, which he recounted with both pride and participation. Instead, it was something deeply personal—a complex, silent disturbance, a feeling, a “quid” that was both obscure and pleasant at once, something I will never forget from that beautiful October Sunday.
After all, we all know that approaching contemporary art is far more difficult and treacherous than engaging with ancient art. One soothes, the other unsettles. One is (so they say) easily understood, while the other is grasped only with difficulty. Likewise, we should all understand that every authentic artist (and Benetti is one) will never truly succeed in explaining themselves, no matter how hard they try. The world of every authentic artist (and Benetti is one) is so intricate and convoluted that, even out of an unconscious sense of modesty, they can never fully express themselves as they wish. Thus, even as they narrate and elaborate, they ultimately mislead, seeking an impossible recognition through a paradoxical and tormented spontaneity—an unconscious distraction, perhaps, because every artist (and Andrea Benetti knows this well) cannot reveal a truth that even they do not fully know.
And so, I am well aware—as is Benetti—that I will never truly see (or comprehend) everything he wishes for me (or anyone) to see and understand. If he graciously accepts everyone’s opinion, even the most refined exegesis from specialists in the field—undeniably a great aid to any artist—I believe it is only out of formal gratitude towards those who engage with his work, which would otherwise struggle to advance within culture and memory.
Creativity has an indefinable starting point, known only fleetingly by the artist in the moment of intuition, before accumulating layers of meaning, symbols, and allusions that slowly lead to a composition, a project, a narrative—the baggage of “a form of communication” that is most fortunate when understood and embraced, yet desperate when misunderstood and rejected. Never at peace, however, like every projection of an artist’s sensitivity and the arduous craft of giving it expression. Moreover, in the effort to pursue certain thoughts… the ancient artist had a patron to share in the work. (Is the force and character of Julius II della Rovere not behind Michelangelo’s Last Judgment?) The modern/contemporary artist, on the other hand, has only themselves—they are their own patron. But perhaps that is another discussion.
I am not an art historian or critic, and like many, I rely solely on perceptions, on sensory, tactile, even olfactory emotions—always tied to pathos, to what I like to call a “stimulus of affection” toward a work of art, particularly a visual one. But I am a writer, and as such, I wander through the interiority of others—an interiority too often falsified by the mask of appearance, the surface, or the persistent façade we all carry.
In Andrea Benetti, as I looked at his works and sought the “beyond” in his obsessive gaze upon a prehistory already compromised and weakened by a malignant future, I immediately sensed that “stimulus of affection”—and how! I surrendered myself entirely to him and to his creation, so ambiguously and only seemingly playful and joyous. Perhaps, I do not deny it, more than the Neo-Cave Manifesto, more than the Paleolithic hominids, the marks-drawings, and his brilliant ability to create a uniquely personal (both virtuous and esoteric) material upon which to trace distant archetypal signs—more than all this—I would like to know the beginning, the incipit, that distant moment in childhood, that first artistic-sentimental encounter, light or terrible, that determines a destiny and brands an artist’s future. That accident of fate that seals a talent, the predisposition to the sublime, and which, over time, becomes both the testimony of genius and the enormous burden of an artist’s work—the ever-present, often overwhelming, yet gratifying and pleasurable presence of their way of living and creating.
I know, of course, that this will never be fully possible for me or anyone else—and it is only right that it should remain so. It would be foolish to seek to penetrate the struggle, the mystery, the torment, the regard à rebours of a true artist, as Andrea Benetti unequivocally is. The artist can recount much, but they can reveal little about their work, which speaks better than they ever could, for it knows far more than they do. Sometimes they appear convinced and almost fulfilled; other times, dissatisfied and incomplete—because any artistic (and human) journey is always unfinished, never truly completed, even if it were to exceed all expectations.
To artists like these—possessing such rare qualities that they encompass so many others (as in the case of Andrea Benetti)—after the pleasure of having met them, conversed with them, and visually appreciated their journey, all that remains is to extend a hand… while sipping the fine wine they so generously offer.