Congratulationwording For Engagment

In viaggio con l'artista Carlo Andreoli (ALO)

The journey begins a long night on the Po, into those dark and murky waters which seem more generous than that waste of stories to tell.

I was part of the stars, in the area of \u200b\u200bFerrara. I was proceeding slowly in the car, there was fog and began to do to get dark. Glimpsed a man who was walking along the riverbank, occasionally stopping to pick something up.

I had seen the corner of the window scroll like a shadow on the left and then, I do not know why, I had watched him in the rearview mirror: he had something in his mouth, probably a cigar , dressed in loose clothing and dark and always looked down, with particular attention. What on earth could there be to look at with great interest along the banks of the Po?

soon as I stopped the car and went over to stretch my legs and smoking a cigarette. This was what I said to me stesso, ma mi ero fermato per capire che cosa stesse facendo quell’uomo in quel posto desolato.

Sempre fumando e con il cellulare all’orecchio, ma spento, mi avvicinai lentamente, fingendo indifferenza a lui e ai   suoi movimenti.

In realtà non ce ne sarebbe stato affatto bisogno in quanto l’uomo era completamente assorbito dalla sua ricerca e non si curava assolutamente di me: stava ammonticchiando sul   bordo della strada una collezione di oggetti, cose, non so nemmeno come chiamarli. Distinsi con chiarezza un pezzo di radice contorta, alcune pagine di una rivista porno, una moneta arrugginita, dei rifili di materiale plastico, alcuni sassi. Forse intendeva ripulire l’argine dai rifiuti, uno di quegli ecologisti a oltranza che organizzano battute di raccolte rifuti nei boschi o sulle spiaggie. Però non poteva essere così. L’uomo, che poteva avere una quarantina d’anni, selezionava attentamente il suo raccolto e, a volte, dopo un’attenta analisi, li ributtava nell’argine.

Gli chiesi perché mai stesse raccogliendo quell’accozzaglia di oggetti e c osì conobbi Carlo Andreoli, ALO per gli amici. Strano diminutivo alquanto inusuale, probabilmente unico. ALO: nome breve, veloce, aereo. Un soffio d’aria, un alito, un respiro, un’onda sea, a grain of salt. You get used to that name with hard work, difficult because it's so easy, but when you set the memory does not go out anymore, so how can they figure out the owner of that name, not the common man. Standogli only observed in the eyes close and you can capture that inner struggle that we carry, what havoc must feel that feeling of quiet and he gives us with his art composite. Only very closely you can hear the flapping of wings, like a faint noise that at times seems a little trumpet, just a halo.

Born May 8, 1963 Bondeno, Carlo Andreoli completed technical studies, but has always cultivated a passion for art. Forever in search of the 'subject' of art, rather than the art object, it ignites in front of the acknowledged masters as William's friend Mari, Ligabue, Rauschenberg, Caravaggio, Van Gogh, Gaudi, Dali. Strange list, right? Almost a testimony of the absence of spacetime in which he lives, that haunts him and drives him to pick up a manifesto to be pulled into the street, a fragment of photos from chissachi lost, stolen a toy for their daughters in a dirty act fast and apparently random. As for the series of plexiglass exposed to the Bondeno 2005 on his personal 41 Km and Cape Canaveral.

painter, photographer, sculptor, ALO grind the material and makes it art. It is not easy to define its production. It would be like pulling the lines around his work, that frame that he is never called, but categories, styles, and valuations are not things for him. Simply have no place. It is with the strength of the lines, it is with sorrow that underlies every element of his creations that wants to send the innocent but fierce pain of existence.

artist across the board, works at night in a farmhouse used as his laboratory with music at full volume. Photographs, newspaper clippings, adhesive films of various kinds, textiles, toys and cast-off industrial waste scattered everywhere on the plank of wood and mixed with his tools: pens, pencils, a hammer, a drill, knives, spatulas, a bottle opener, but perhaps the last is for beer.

A Milan on a winter evening, chatting over a plate of risotto and a few bottles of wine, tells me " use glue, tape, awls, drills and welders. The art world has lost its physical boundaries and meta-physical, and that is why my works the inserisco, con pochissimo riguardo, tra fogli di plexiglass: vorrei costruire un ponte tra l’arte e il quotidiano”.

Ed effettivamente, nei suoi plexiglass, l’opera resta come sospesa in una sorta di vuoto, una passerella sospesa sul nulla, a mostrarne l’inderterminatezza e la fragilità. Su questa passerella autore e fruitore possono incontrarsi forse con uno sguardo veloce, anche - perchè no? - d’imbarazzo o di paura, come chi si ritrovi di fronte al se stesso che preferisce dimenticare.

Quando sono molte ormai le bottiglie a rotolare in terra e masticando parole e risotto con quella sua perenne voglia di divorare il mondo mi reveals that "in eleven years melted plastic and metal cans with the lighter. I collected them and where they would burn them in the cellar to make the sculptures. I did not know what I was doing and why, but I liked how the matter turns; was destruction and creation, penetration of reality. There was the stench, the smell of burning, that was also part of creation. Things that change shape, dissolve, they say their pain. I did that, there was no intention, just let go and what to reduce to the minimum elements. Then pick up the fragments and debris on a wooden table. I did not mean anything, try anything. I just liked. I liked the aesthetics diversa di quella materia trasformata.
Un amico mi disse che facevo pop art. Non avevo mai sentito nominare la pop art, ma era un bel nome. Mi informai. Scoprii che facevano più o meno quello che facevo io.

Barbara Di Santo e Paola Franzosi, l e curatrici della mostra personale Il Mondo Urbano che nel 2008 il Circolo Bertoldt Brecht di Milano gli ha allestito per aver vinto il Concorso “Un frammento di futuro”, hanno scritto di lui: “Una realtà sgrammaticata come quella dei titoli di alcune delle foto di Carlo Andreoli, una realtà dolente, di carne e sangue, dove quasi non esistono sfumature, divorate dalla violenza inconsulta dell´uomo che consuma, dove i colori sono quelli freddi della denuncia o piuttosto della presa di coscienza di questo artista che lascia il proprio segno con una scrittura di meditata imprecisione, con disarmante risolutezza. E´ il mondo degli ultimi, dei piccoli, che Andreoli fissa nei suoi scatti impietosi, restituendo dignità ad un´esistenza dimenticata, inchiodandoci alla nostra coscienza.”

Nella presentazione de Il mondo dentro una vetrina , una serie di scatti fatti in varie metropoli europee, leggiamo: “Il mondo spiato attraverso la superficie trasparente di una vetrina, come se fosse in vendita. In un gioco continuo di riflessioni e rovesciamenti dell’immagine capture the objective reality of the composite inside and out. What's in and what's out? The child who cries in the Empire State Building in New York was forgotten inside a store or is the mirror image of a billboard? Lenin looks thoughtfully out the window a St. Peterburg that no longer recognizes as his Leningrad or is it just a relic of communist for tourists?
The world is constantly down her images that appear real and incontrovertible, solid evidence of a present and certain promise of a future bound to be bigger, better looking, faster.
E 'simply a sheet of glass to imply in us the suspicion that what we believe to be our present is nothing but a reflection of our fear, a transparent wall behind which we believe to hide. "

ALO is become my great friend and is always with him uses in the covers of my books. In fact, from that time near the stars, and my companion fixed travel around the world (its the pictures of American Bestiary, published in the September 2010 Fenera) and often follow, sometimes literally chase, the man who has a habit of disappearing suddenly looking you never know what exactly, but still alla ricerca di qualcosa.

Lo vedo da lontano, una figura scura e ciondolante che cammina, disegnando percorsi irregolari, a volte fermo per minuti intento nell’osservazione del paesaggio, oppure sdraiato in terra a fotografare con la sua amata Lomo, imprecisa e sfocata come lui.

Le sue fughe improvvise sono sempre misteriose e imprevedibili, e spesso mi accorgo che non c’è più quando è già lontano e posso solo   intravvederlo come un puntino scuro all’orizzonte, sempre sul punto di tramontare.

Dopo qualche minuto, lo vedo ritornare: il passo sempre lento, le gambe storte che si incontrano alle knees, the Tuscan fuming in his mouth, his hair uncombed and something in his hand.

seems straight out of a Simenon novel.

Fabio Musati