Exhibitions

This is one of those places where the fear of death can work wonders. A long string of bowels extends from the Belle Arti all the way to Milan's main station, arriving from every side, as you yourself might do if you were looking for something simultaneously brutal and snobbish in a passageway containing nothing of the sort. The vehicles with their drivers wearing sunglasses and the whores who got old too fast, left behind in a futurism splayed out by the side of the road...
Perhaps they're jackasses and not Lamborghinis... Perhaps they're masks and not Ray Bans… All these strange characters come and go in high spirits on the sidewalk, unfamiliar observers: onlookers, critics, attendants. Here and there a beggar excluded from the gathering gloomily observes their clothes and their bareness, his glance alone enough to have them believe in their success, a projection that is annihilated by the modest brushstroke which it could never give on this bare, naked page so rich in overtones; too cramped for their feet and their nose. I'd prefer to visit Dario Pecoraro's exhibition in my slippers so I can change channels in face of the image that this sordid drama depicts so well, but which we cannot yet comprehend over our postmodern conceptualization, we, the little children, the "innocent" victims of the flow of modernity... it is Dario Pecoraro's slippers that I want.

Jean-Marie Reynier