Exhibition of contemporary sculptures
Paolo Staccioli at the Boutique Hotel Zum Rosenbaum
Paolo Staccioli, who was born in 1943 in Scandicci near Florence, fills the rooms of the Hotel zum Rosenbaum with travelling men and women looking for a destination, or perhaps a moment of tranquillity. With equilibrium they show strength, carrying the weight of mankind with them or on their shoulders. Wagons, horses, warriors and women in suits of armour, more protectors than fighters. And playing children too, watched over from the background by their grandparents, narrated on luminous panels like storybooks of the dreamy fantasy world. From Tuscany to South Tyrol, the seeds cause art to germinate. It becomes transformed into living matter, it unites, with its immediate and universal language.
Art becomes “artifice”, communication, experience, emotion, thought, in a word: culture
About Paolo Staccioli
Paolo Staccioli was born in 1943 in Scandicci near Florence. Initially, in the 1970s, he dedicated himself to painting. At the beginning of the 90s, his need to experiment with new artistic forms of expression brought him to Faenza, where he discovered his love of the ceramic arts. At the start of the new millennium Staccioli finally began to translate his forms into cast bronzes too, without ever neglecting his preference for the study and working of clay.
Insights into his works
A few travellers in colourful clothing and suitcases stand out from the crowd. They are looking forward excitedly and full of anticipation to a journey that, however, they will never undertake, as they will never be able to leave the place allocated to them on the top of round vases. A fate that they share with the horses pawing impatiently at the ground beneath them, who would like nothing better than to gallop freely and impetuously in unknown expanses.
His treatment of space, often compressed by little embossed ponies, is determined in the armour of his willing, stationary warriors in bronze and in ceramic who, even if they are possibly feeling nostalgic for a place where they have never lived, will never go back, neither will they ever leave for the wars in spite of being armed with spears and shields. And those who sit closely crammed together in small boats will never touch solid ground, nor will those who sit without lower abdomen or legs on tank-like vehicles, waiting, in vain, for their deployment.
