It strikes you dumb.

Surely the sound of even a single word would disturb the awesome silence of these barely perceptible paintings in light colors, colors that are, rather, extremely delicate and through which the reality of the Tuscan landscape is depicted in rarefied images. The paintings of Gino Conti impose a silence without requesting it. Or is it maybe a kind of ritual that reaffirms itself each time by an instinctive suggestion forced on the viewer? It is difficult to say, also because I remember having had the same impression when the painter played with certain abstract experiences, when he engraved perfectly straight lines on gray and cold metal slabs to be displayed upon the wall, an unusual documentation of ideas incompatible with any printing press.

But those ideas, those lines of unknown origin, unfold into images, and thus the viewer’s mental process passes through extraordinary metamorphoses, and is calmed. Once again I find myself overcome with the strange desire to observe Conti’s newest creations in absolute silence. But by now it is probably just a necessity: the need to abandon oneself, without trying to understand, to the vertigo caused by the poetry of these colors, to the liquid atmosphere that make every image a distant memory, in order to enjoy their virtues as is or in order to let oneself be transported by the ghosts of memory bearing us into the world of the imagination.

The ghosts of memory demand silence to penetrate into the depths — deep enough to where it is possible to meet only silence.

Tommaso Paloscia