Documenti
	Indice dei Documenti		The Cattolica, “Love” by Antonio Barbieri By Wilma Galluzzi from Tabloid Cubia 2006 …..a love expressing itself in an immoderate desire to capture, sudden, not repeatable, emotive moments. Barbieri cannot go out of home , without his camera, because the meeting with “The shoot you wanted” can take you by surprise. It’s no use saying about the clicks, shot in gusts, in order to find the right click, the one which he lies in wait, sometimes for hours, in order to find “That” particular light, lasting, sometimes, just for one second. The extraordinary lights of his photos are ever natural, they are stolen to the reality , just the way it is, and, above all, thanks to very sensitive films and to a light hand and to his held breath. Certain photos look like painted pictures, where the chromatic conversions look like they are wisely spread by the hands of a painter. But Barbieri invites us to reflect o those beauties, provided us by the nature. Beauties like those passages of light, now violet, now grey, now orange. Also the classical images-postcards of the city aren’t ever banal, but now they are destructured from the usual cover, and are ready to be revisited by incursions of water’s jets, clouding the sight; now there are magic appearances of the mother, Eugenia, in all her beauty, mermaid among the mermaids of the fountain; now there are Mancini’s Palace and 24th May street transformed into “Venetian Views” on a lagoon. What can I say about the stairs of the Market, “disguised” as Roman “Flowered of Spain’s Square”? Also the seaside’s aren’t ever the same, as by a traditional touristy brochure: the beach is hardly ever desert and with closed great sunshades, often under a dark grey sky, on a fired sky with a violet sunset, looking this way, for just one moment, before being swallowed by the darkness of the night. There are no provoking girls, winking to the camera’s lens. The persons are ever photographed by a back-view, or in the half darkness, or in lonely walks. They are not identified, because each of us can be one of them, as in a Beaudlaire’s rule: “We are not the others”. Obviously there is a detail, intriguing the observer, and it’s concerning the mysterious female figure, out of time, appearing sometimes among the photos of his photographic narration: she is the author’s mother, perfect icon of the female model of the fifties, consecrated by the cinematographic imaginary, just as Loren-Mangano. She is there, remembering us that the past goes hand in hand, visiting the present. sometime she is in the fountain, dressed in a tall-waisted bikini, challenging in beauty the mermaids; sometime she is dressed all in white, with a blanket, keeping her balance on turtle; sometimes she is dressed in a complicated and seductive striped bikini ; sometime she is lying on a boat, remembering us of, that can, no more, found; sometime she is down on her knees, wearing a wonderful naked-shouldered cloth, in front of the water’s games of the bridge shading into a vivid coloured sunset, as Renoir’s style; sometime she is lying on the beach, dressed in an arm pitted-striped bikini, under the classical August’s fireworks: and this in the boo’s closing photo. The landscapes, photographed by Barbieri, are so full of poetic aspect, that they remind of a certain Pascoli and of Montale’s sea poetry, (the light become miser and miser in the soul) and they are declining atmospheres, in interior images, where past and present dance together. On the shore of the sea. In a pink-striped violet sunset. Wilma Galluzzi journalist

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