A poet of the soul

“Beauty will save the world” claimed the great Dostoyevsky. It was not only an aesthetic affirmation. Art, in its expressive power is emotion and reflection of the mystery, but it is also the memory of peoples. Is the art that portrays the history, that intercepts the passions and humors and return it to the people as a conscience to keep getting raises. The iconography of the great mother Russia was the benchmark which go with the desperate nights in memory of exile many persecuted in that country. In this sense, art is the highest form of politics and the larger moral heritage of a nation, with all evocative strength.

What would become of our national identity without Giotto, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Caravaggio Segantini, Casorati, Morandi, De Pisis, just to mention a few names? And what would a company that hadn't a chance to soar above the aridity of the newspaper, to breathe the dream within which introduces us to the beauty?

It is said that every artistic expression is the liberation of the imagination in the sense of an unveiling of the historical situation, but also a great act of imagination, because the projection and promotion of fragments of goodness, love and beauty, scattered in history.

In this sense, art is a precise theological significance. It is the creative Beauty of mediation that reveals the creatures and the beauty of things. The artist, as the poet, conscious or unconscious is a contemplative, who knows where the eye of the ordinary people cannot see, it’s able to return to the world a message given just for the knowledge and the benefit of many. Exactly how does the scientist, painter, sculptor, musician and anyone with a particular charism, that is a special gift that, according to the etymology of the word charis, is pure benevolence and pure love. The artist is also a great pedagogue, a master capable of awakening the truth of beauty in the rough areas of a company often edged in the Babel of tormented everyday. Without art we would be condemned to hopelessness and despair is often only the art to allow you to fly in the infinite hope, as the promise of a new and possible tomorrow. Children's drawings and interned in concentration camps are there to testify that artistic creation was only able to return fragments of transcendence in the night in which the ideology had led the world.

We must be grateful to all the artists. Regardless of notoriety from the market quotation that manages them, by media resonance. These are human devices that do not touch the essence of their work, which is always the sign of a flowering of the soul, feeling and of the mysterious that it imposes on data technology and cool pragmatism.

I met some years ago Pippo Borrello. Even before his person had known his works. From the profane, as I am, I evoked an assonance with the modern liberty. Those lines ever dome never harnessed in some corner of arrest, looked like a sort of way, full of color and motion, ready to creep and explore the Prairie of life and creation. Yet, in spite of a modern and personal trait that eludes every cataloging, it was anything but an abstract. The figurative in Pippo Borrello is always in the background, both describing a piece of sea that cast a sacred scene. But it is a plastic background who knocks at the door timidly, interpreted by the vivacity of a brush of a thousand colours that does not arise, as the borders palette of a child who refuses the canons of the Academy, because free inwardly. Classicism and modernity imposes in Borrello as the Union between a feel of old soul and modernity of sudden, like a headlong rush towards spaces of freedom.

I talked about the baby, and it is really to the baby, said with absolute respect, who the man Borrello remember in its transparent and disarming humanity. Almost as if his art went to draw in a mind that never ceased to believe in the beauty, to hope and believe in the larger values, in Absolute value, such as friendship, nostalgic for the land and in the secret of dreams. A simple man or, if you will, with the elegance of past times, but still capable of being eternally young, with the freshness of the art that flows into him like a brightly colored Argentinians clear source.