Eliminating “the psychology of the ego”: here is one of the numerous, prophetic and stimulating suggestions on which Filippo Tommaso Marinetti insisted since his first Manifestos. It had to be eliminated from literature, but it had to be intended from art too. This man, whose amazing skill to prophesy the avant-garde movements seems by now to be fully acknowledged with his recent centenary, after the manifold accusations and tribulations his name was put through – but we have to consider also those who pointed it out many years ago as I did first – met by this suggestion another goal, though it has never explicitly been acknowledged. However, on second thoughts, , which had been popular at least for all the Fifties (lyricisms, confessions, existentialisms, angst exhibit, digs in one’s own depths) has been out of fashion for quite a long time in the forthcoming art and in present art in particular.
There is always an “ego” speaking in the art, obviously: however this is not any longer an “ego” speaking of itself, but an interpersonal, social, collective “ego” which delivers a vision of the world, although often in controversy with another “ego”, a collective “ego”, widely antagonist, unable to communicate, which hands down its sentence and gives its opinion of contrast, contempt, distance, despair, mistrust (only in superficial cases of satisfied optimism) towards a leper world. This same opinion can be implied also by those who, such as Francesca Leone, point out noble positive profiles, though inevitably blurred in a tormented, hindered, even inhibited to cross a clear and limpid horizon and involved in a strained disrepair of shadows.
How many flight accidents do we remember! However the latest one, the Airbus sunk in the Atlantic Ocean, obscurely stroke my fantasy; certainly because of the mystery which accompanied the silent disappearing, even if tomorrow the causes will be cleared up. However, while I’m writing, this mystery engages my mind in its physical depth; it caused a dream to me, I saw those faces immersed in a muddy endlessness, from where they troubled to emerge, continuously crossed by seesaw deletions, then when I woke up I recognised those faces in the pictures I saw in the catalogues of Francesca Leone works: as if they were groping amongst black strainings, faces expressing high values but retained in the lure of invasive signs.
The paintings by Francesca Leone are already topical because of her courage not to chase away from her eyes the images, such as tiresome flies, and even the painting, which she does not feel as a negative alternative to more modern and longer used techniques for images construction, but as complementary and akin to the shapes framed by the view- finder, interchangeable and blended with them in the unity of white and black or of colours, functional to carry those fuzzy ones out, those deletions suggested by the floating of the heroic image in the infected tide, those cuts of the shot that exalt the resistance of the fragment.
In her less recent works I’d say that Francesca had enhanced the flow, the runaway slipping out of the images going in and out of the frame, by leaving heavy brushstrokes of black, white, red crossed with yellow. Not faces but full shots, often simple traces or reflex of bodies, left as a shadow while crossing the urban fabric; smoky metropolis of exhalations and clouds ￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼amongst red-stained buildings. The same red as that of the whirling and fuzzy dresses of recent monks and bonzes, wavering as hopeful flags. Or indecipherable turmoils of shadows, that whisk and scatter the image. Three muffled faces from where eyes are peering at. Faces, here are the accustomed
cuts, the quivering portions, that vanish in a black dust, in a last lunge of the debacle, that however (perhaps) will manage to recover and exorcize?