"The trip"

Maupassant said that travel is a kind of doorway through which you exit from reality to penetrate unexplored reality that seems a dream. We wonder if the "trip" di Giulietta Cavallotti have as their goal a "dream", though his paintings gathered under this title flee from everyday life to penetrate and inhabit a dreamscape, and ideals. And the answer is not immediate or obvious. In fact the paintings of Roman art exhibited here might seem at the same time an invitation to stay, so to speak with their feet firmly planted on earth, to observe what happens around us, as if everything around us in the concrete was already in themselves on account of abundant and varied, of narration and commentary, without the need to aim for the elusive and ephemeral world of imagination and fantasy. But they are also paintings that evolve from within, from the realistic given the cloak, quickens and enlivens, a feeling at times indecipherable lyric inspiration: an eagerness to grasp and express the mysterious path that those trains do in our souls: souls already waiting on the platforms of those stations.
"The journey" of Cavallotti thus has two floors of reading, neither one overpowers the other but the one developed in harmony and symbiosis with each other. From here you say that the colors of a photograph of a faithful and charming interior with all melancholy and solid tangible signs of a segment of the metropolis, of a building, the same endless tracks, a snowy landscape, which mysteriously turns now elegy demure, in a shadowy part of denial, retreating into a silent and modest soul, now in a burst of energy, in a sort of sudden redemption by suffering and iniquity of life that lie in ambush and strike us blindly, or worse, maliciously unannounced.
In this way, here is the empty spaces of those stations, but as people crowded silently by endless rows of sad memories, and those lights that flood twilight and break the walls, architecture, urban outlook to become the sign of pain (and even respect) to a life without pain medication. But here also the spiral of violence and a ghostly tunnel, the mad turmoil of chaos that makes electric backdrop for the tops of skyscrapers metropolitan un'affastellato glimpse of glittering billboards to signify the ramshackle vanity and stupidity of our civilization on edge of the abyss. Are slogans, symbols, warnings of an extraordinary expressive value, in which there is a sense of sadness and the absence aforesaid Feral, but the energetic rebellion, a figure almost sculptural in a world so shameless and toxic as foolish and inhumane.
It starts at the same time there moves. He boards the train and the train will not start. You travel and you get stuck with the constant jumble of contradictions that we tie up and paralyze the senses. The tracks lie there, for the consumption of trains thrown away. No voices, no whistles, no screeching .... Only "breaks" in the service of nothing is nourished in their own station. Yet look at how sometimes the sky shines with a blue angiolesco. E 'sarcasm? Hoax? Innocence ?.... Meanwhile, down you're building a new station. Ask the Cavallotti if we are dealing with an exact copy of lying, or our own hallucination, oal'ineluttabile law of nature, which wants nothing perish: even if it's None