Lorenzo, like the architect, he says in a whisper, shows me a video of Niccolò dell’ Arca’s life-size Pieta in the Church of Santa Maria della Vita in Bologna. It’s a terracotta scene, with unbearable expressions on the women’s faces: kinetic growls, anger, keening, the drapes catching disbelief and grief in their folds, while John the Apostle’s posture seems oddly serene, and a large patron, posing as Joseph of Arimathea, kneels, looking straight at us.
Lorenzo, who wears rolled-up trousers and red socks–Italians do have a fetish for red socks– is excited to talk about Morandi next and out go photos of the artist’s studio in Bologna, a city where all house curtains are red to offset the bricks, he explains. The studio is sparse, but the artist’s brushes and palettes are displayed about the room, and we are moved by the scene, more serene that the Pieta I say with relief, that reminds us of one of his bottle paintings. Morandi is still niche, we conclude, and this is a small act of collective worship.
The gallery smells of almond and the empty Ikea frames in the toilets are the same as in the National Portrait Gallery’s (I take photos to be sure). Giuseppe Penone’s last sculpture stands outside the entrance, gilded in the pale sunlight, the tree-like piece arranged on top of the grass. Is that tiny branch to the left of the trunk part of the artwork? I go back inside to ask, but nobody seems to know.
.
Mélisande Fitzsimons
.