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TÓRBIO NICOLÒ MASIERO SGRINZATTO
20/06/2020

TÓRBIO NICOLÒ MASIERO SGRINZATTO

Galleria Ramo, Via Natta, 31, Como, returns to its physical gallery space after months of virtual visits. Now you can come along and read about Nicolò Masiero Sgrinzatto (n. 1992, Arre, Italy), whilst browsing the windows. Seeing, looking, listening and quite possibly hearing. The exhibition is similar to a country fete/ festival/fairground. The sound behind you coexists with the image that leaps in front of you. The titles of the works come from the region of Veneto, traveling in the artists luggage. Tórbio, or turbid. A clouded vision, with a clouded head, like an atomic hangover of varying degrees. Coming from “turba”, to mean disorder.

In the fray, creating something as is cannot have its own name has overturned. We call it argàgno, which means "tool", and in its etymology, a bomb. In this fairground the carousel does not work. Laying, perhaps beached, perhaps already exploded. Outside, it is composed: it does not rotate, it does not dispel the air in a centrifugal force. Enveloped, locked in a casket, it was ripped open. Inside, it is decomposed: the open wound invites your gaze to discover its anatomy, to read the signs of its entrails. Sheet metal, wood and cables. Faced with a breach the inside clearly overflows, as the eye is ready to bet on a possible explosion. But your ear carefully denies it. It is not a breath, nor a vent that hovers from the carcass. It is clearly a sucking sound, a hissing vacuum. Argàgno is the anti-carousel. It doesn't move, it inhales.

And there is no fate without shooting. ! (exclamation point) Onomatopoeia of a ball shot from a compressed air gun hits a can. Who fired? And who did he shoot? On the main wall of the gallery, four portions of recycled wooden pallets hide sensors that target visitors. The solenoids trip a sensor hitting the wood creating vibrations that are amplified. The visitor is the target, the work that preys on the visitors' gaze is actually the sharpshooter: he had already spotted you in an unsuspected time, just before you were walking by, before your nose ended up against the gallery window, he was fixed on you.

By looking around traces of shots and bursts are
scattered all over. Trying to give them a demeanor to
shape them. In fact, they retain the nature of an
explosion, but only in the end these become a form.

Examples of "gnari" clinging to the right wall, gnaroor "nest", so to speak. Black and scorpionic at first glance are remnants of blasts that occurred on the road. They are the bowels of disused and abandoned tires. Once burst it was clear what was inside. Steel cables like skeletons, like veins, like nerves. Reassembled, styled, arranged. But the nerves remain nervy: however, you may try to tame them they will never be domesticated.

Taming an outbreak is a beautiful exercise. Trying to stop it, to see what shape it has. On the counter- façade of the gallery, there is an example that has taken the title sbaro. Natural pigment released from a specific height above a white sheet. First explosion,

then black powder. The shape can be seen, captured on
paper. But to see it, it must be fixed, it is an
imprint. The more intense light is captured by a solar
panel. It activates a small component borrowed from a
cell phone. It vibrates and beats the color onto the
paper, depended on the strength of the glow that feeds
it. The artist can almost raise his hands, mimicking
his innocence: it is the light that carves, that
impresses.

And the light, as author inspires true confidence in Nicolò Masiero Sgrinzatto, as it creates imprecise notes for him. MDF panels placed in the sun with a magnifying glass act as a support, as a technical tool. Light digs the surface. Brusa, signifies a Venetian gentleman walking in front of the study with his finger pointed on the panel. He senses that Nicolò is in there, at work. The hours pass, the Sun moves, the Earth moves. The light "burns" and writes, a trace of the time that the artist spends in the studio, of the time that flows outside the studio. It keeps track of the day dedicated to research. Then the darkness falls and the work stops. The collected panels return to the warehouse as pages of a logbook. Footprints of the light that illuminated the artist's nest, displayed on the left wall of the gallery, where the light in Como does not shine from behind you as you enter.

The noise of the exhibition, like the sound of a festival/fairground, is a little dense and a little rarefied. The shots, the bangs, the crashes and the sounds of a carousel are added together. Noise samples you distinguish, but not catalog. Looking around, where is the source? Acousmatic voices, vocal cords without a body. A heap, a múcio of sounds, music and verses. Twenty-four hours of audio tracks from Instagram Stories published by the artist's contacts, recorded only when he came across them. In the "pile" there are also silences, pauses and stillness. In the time it takes to watch the stories, what effect does it have when you just listen to the stories?

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