{"version":"1.0","provider_name":"Concetto Pozzati","provider_url":"https:\/\/concettopozzati.com\/en\/","author_name":"admin","author_url":"https:\/\/concettopozzati.com\/en\/author\/admin\/","title":"At my home - Concetto Pozzati","type":"rich","width":600,"height":338,"html":"<blockquote class=\"wp-embedded-content\" data-secret=\"P2MjTtj7F4\"><a href=\"https:\/\/concettopozzati.com\/en\/a-casa-mia\/\">At my home<\/a><\/blockquote><iframe sandbox=\"allow-scripts\" security=\"restricted\" src=\"https:\/\/concettopozzati.com\/en\/a-casa-mia\/embed\/#?secret=P2MjTtj7F4\" width=\"600\" height=\"338\" title=\"&#8220;At my home&#8221; &#8212; Concetto Pozzati\" data-secret=\"P2MjTtj7F4\" frameborder=\"0\" marginwidth=\"0\" marginheight=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\" class=\"wp-embedded-content\"><\/iframe><script type=\"text\/javascript\">\n\/*! This file is auto-generated *\/\n!function(c,d){\"use strict\";var e=!1,o=!1;if(d.querySelector)if(c.addEventListener)e=!0;if(c.wp=c.wp||{},c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage);else if(c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if(!t);else if(!(t.secret||t.message||t.value));else if(\/[^a-zA-Z0-9]\/.test(t.secret));else{for(var r,s,a,i=d.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),n=d.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),o=new RegExp(\"^https?:$\",\"i\"),l=0;l<n.length;l++)n[l].style.display=\"none\";for(l=0;l<i.length;l++)if(r=i[l],e.source!==r.contentWindow);else{if(r.removeAttribute(\"style\"),\"height\"===t.message){if(1e3<(s=parseInt(t.value,10)))s=1e3;else if(~~s<200)s=200;r.height=s}if(\"link\"===t.message)if(s=d.createElement(\"a\"),a=d.createElement(\"a\"),s.href=r.getAttribute(\"src\"),a.href=t.value,!o.test(a.protocol));else if(a.host===s.host)if(d.activeElement===r)c.top.location.href=t.value}}},e)c.addEventListener(\"message\",c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),d.addEventListener(\"DOMContentLoaded\",t,!1),c.addEventListener(\"load\",t,!1);function t(){if(o);else{o=!0;for(var e,t,r,s=-1!==navigator.appVersion.indexOf(\"MSIE 10\"),a=!!navigator.userAgent.match(\/Trident.*rv:11\\.\/),i=d.querySelectorAll(\"iframe.wp-embedded-content\"),n=0;n<i.length;n++){if(!(r=(t=i[n]).getAttribute(\"data-secret\")))r=Math.random().toString(36).substr(2,10),t.src+=\"#?secret=\"+r,t.setAttribute(\"data-secret\",r);if(s||a)(e=t.cloneNode(!0)).removeAttribute(\"security\"),t.parentNode.replaceChild(e,t);t.contentWindow.postMessage({message:\"ready\",secret:r},\"*\")}}}}(window,document);\n<\/script>\n","description":"[vc_row css_animation=&#8221;&#8221; row_type=&#8221;row&#8221; use_row_as_full_screen_section=&#8221;no&#8221; type=&#8221;full_width&#8221; angled_section=&#8221;no&#8221; text_align=&#8221;left&#8221; background_image_as_pattern=&#8221;without_pattern&#8221;][vc_column][vc_column_text] It&#8217;s an invitation to come and visit me, to discover my hidden realm&#8230; &nbsp; Globalization has swallowed up all that is private and all forms, as well as genres, seem the same, falsely identical. I ask for nothing spectacular, nothing public, nothing sociological, nothing sensational. I look at a shelf and discover an object, I open a closet and see a jacket I don&#8217;t wear. I look for my shoes and &#8220;read&#8221; many different pairs. &nbsp; It is a going backwards in time; I am isolated among my things wich sooner or later will disappear. I see things of yesterday, but with the eyes of today. A waistcoat, a shirt, unworn ties, an amphora, an archeological find, clogs, orthopedic shoes,\u00a0blouses, smocks, bags, cofee-markers. I turn on myself; it is the terror of being alone painting these objects. I understand my unspoken words, I understand my shame, I understand their silence intertwined with my solitude&#8230; It is lonely, looking inside oneself, depriving oneself in ever-greater measure. Keys, locks, mannequins&#8230; but if I paint this jacket it is no longer yours&#8230; I steal the private part of you and so you cling to your trade, to memory, to affection. In the preface to the previous cycle &#8220;Goodbye Roberta&#8221;, dedicated to my wife, Boatto wrote: &#8220;A man has lost his woman, his bride&#8230; In his loss, the man feels the painful fill of emptiness&#8221;. That man is a painter, and he is no longer satisfied with estranging, alienating the thing, the object. In an almost painstaking fashion, in the style of Hogarth, he can no longer save himself with irony, even if he arranges bags in fabric and leather, green rubber hospital clogs, a barber&#8217;s brush, a coffee-maker which he must now, by himself, learn to use, at least to make himself a coffee. He attempts symbolic paintings dedicated to those who were still to receive the impossible invitation. The entire cycle is entitled &#8220;At my Home&#8221; with the number 6 clearly visible, because this is the street number of the painter&#8217;s home. They are sad paintings, charged with melancholy, where not even the desired private realm can be saved, because it has been infected by solitude, abandonment, and by an increasingly indifferent outside world, where no-one &#8220;blushes&#8221; any longer, where everyone prohibits someone from doing something. And to think we said it was &#8220;forbidden to forbid&#8221;&#8230; even in painting. The paintings lie between representation and presentation, where extreme languages converge, and it is for this very reason that they mark the beginning of a climate of truth. Perhaps they still risk over-dramatization, but their aim is to be a humble, painful diary, which still..."}