The muted still-lifes of Giorgio Morandi speak of some private drama and the deliberations may not be noticed by us; at least, not at first, writes Crystal Lindsay
One is bound to wonder whether his soldier's breakdown in the First World War did not force the questioning of an objective reality ('nothing more surreal') when only the futility of individual action can have seemed certain.
Boxes, bowls, bottles, primed of their identities, regroup compulsively as the known table top threatens a yawning edge and the horizon fluctuates alarmingly like some engulfing flood.
Claiming 'real art' out of 'abstract reality' emerges almost as a process of surrender and recovery; one hopes the living became easier too.
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