The scene of the crime is a white room. A small white room, vividly lived, each inch of the walls almost scratched, as if tormented by a hand. Yet, itís only a white room. Like an artistís studio, or a gallery space.
What is the crime, then? The crime is the room itself, with those white hard dirty walls to resemble almost a prison.
Federico Solmiís small paper paintings are all little psychotic pieces of the same puzzle, a puzzle that torments him and will probably never be finished. The studio.
The studio as the artistsí head, conceptually bare but, looking closely, filled of his presence with all its tragedy. Itís a tragedy slowly consumed within the artistís head, an inner claustrophobia that screams of a new existentialism to oppose this surreal political times where good or bad, truth or falsity are merely decided by the media.
Thereís no sign of the media, no sign of our time in Solmiís obsessively scratched papers, just an illegible sentenced softly written by the artist in red. Hard to decipher, it says something about not trusting anyone, but paradoxically, it can just be a hopeful presence of color. Red, nevertheless, in an almost completely white background. Again, a conceptual background within the forceful black lines of the corners of the room.
What weíre facing here is a solemn statement of not belonging.
Federico Solmi takes and makes his the whole history of art but, with passionate detachment, silently screams there is no place left for art in this world.
Stefano Pasquini 2002