Taken from the text:

Marco Di Capua
The nature inside

…Enzo Scolamiero belongs to the rank of those for who feeling also means knowing and creating. There aren’t many of them, believe me. His paintings are equivalent to antennae emitting and receiving a raft of aesthetic, stylistic and, above all, emotional, existential signals: elastic, multiple condensations on a plane of narrations captured and carried out on various levels, visual evocations of sounds. Are his paintings resonances? Which is maybe why we also get the impression of contemplating slides, inclined spaces of a passage, almost as if they were take-off and landing strips. So, there they are, the trajectories of a variable pitch flight that cleaves the skin of the paintings in more than one direction, whose transience does not stop us from focussing with precision on certain details, almost always natural. I don’t know. It’s a sensation that I immediately passed on to Enzo, who said I was right, remembering certain paintings, vine branches and others that, like an imprinting, he observed on the walls of his home when he was a young boy. There’s not one of his paintings that doesn’t make me think of frames of domes and flashes of frescoes from the late baroque seen in haste and from below looking up, marvelling. From one moment to the next I expect to see toddling cupids, and the scene wouldn’t surprise me. The show we now have before our eyes poses a classic theme: what is the relationship between two artists of very different generations, yet who both seem to rotate around the same thematic fulcrums? Such as silence, a special nothing, variously articulated, declined, modulated, and with a certain Orient in the light gestures and in letting go, in knowing how to let go… The dynamic of art, I repeat, is not a line, but is composed of circles and of various dimensions. It seems as if all is lost. The probe is no longer visible. And yet there certain threads hang down, some grasp the summit, and all is found again. This is how it is for Sadun and Scolamiero. So, we seek other assonances, or even a rhyme. What did the title say? Take nature, then, because both artists think about it a lot – in their own way, although they do – despite every conceptual tension, every radical abstraction. On the other hand, there’s a message that concerns the hours, the skies, the seasons, which both Piero and Enzo constantly place in front of us. In his finale Sadun recovers nature and the memory he had of the earth under various layers of stupendous colours, pink, ochre, blacks, as if suffocating them with tenderness and solemnity. But, indeed, for him it was if he were holding them in, inside a painting packed with touches and the obstinate pressure of fingers – this is the sensation – the essence, the feeling, perhaps a nostalgia for things lost. Scolamiero, more declaredly, officiates the cult, seems to throw spaces open, cutting them, slicing them on planes, weaving and embroidering them like valuable fabrics (laces?) and finally leafing through them as one does with books, until they penetrate you in flurries and you breathe better. This occurs when the painter exhibits it in direct light, in a kind of glow of gold, but also when he consecrates legacies and fragments of it in the dark, as if protecting secrets. It is – again – what remains of the day, and of the night.