I close my eyes for a moment and see myself as a child, with all my world in my heart and without words to say it, all the colors of the fields, the perfumes, the people of the earth. Land that has never betrayed and still bears. It had been normal to steal the coppery and color the old wall, to try the color of the pollen, the elderberry juice, the husk, the sulfur, until everything was gradually brought over the canvas. Up to telling the sweetness that I lived, the sincerity that I listened to, the harmony breathed. Thus my paintings have become stories, tales of earth and sky, of air and water, of people and of life. Land that still excites me every time it changes hands, because it smells of sweat and fatigue, of wheat and vineyards. Nobody thinks about it but we are like wheat and vineyards, the aroma of time. They tell of us in the metaphors of signs, in the spaces of the masses, in the pain of scratches, in the harmonies of the balances, in the rough word of the mixtures and colors. They tell the beauty of feelings, the streets full of stones, the bewilderments, the dormant values, the memories left behind, this time of maybe...

Giancarlo Frisoni's poetics tells the life that comes from the earth, from the fields, where you can read a wisdom that is not bookish and, however, it comes from a deep intuition, as in an experience lived in the primordial dimension, almost out of time yet aware of the time marked by nature. A story without words that the poet artist strives to seek, to say what has already been said since the beginning of the Being, but it must be told to those who have not seen it, to those who cannot perceive it because they are too trapped by the modern noise of technology.

Aorgic nature is infinite, unpredictable, panic power.

Frisoni is a poet before an artist, Frisoni is a farmer before a poet, Frisoni is a simple man who manages to express the complexity and magmatism of nature, with the finesse that only those who have the gift of listening to the echo of the sublime can manifest. Those who seek the echo of the sublime will find it because they will read my human soul, my catharsis. On a journey that every time offers something unseen and gradually releases the message of a farmer who knows how to hoe again and read the poetry of the trees, who listens to the wind and he his peace inside. Who knows he is like the grass that lives in the wall.

Messages? Secrets? Other truths? What does it hide, what does a painting want to tell us? Time is short, but the trace remains, and we return to the maze of enigma, bewilderment ...