by Francesco Clemente

Alessandra d’Urso belongs to a generation which, paradoxically, has been robbed of photography. Any expression has always been measured not by what it was said but by what was left unsaid. When everyone has photographed everything, what is left of thought? And without thought all things become lifeless, they lose their soul, they appear inanimate, a gaze reflecting a gaze, skin touching skin. But to Alessandra skin has always appeared not as a meaningless surface, but as a symptom of depth. In the lines of the face of a neo-punk singer, in the weave of a high fashion fabric, in the leaf of the agave, Alessandra has always seen a hidden wound. More than a wound perhaps, a bruise: that low-intensity grief which grounds life to a nameless, larger quantity, to a subterranean, fluid, unifying substance. The equivalent of the emulsion that, on the now extinct rolls of film, received and held light and shadow. This low-intensity grief is the grief of intimacy, precisely the grief that the digital universe tries to exsorcize, intimacy with oneself and with each other and with the vulnerability of everything.
Only by giving form to things, one can expose their vulnerability. But Alessandra, aware of the times she lives in, is content to express only a longing for form. The symmetries, the details of the cactus, of the agave and of the palm in her photographs are never too tight, they are left suspended, like a tender, outstretched hand, to signal that, even in the age of instagram, life
on planet hearth goes on.

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