The works by the Pesaro artist Gabriele Arruzzo depict the feverish mind raised in the light of Catholicism. As any religion, it is the mechanism for enslavement of the natural human beast, so the Catholicism gives birth to a locked room where its meek adepts are supposed to drain their maimed predator’s blood to. The occult blackness of human hearts is chained here, together with the most sincere, beautiful, and thus criminal wishes, and impulses.
A room like this exists in each one of us who had grown up in the cradle of the old world. This is how this special tension is born, the spasm of space that is barely perceptible yet disturbing, which is characteristic of, say, Southern Italy’s provinces where the heated maritime Eros has been alienated by the Cerberus of conservatism for centuries. As a result, there are tangible squiggles of internal deviation seen behind this image of feigned propriety.
Arruzzo tears all seals from his room, and finds himself in a densely populated nightmare of a postmodernist Catholic. The wax of melting candle looks like purulent semen, a bishop caresses child’s breast, and there assassins, dictators, and Christ’s maws in the trees. Pierced flesh soars, beast-headed corpses are shrouded in snails’ nipples, rituals here never end, and hungry altars stand in the gloom.