many of my works the horizon is melted, uncertain, undone... Beyond
the smokes and the fogs of the bottom, as hedge to the sight, we
can see only with the eyes of our imagination.
the indefinite horizons there is the endlessness, the land of the
mystery and the silence, where the dreams live. There something
that overcomes the idea and the form survives, something that ourselves
unconsciously keep into the unknown land of our mind: the Poetry."
PICCHI: one of the last figurative masters of the twentieth
As a lonely artist, often misunderstood, Anchise Picchi has always escaped
the usual commercial channels of the art.
He has never leaned to external structures, political or not, in pushing
and promoting his work.
He was always faithful to a universal, autonomous and independent vision
of the art, but that hasn't prevented him, however, in seeking incessantly
new expressive means and unpublished techniques in a constant effort of
realization of his projects and ideas.
He was constantly concerned with the working world and more precisely
with the rural and farmer world, escaping yet from any demagogic way that
can shade a political intent of his work.
All his work must be mainly read, therefore, in a poetic and human key.
The country environment, the tiring work of the fields and of the countries,
the flow of the time and of the seasons have always represented, for this
artist, the principal matter of his realizations. He didn't look for any
political parties, associations, friendships or factions to introduce
and to advertise his works, in participating to artificial discussions
and dissertations on the problems of a society, ours society, that seems
really to have lost the own origins and the own roots.
He gone down, instead, with his art, in a world that often and mistaking
we likes to say "provincial". A world that well he knew and
loved and that concerns everybody too. It's from there that all we come,
and we know it well. Even if not well we know where it is that we are
He testified fondly and sincerely the work and the pain of the humble;
not with anecdotal or iconographic detached coldness, but with the warm
feeling in knowing, suffering and loving those things.
In the convulsive contemporary life we often forget a time and a place
at which we have to devote at least memory.
It wasn't a heaven the life in the fields and of the farmers, as it was
not the same the similar life of the factories and of the workshops. Too
often it was pain, it was hard work, it was poverty. However it was rarely
loneliness. It was constantly present a human dimension of the people,
of the facts, of the things that, not wrote in laws and rules, however
that world constantly felt as the principal factor of social cohesion,
as the "common glue" for all those people that shared the same
works and the same risks.
And the environment, the land was never unknown. It was never understood
like a mere frame to the life, felt scarcely and often with bother, nor
there we could take the liberty to ignore, as now, the characteristics,
the necessities, the borders, the rules.
In the art of this master it is always present a sort of painful attention
for the characters, the environment, the actions that, tied up with the
nostalgia in remembering, into the aware shiny reality of the memory and
into the light melancholy of the dream they are getting a universal, coherent
and unitary poetic dimension, they are now a historically inseparable
reality, they are a unique and eternal thing: they are the life.