Adrianne Gallinari
Agnaldo Farias
The huge drawing made with a variety of pencils on fabric that Adrianne Gallinari hung on the largest wall of Roberto Alban Gallery, almost occupying it entirely, reveals her desire to make a point in her first solo show in the gallery: the drawing is her starting point. Always. Even when surrounded by paintings of soft and light colors, misted landscapes, or lighted, awakened by the morning sun or, still, resisting the farewell of the light, when the night comes, even then, the drawing speaks louder, because in these paintings it is still the protagonist.
Adrianne belongs to the most refined lineage of the Brazilian graphic tradition, the one that goes back to Alberto da Veiga Guignard, founder of the renowned school of Belo Horizonte that is named after him, where she graduated in the end of the 1980s; whose legacy flourished by the hand of Amilcar de Castro, her teacher, among so many other masters and colleagues occupied in showing the power of a hard graphite pencil – for example, a 7H, Guignard’s favorite – in the irruption of worlds.
Come, reader, let your eyes wander slowly through this drawing, because its size requires that we walk along it, note the mosaic of meshes forming a possible landscape, maybe a map of the air currents that inhabit the atmosphere, although we insist in thinking them invisible. To Adriane, even "the words are drawings", if not only for the fact that they are sounds produced by the vocal cords that propagate in waves, causing molecular clashes imperceptible to the naked eye for most of us, but not to the artist. For her, everything that exists creates an energy field, rubs the things around, the surroundings, and is rubbed by it. The white fabric hung on the wall is diaphanous, a sail that fills with wind like sheets on clotheslines, an object in some way similar to the air that surrounds us.
Now, follow to the paintings, note the delicate violence of the thin stems of the flowers conquering gravity, of the irregular trunks of the trees topped by tufts of foliage; pay attention to the calm, but firm lines that separate the back of the rocks, hills and mountains from the sky, the sea, the world that, as Caymmi once sung, "ends where the eye can’t see". And perceive the way how the artist gets that the world, or what we call world, is a game played between lines and colors. As such, abstract. Abstract? I don’t know. Tell me if you don’t feel like living in these landscapes?