Color In Quiet Revolt: Gianluca Lattuada Paints The Space Between
A Google Drive link is usually as thrilling as a grocery receipt. Yet the folder Gianluca Lattuada sent over cracked open like a sudden change in weather. One click filled my screen with rust-red storms, ash-soft blacks, mineral browns that looked lifted straight from the earth. The artist describes painting as “a ritual suspended between the visible and the invisible, permanence and transformation,” words that sound lofty until the images make your pulse slow before you dare to scroll further.
Lattuada starts with mineral dust and clay tones rubbed deep into raw linen. He leaves the surface to rest, then wakes it with skim-thin glaze, coaxing a buried glow to the top. What emerges feels excavated rather than brushed, like pigment uncovered at dawn. In Metamorphosis a bruised crimson presses against carbon gray until the horizon dissolves. In Zephyr pale rust drifts above a darker swell, mirage-heat corralled into stillness. Each title hints at movement, yet the work itself refuses to hurry, inviting viewers to inhabit the pause before weather turns.
Gianluca Lattuada; Photography: Melitta Photo
The portfolio reads like a travel diary without snapshots. Milan taught restraint, Madrid brought sun-bleached afternoons, and a solo show beside Maya relics in Yucatán added humid memory to the mix. Paintings now hang in Milan’s MAPP collection. None of that wanderlust crowds the images on my screen. Instead, every layer holds silence like a shell remembers the sea. Critics reach for Rothko, Tàpies, or Kiefer and the parallels track, though Lattuada borrows only their patience. Reviewers note how he “leads us into landscapes without horizon, natures in turmoil.” The turmoil never roars; it hums, steady and private, beneath the surface.
Image Source: Gianluca Lattuada
Scrolling through Primordial and Ascension I realized the paintings resist decoding. They trade the rush of the feed for a moment that feels almost clandestine. Color presses forward, recedes like breath, and without a storyline to solve I start listening instead of looking. The artist’s own line returns: “capturing the energy of dreams, a rebellion of the self against the void.”
Why does this matter now? Because art that slows you down feels quietly defiant in an age measured by refresh rates. Lattuada’s canvases remind us silence can thunder, pigment can throb on a laptop screen, and not every image needs a hot take. Hours after closing the folder I still carry the afterglow of rust sliding toward shadow, the memory of stillness collecting at the edge of my desk lamp. That resonance is the gift. Lattuada does not hand over a tidy story; he hands over room. Room to stand still, to feel color breathe, to remember that between the visible and the invisible a pulse is always waiting to be heard.
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