Marco Goldin, Pitture, Milan 1996
The human and poetic adventure of Enrico Lombardi is nobly embroiled in the bewildering cause of humanity, and his painting touches points of evident allusion to an uncommon dimension of awareness. But because of the certainty that his painting provides, in the finest examples, of not being word but image, Lombardi has the instinct of a true poet. He seeks the marvelous inside and outside us, explores space without letting himself be overwhelmed by it and not dominating it either. He gives his pictures a classical measure that comes from a reconnaissance of space which is not just physical, in part because of the critical coordinates that he himself has laid down, linked to the names of Fra Angelico and Giorgio Morandi. And already, said like this, these names bear witness to a desire for purity and perfection, for a move toward the immense by the only route possible, that of everyday things. It is that metaphysics of the everyday which then opens up into some truly beautiful images, as in that emblematic picture of 1995 entitled Passing High. In it we find Lombardi’s whole story written and concentrated; the stony roughness of his polished mountains, the nothing of the time to which they lead, the nothing of the space in front of which they stand, the now shady now bright light of an ashen yellow, the solitary trees as an invitation to cross the boundary, the boundary that shows itself to be crossable on every side. And the silence of the solitude, the silence of the last hour, or perhaps not, barely under the sign of the provisional, of doubt. They are pictures that do not accept explanations and live solely by their incandescent, transparent purity, by the shifting of the light on the landscape of the soul, which is an invention free from the bonds of memories. Nature as a piece of cellophane, with Giottesque trees and the glassy balancing of the mountains. All traversed by paths, invaded by water, encircled by the dispersion of the evening. No one walks there, but it is a nature that will accommodate humanity as in a coffin of glass, keeping its forms unaltered.