Alessandro Bini
PAINTER
I imagine everyone has their own reasons for why they paint or draw. For me, it’s a bit like explaining why people play.
You play because, usually, playing is fun, right? I paint because, generally speaking, I enjoy it. Of course, the idea of fun is a broad one. It doesn’t necessarily mean laughter; sometimes, as in this case, it has more to do with the satisfaction of achieving something as close as possible to how you envisioned it. So, if you like, you could say it’s closer to pleasure or delight. A simple reason, in the end. Though not the only one.
The other, more serious reason, I think, is that painting helps me express a part of my curiosity about the world that I don’t express through writing—my other, earlier form of expression.
Much has already been said about the difference between painting and writing as expressive media. Writing follows a code made up of precise signs; it is complex, structured. The intention to communicate passes through something that must also be reflected upon and rationalized. Painting, on the other hand, can be entirely instinctive—it depends on one’s personal style—but generally has a more immediate and purely aesthetic component. For that reason, at least in my mind, it’s closer—again—to the idea of play.
That’s not to say painting has no rules; I’m a figurative artist, so I try to respect proportions and shapes as I observe them.
But in this attempt to depict the world, I like to include something odd, something unusual. Something always possible in theory, but out of context. And there you have another element of play: surprise.
An alien taking part in a sprint race with human runners, or a large lizard dressed up and running on a beach alongside nineteenth-century figures—these are things that unsettle and amuse, that create unease without being disturbing. Because, in this game, I don’t want to unsettle anyone. Absolutely not. We already have more than enough things that disturb us, that agitate us, that strain to provoke anxiety. And they haven’t done us any good—that seems fairly clear by now. We are a society of mentally shaken people trying to appear stable, but we’re not. Maybe we’ll never regain our balance—for a thousand sad reasons that I try to explore through writing—but it certainly won’t be through more anguish that we do so.
That’s not what I’m after. I try to make those who look at my paintings feel a little wonder, to draw a smile, or at most a slight unease—light, fleeting. I want my paintings, in the end, to bring a sense of calm.
A consoling painting, then? Therapeutic? Perhaps. Of course, each viewer will feel something of their own—something personal and unique. But it’s unlikely that their mood will darken while looking at one of my paintings. So, a kind-hearted painting, you could say. But not a trivial one, I hope. Because what is trivial is never truly fun.
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