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Normally, almost by certified habit, when one "has" to speak of an artist, one does so by ransacking his own method of expression. Searching amongst the folds of his own works for reason and above all trying not to disturb with too penetrating an exam, the world which he intends to construct; be it fruit of a pure spirit or only surreptitious compliance with the fashion and his ultimate aim is to earn not so much ephemeral glory, but the substantial and not to be disdained fees. This mnemonic condition is the cause of its own downfall and forces he who has the pen to become the instrument itself, repeating in stereotypic phrases that which has already been said and in summary contradicting it all. What results, more often than not, is a worn out anthem about so and so, who uses paints and brushes, and therefore can't be anything but a painter.
In Enzo Santìni's case this is all irrelevant. Santini is not a painter to be observed at work. He should be dissected piece by piece. Seeking to place him in the corner of a bare and unfurnished cell, at one time a recess far Trappist monks and there, induce him to unveil himself; to show us that kaleidoscope of images, of colours and of thoughts that ooze from his canvases, so pleasurably capable and yet cherishing that something which verges on the profane, leaving him perplexed if he doesn't succeed in extrapolating the molecule of knowledge that is the very soul of his work. Enzo Santini is extremely enjoyable, his work contrasts with that of so many other contemporary artists and consents to a slow absorption; sweetly penetrating even when depicting the "French Revolution" in all the crudeness of its historical period; in all its horror and its apparent triumph.
In the meantime it casually moves us, although still sceptical, to profound admiration before the mystical exaltation of Saint Catherine; who Santini considers to be a sister. It is almost as if she were still present in a convent of today's times, operating within the still existing dichotomy between the prevalently ignorant masses and those who, in front of a painting, are still able to sit down and far long poignant minutes attempt, at times with success, to absorb its impulses. "Absorbing" Santini, brings to mind the verses of M.G. Parri, "I return to my land / where the trees are alive / and the torrents come down / upon the stones old of age...". In the encaustic paintings of Enzo, in the splendid Palio that enhances the "rooms" of Aquila, in honour of those who bring him to paint; (I'm thinking of Sano di Pietro and of Duccio), in all that he paints and in all that he does in his daily life, Santini remains a youth. Quick to learn, again and again. He challenges C. Pavese, "There remains of that before time of memories but a vague recollection". No! Enzo is at the antipodes of such melancholy. Quite the opposite of being vague, his memory is forever sharper and more incisive. He knowingly adapts to the "computer civilisation" (?) of the present, of which he will never however be a follower. On the path to an art which, for some time now, has opened the way towards patriotic boundaries, Santini soaks himself in the altars of the old and new worlds, his shadiness made up of explosions of colour, of silent suffused moonlight and of terrifying warriors who are never "on guard". And he is not able to speak of them, he suffers from the phobia of speaking out loud. He fears that talking of himself, he will become flustered and delegates the elaboration of his artistic expression to those who, in contrast if they could, would like to say much, much more, but who can't find the words to do so!