The rhythm is precise and constant. The swing floats and insisted: margins are polar opposites and contradictory. Humility on the one hand, awareness on the other. Research and, opposite, complacency. And all translated in painting, the measure, the effort, the moment; and before the pleasure of the brain, the silent continuity without forcing the horizon.
Bertacco could flex the custom and push aside the curtain of the art capital, the one who rises and stands, spellbinding silence. Every day could be the first billboard. The spotlights accenderebbero of a sudden, the theater would be different, the audience in silent sigh: everything better than the applause for the reinterpretation of the replica.
And the audience of admirers waiting Titian, perhaps for a morning or a night, after heated discussions with the friend who wrote to him, to see that work, one that can, that will paint, to take him in her arms as pampering , for the tribute to the great success that it recognizes, the generations that older time and hinder the pace, bound and entwined in a closed society in meandrimanette.
The novel of his characters, made of faces and veils, hinged on pages live voltage, always bound by the clock of existence, tells the chapters of attention sensitive, became anthology of songs of life and turns of our identifying themselves already lived.
And as a young author expects the book mature Bertacco from the moment of momentum without distraction, works without hesitation, force everything.
Art and liberty; but estimate is reasonable. And the appreciation implies then request as a right.
And it inspires you care, it does not matter: we were not, it would still be the time.