Permanent exhibition of "Mr. Nobodies"

There is a silent army that populates the contemporary art of digital non-places: the improvised color

 “The Nobodies on Permanent Exhibition”

There is a silent army – but very noisy when it appears – that populates the contemporary art of digital non-places: the Improvised colorists . They haven't studied at academies, they haven't endured the toil of the trade, they haven't trained as critics, but they possess the only tool that transforms them into "artists": a declaration of intent .

Because today, what's needed is not the work, but the pose. What's needed is not the technique, but the proclamation.

Thus, “creatives without works”, “painters without brushes”, and “philosophers without reading” are born.

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 Self-proclamation as an artistic style

The real show is not what they hang on the wall (often photographed crooked, against the light, with a finger touching the lens), but the way in which they are they self-crowned .

They present themselves as if they had already been consecrated by non-existent critics, as if the history of art were just waiting for their providential arrival.

No biography, no documented exposition, no reviews: just a self-generated aura that stands on nothing.

They are the “kings without a kingdom” , convinced that saying “I am an artist” is enough to be one.

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 The paradox of visibility

And here is the new point, which no longer concerns social media as a tool, but the void that they make visible .

We are no longer faced with a democratization of the scene, but with a real showcase of cosmic nothingness .

These characters have a talent: they manage to transform the total absence of a path into an aesthetic identity.

They move with the confidence of those who have attended ten Biennials, but they don't even have a PDF of a neighborhood poster.

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 The grotesque attention to overlooked detail

The detail, then, is what betrays them.

The blurry photo, the work placed on a sofa, the shadow of the cell phone looming over the canvas: more than "presentations", they seem forensic findings of a crime against the eye.

Yet from that nothingness they demand considerations, evaluations, collaborations, recognition.

The problem is not the absence of solid works: it is the total lack of awareness of this absence.

An architect cannot be improvised with a sheet of squared paper, a surgeon cannot proclaim himself as such with a plastic scalpel: but the improvised artist can, because art – in the imagination of these subjects – is the only profession that does not require competence, only vanity .

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 Epilogue for the Babuino Gallery

Ultimately, the real spectacle is not what they paint or sculpt, but their method of self-presentation , which is itself a tragicomic performance.

And this teaches us one thing: art, when it's missing, can't be invented.

What remains is only a caricature of the artist, a character who has nothing to say but still claims to occupy the space of those who actually have something to say.

And so yes, contemporary art is alive, but often not in the hands of those who shout that they are .

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And now, at this point, a necessary clarification: as we write, we know well that half of those reading this has already felt called into question, and rightly so. To you, improvised masters of the digital paintbrush, we would like to remind you that a crayon found at the bottom of a drawer isn't enough to become an artist, just as a toy stethoscope isn't enough to become a surgeon.

But to the other half of the readers - the true artists —we almost feel the need to apologize.

Apologies to those who spend restless nights transforming a private pain into color, to those who try a line or a brushstroke a hundred times to express the unspeakable, to those who sacrifice time, relationships, sleep, and economic security in order to pursue the inner need to communicate.

To you, who don't proclaim yourselves geniuses because you're too busy creating, and who don't need proclamations because your works already speak for themselves.

To you, who don't take crooked photographs of canvases with your smartphone, but bend your backs to set up real exhibitions, waiting for an audience that doesn't always arrive.

We ask you, the true silent protagonists, for your understanding: yes, the article made you smile, but it wasn't directed at you. Indeed, you are the very reason it's worth defending art from the grotesque theatricality of improvisation.

So, allow us this final irony: if art is a marathon of meaning, you are the athletes who run until exhaustion. The others, our "heroes of nothingness," don't even have the bib number for the local cross-country race.

Ivano Incitti