His painting is composed of the chapters of a visual novel that unfolds according to an intricate plot of themes and subjects, in a poetic and wise development connected to a modern rhythmic value, in tune with the development of an imaginary intuition, always suspended in continuous changes that graft onto one another, but then find their own balance. Everything becomes flatter, slower, and lends itself better to a mediated visibility, which allows for the evening of judgment and the judgment of the evening. I am speaking of the human, cultural, and pictorial journey of Andrea Volo, which lends itself to anything except a quick summary, given its many convexities and concavities. For this reason, it must be navigated like a labyrinthine practice, where everything that appears immediate is specular, reflected in the mental sense, while the mediated is sensual. What remains is soft, ethereal, meditative, in shadow or even in darkness, a complex triumph. The itinerary is Pirandellian: a Sicilian biography in Germany and Italy – Palermo, Munich, Vienna, Rome – with a mix of original passion and Teutonic speculation. It traverses all the contemporary issues that, at the beginning of the Sixties of the Twentieth Century, were very much alive and made the ridge between the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth centuries fiercely debated, discussed, and loved, much more than it seems now.
There is no doubt that the communicating vessels of his life (but also of ours and everyone else's) do not allow for mechanical bulkheads, and that our mind is Freudianly a sponge, at least as long as it is soft: both infiltrate without ceremony, between piercing solar rays and violet twilight. Then everything stiffens, becomes repetition and useless destruction of language – but we won't talk about that, it doesn't belong to this incessant artistic enigma. We are interested in the biology and biography which, in Andrea Volo, never finds a sunset: everything seems to fly in a grand afternoon where the rays are no longer perpendicular, and the light becomes a admirable compendium of a thousand shades, which regulate complexity, solitude, thoughts, nothingness. In his work, as in the enigmatic nature of his gaze, reigns a grand theatre in which many are actors and extras, near and far in space-time, with gigantic proportions, like those of Musil, Freud, Schiele, Grosz, with a touch of Maccari. And Shahan, Corinth, Artaud, Beckmann are also present, making him a fertile yet unsettling antagonist and anachronist, of a subtle painting bordered at the edges, closer to the Florentine tradition than to the tonal Venetian one. We find him strongly in an essence of metaphysics of drawing, astral par excellence, tending towards a continuous discovery of the laws of seeing and thinking, as much as in the more intricate ones of falling in love and passion, capable of giving life, together, to creativity. This is, in fact, a traumatic invention that grows upon itself: a praise of solitude and silence which, the more it is so, the more it is capable of weaving the real (not reality, which is unattainable) with mythologems, making them works that engage heart and mind for a lifetime.
KLESSIDRA | EDITED BY FRANCESCO GALLO MAZZEO
Italiano 
English (UK)