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If Morandi had a predilection for the fragile transparence of his empty bottles, Cesare Bruno lines his chairs up as if they were the characters of one of Jonesco’s or Beckett's comedies: his chairs portray the theatre of absurd transposed on canvas. These chairs, with their high shoulders against the night or the mere nothing, are waiting, they seem to peep, sometime sideways or hanging in space, then somehow bent or out of proportions, however always on the verge of reaching for the centre of the sky. It is clear they are polite, well-mannered and somehow shy chairs belonging to another civilization, another time, another taste: they never quarrel, but do retain mental reservations against the duplicity of the world they are forced to live in. They should rebel, run the risk of breaking their legs, instead of standing like embalmed philosophers.
(Janus, Suppose they weren’t chairs?, Gazzetta del Popolo, Turin, 15 July 1983)
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