Art has always been the place of war, not only because it is like a battlefield – according to the definition of itself in “Pierrot le Fou” by Jean-Luc Godard – but because battle, war, with its deployment of strategies, is the imaginary set, naturally perfect for deploying artistic strategy on a canvas.
It is pure adventure, and, in addition, compared to the superior freedom of adventure that often borders on the fantastic, it is a constraint of the game of reality, of having to live, survive or destroy and not, instead, dance, as some masterpieces of the adventurous art: a kind of sublimation of art that is reflected in a fantastic game.

Then Fernanda Rivero and the war. It is no coincidence that Fernanda is so rarely an artist of adventure – of adventure understood as free from the obligations of a mental or historical relationship with reality, but seen as a superior fairy tale. There is the frightening seriousness, which becomes almost playful and which is embarrassing, and the nastiness.

There is this exaggeration of tones, this rhetoric assumed without any shame and indeed, once again, inflated, almost analyzed, it actually gives rise to images of great filmic purity, so much so that, seen today, we can say that we are witnessing a a very pure construction of art that gives us a sense of the terrible anguish of this eternal artistic spirit, which runs through all of Fernanda’s art totally dedicated to the value of a person forced to perform those gestures, those acts of valor and heroism.

If we observe with the eyes of art, or even simply with the eyes we still have today, we must admit that “From fear to love” for example, is a great anti-other work. And just as she follows her passion in full, in reality she automatically denounces us the absurdity of this fidelity, which does not even have the glow of holiness but, in fact, a sort of materialistic roboticity. Tomorrow take a closer look at her works, and in the meantime, have a good vision. With this war that once again, tomorrow, we will have Fernanda Rivero declare, living her images and perhaps, deforming them with our only hypothesis of putting them back by heart.