I discovered the American artist David Mellen at the end of 2021, browsing through the catalog of his exhibition at the Ivy Brown Gallery in New York, “Heart Worn Thin”, which opened in November 2021 and ended in January 2022.
I had promised myself to write about him, sooner or later, even if that moment might have meant putting it off for weeks, months, maybe years. I knew that his style, partially abstract, mysterious and sensual, at times disturbing, defined by apparently nameless shapes, had invaded that space inhabited only by my intangible reality, albeit visible more or less to everyone. By now it had expanded and had stuck with me. Like a smell that you carry within you; the sensation of a caress that will not return; a breath stolen from a moment of madness that you will never forget.
Sinuous and enveloping colors, mixed with dark reds and ultramarine blues, blinding whites or dulled by smoke-soaked grays, falling in dark and black strokes; where turquoise shades stained with oil, leaden with autumn, accompany you in the most remote dreams, but which sooner or later take over with the violence of a fist of yellow, forcing you to keep looking. Until you no longer want to leave that image.
I observe again and again those masses, white and battered, always on the move, in the lines that delimit the boundaries with reality, which come together as remnants that resist everything – all wars, all the longest nights. Tired and majestic, they burst forth in their impalpable power and intensity, without ever betraying their intimacy and refinement. Even when the pain surfaces, fine, sharp, instilling itself inside dark spots and shadows drowned in the blood. They move and submerge us, heavy as wave masses, to cross us and reach those border areas, unattainable, ever-present. Fascinating, like David Mellen’s visions. Coming soon to NY.
