Some might charitably call it the kinky seams of apprenticeship others would discard it entirely as artistically irrelevant but there's one glorious fact upon which everyone agrees: The early work of Currado Malaspina is at long last a scalding, bullish commodity.
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| Les serments et des lettres #3, oil on wood, Currado Malaspina, 1977 |
For over thirty years my good friend Currado has been warehousing reams of his juvenilia in a nondescript storage facility in Nantes. Unbeknownst to just about everyone (including myself), about 50 kilometers from his summer home in Pornic a gold mine lay in abeyance, waiting like a lost key to reveal its forgotten virtue.
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The staggering self-confidence of the young Malaspina is something unfathomable in today's atmosphere of intellectually abnegating social score-keeping.
From Facebook to LinkedIn, the inflated contemporary narratives of our half cooked professional classes are a living testament to our chronic insecurities. Every minor episode of our pathetic little lives is now duly recorded and promiscuously chronicled as if to say "here are my fears which are touchingly concealed behind the tattered veil of fictitious triumph." Is an anthropomorphic pet or an over-priced poorly prepared meal truly a significant sign of personal achievement?
Seen in this light, the subdued and gradual nurturing of Currado's gifts appear nothing short of visionary. Abjuring even the reflected light of fame, my dear friend labored silently until the furrows of imperfection began to align and his unique conceptual armature bolted itself to actual, living works.
His ethic is a relic but his market value is as real as a treasury note.
And now that Currado is finally flush he has even found time to play with his kitten.
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