PLDC

When art critics in London and New York saw PLDC‘s work for the first time, they didn’t know what to say: Artist? Painter? Graphic Designer? Performer? Punner? Or maybe a combination of all these, a Jack-of-all-paints? They smiled. Those acrylics on plywood weren’t the kind of things they would ever exhibit in a Museum or any of their Art Galleries. They thought poster art is good for stickers and t-shirts, not for art collectors. This is the same old story: art critics and experts always need to find a collocation, in order to pigeon-hole somebody’s talent. But PLDC is not the kind of guy who can be easily turned off by old style taxidermists’ taxonomy. Fueled by his obsession, he kept painting on plywood without worrying too much about a stigmatization he considered “just a card in the deck”. Like every other artist deserving such a name, he concentrated on his brushes, painting consistently, observing a monk’s discipline. PLDC’s paintings preserve the energy of a splash of colors, carefully displayed in a well planned layout, but beneath this apparent art-happening and the speedy technique, the bittersweetness of his message breaks the appearences. The serious pun and the childish motto carve the wood surface with the burning force of a pyrographer. The message hits your heart. It burns. It leaves a small scar in your conscience. Art critics are too often impressed by the lunatic extrovert artist who comes out with something “crazy” and “neverseenbefore”, something strong enough to shock the public, thus uncorking the orgasmic flow of their fountain pens. What they are not aware, yet, is that people start to be tired of sliced sharks, hanging donkeys and all those vivisected animals cruelly sacrificed in the name of contemporary art. There’s a cynicism behind that Art World which is almost unbearable.

PLDC is a free spirit, instead. Someone who likes to provoke a genuine reaction. He communicates through puns, smart and witty enough to demand immediate attention. He speaks softly but his multilayered paintings cry out loud. They question and ask for questions, they want to establish a dialogue, triggering a real conversation with the public. This is beautiful because that’s what Art is for. It’s out there to make you think, and shiver, and cry and laugh, and fill you with wonder. You won’t find PLDC’s paintings inside famous museums or posh art galleries. Not yet, at least. PLDC keeps working, lightheartedly, on his personal satire. Like a modern Jean de Santeul, he accomplishes that magic balance in which serious matters are addressed by the apparent lightness of the bon mot. His bright colors are as loud as in a comic strip or a Warhol’s poster and we are almost thinking life, art and everything else is a joke. Meanwhile, teardrops land on the wood surface, the salty pain and the bitter truth melting with the fresh paint.

 

 

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