A soul was needed. A silhouette. One that could define allure without ever consulting a style manual. A walk, an audacity, a purism was needed to set one's own pace and follow no one. This allure, Ari Erom offers us with this bronze sculpture of a female Pinocchio. This allure is an intuition, that of seduction. To speak of feminine elegance, of cuts and outlines, of lines and straight threads, the full and the empty traced their movements, before stepping in sync with a musician and a prima ballerina.
One momentarily thinks of the bust of Alfons Mucha in his 1900 sculpture. Pinocchia, with her smile like a new lascivious Mona Lisa, prone to whims, in a world where saints abound and sparkle. The exploration of the senses traverses the square centimeters of Pinocchia’s skin, from unknown deserts to floating islets. One might think her adrift, nose to the wind, but she deceives. The exploration knows its goals and its paths before entering the land of seduction. She never does anything without awareness. She claims to probe the world to live elsewhere, but behind the conquests, she dreams only of herself, alone.
Hidden behind, she is watched, observed, examined. A mirror of our souls, slightly embarrassed by their corsets. A daring almond green sprout slipped into a lonely tangle of bronze. From a blade of grass, she became a woman. At the foot of the window, one nods. She signals, it is time to descend, she is ready, she says, to take us on a journey of desire. Pinocchia now asserts herself as false. She wants to be chilled, grandly observed, dominated with art, painted like a canvas, chiseled like a jewel.
She is no longer small, though never called large. From the depths of a wardrobe or the walls of galleries, she has taken power. For she speaks of lasciviousness, confusion, and incandescence too, which a burning gaze engraves in marble. On the surface of things, on the thin film of the visible, Pinocchia stretches out, extends her seductive ambitions towards the sky. The communion of the full and the empty whirls in turrets, peaks, spires, and lanterns, but beneath the mirror, vertigo keeps its feet somewhat grounded, to plunge its inks, root its designs, its desire, reflect its impulses, force its smile, regain its footing, and then soar a bit higher towards the sirens’ song.
There is magic, grace, in the idea of this woman who lifts our hearts, elevates us, takes us away. To lay eyes on her is like a light gesture, a parabola filled with voluptuousness, shoulders lightened, relaxed. The beauty of the stone, then polished and softened, would almost seek to wrap us in a lascivious sfumato. And from this timeless moment is born the intriguing power of her desire.
