Alfredo Accatino, the joys of an outsider hunter

Alfredo AccatinoRoman, sixty-two years old, is a creator of famous oxymorons, that is, those great events remembered for a long time but of which, unlike the decisive goals or the speeches that made history, almost no one returns to see the films: the inauguration of the 2006 Turin Winter Olympics, the launch of the new Fiat 500, the opening and closing ceremonies of the 2015 Milan Expo. To compensate for the first, Accatino has developed another activity, perhaps the prevalent one, which does not glorify the ephemeral but contrasts it: he is an outsider hunter, those cousins ​​of the “odd faces” whose abolition history has attempted, a little with the complicity of Fate for those who believe in Fate, and a lot with the contribution of the victims because they did not believe enough in themselves.

Outsider you can stay for eternity or in the confines of life, like Van Gogh, or for centuries as happened to Caravaggio until the rediscovery of Roberto Longhi. Accatino, who called the series of books he publishes for Giunti “Outsiders”, is a son of art but shuns continuation, preferring perhaps to compose a novel (“La linea e l’ombra”). His father Enrico was a painter, one of the protagonists of fiber art and cultural popularizer in the programs that Rai gave on black and white with pedagogy passed into proverb: “Telescuola” and “It is never too late”.

Who is an outsider?

Those born in the wrong place marry dangerous ideas and often destroy themselves. Talented losers ground by history, innovators who did not make it. Our fault is to judge more on the basis of notoriety than on the intrinsic quality with which someone, even from a shadow cone, modified the flow of art history.

A few examples?

The Swedish Hilma af Klint, a penny of cheese considered mad by many, who painted gigantic canvases inspired by mediumistic sessions and who ordered to keep them hidden for thirty years after his death. She was the pioneer of abstract art, she also preceded Kandinsky. I was the first to talk about her in Italy and in New York the Guggenheim dedicated an exhibition of her to her three years ago. Or I think of the Chinese Sanyu, who was auctioned off at staggering figures but lived in poverty because he spent his energies patenting a sport, ping-tennis, thinking that it would make him famous.

Is there a “cupio dissolvi” in outsiders?

There is often a self-destructive drive that leads to drug use, alcoholism, or suicide. Tancredi Parmeggiani, Schifano, Tamburini passed through the San Giacomo hospital in Rome. There are figures who have experienced the condition of the artist as a disease, or who are unable to dialogue with the present, have developed the feeling of failure. Or there is History that rages on them: those born in an unhappy place, those who are victims of pogroms or persecutions. Think of the Nazi degenerate art exhibition: about fifteen of those artists after the war will have been valued. The others, the forgotten degenerates, first had their lives devastated then not even the luck of being able to work. Not to mention those who were not exposed to the mockery and therefore, lacking the “official degenerate” stamp, remained in the limbo of the b-series losers.

Yet the losers fascinate more than the winners.

They appeal to me more. Defeat is often the backbone of a narrative. Doctor Zhivago must not meet Lara again. And in the immersive exhibition “Van Gogh Alive” everyone was waiting for the gunshot with which the story ends.

How do you recognize a talented outsider?

The first law is this: in creativity there is no high and low. There is only quality. The posters, a tattoo or the mannequins with which the parachute was tested in the United States in the 1940s can also be a work of art: some look like Donatellos. Let’s get rid of the opposite of hypocrisy in the presence of the masters: even Picasso made ugly paintings while there are artists who created only one, but it was a masterpiece. Let’s get rid of another cliché: that the ancient is necessarily beautiful. The Faun of Pompeii is extraordinary, but of the 24 bronzes just discovered in San Casciano some are beautiful, others only mannerist or really ugly, even if this does not diminish the historical importance of the find.

Why, instead of collecting outsiders, did you not try to be an outsider yourself, or, with less charm, to become a successful painter?

Because I remember the experience of my father, who was an established artist. I didn’t want to be swallowed up by art in the same way. He came from the peasant culture of Monferrato so it was normal for him to employ his son to help him in the shop, spreading canvases and colors. This molded me into a free spirit with respect to art, devoid of the awe that tarnishes acumen. On the other hand, the all-encompassing experience of him frightened me. I have been to the park three times with my father, when we went out together he would take me to the vernissages. Yes, Bacon introduced me, but I wanted to play football. However, I am still moved when I think that the last faculty he lost, with Alzheimer’s, was that of drawing.

But how much does chance count for fame? Or is there a pre-established design?

I definitely believe in chance. If by chance the Rothko family had remained in Latvia or the Warhol family in Slovakia, today Rothko and Warhol would be two strangers. Luck is important, but if you don’t increase the opportunity to be kissed by it, it will never come for mysterious star plots.