Contemporary photographer who uses landscape, still life and portrait photography as artistic expression and visual language of a journey to self-discovery. The images Alessio makes, have a sort of common thread that tell about poetry, visions and the need to reveal intimacy through the frame of his soul.
His process is essentially about translation and synthesis, where the images meet light, and that light animates places, people, apparently banal objects. In this process, they have the power to convey experiences embedded in life, history, conventions and social roles. Alessio tries to give back, through the poetic of images, validity to all this. Those places and visions are no longer trivial, but reveal, in their expressive force, a value that takes shape both for the eyes and for the soul, inviting you to linger and immerse yourself in his imagination.
Everything starts from an internal conflict, from the need to satisfy a sense of emptiness and inadequacy; then the created images become a metaphysical imaginary in which every single element represents a pretext to embrace and be embraced, console and be consoled, and fill the void of the soul.
His artistic research is a sort of visual urgency that restores validity to himself and to the world around him. Photography, thus, does not only consists in a reproduction of things, but represents an intent to portray the world built day by day, coming from inside, and representing Alessio’s stream of consciousness.
about ‘Dear Diary, this is my quarantine’ – words by Alessio Pellicoro:
A journey to discover an environment that is part of my daily life, but at the same time also a little unknown: home. My house is not very large: a small cozy apartment on the outskirts of Rome that overlooks a small courtyard shared with another twin palace. It is so close that you can easily venture with your imagination inside those windows like mine.
I decided to take full advantage of this quarantine to get to know and deepen the awareness of a warm entity that enters undisturbed every day, veiling itself between the thin, slightly battered curtains of my home. Sometimes it even seems to ask me for permission to enter, by knocking on the hermetic shutters and then making space between the holes, maybe because it wants to tell me something important and to reveal itself with intangible, essential, pure forms. Now it finds me, and I don’t go away because I have to stay home.
Ours is a meeting that often takes place in a fleeting way, apparently completely unexpected, no note on my agenda that anticipates it to me, or that reminds me of it. Despite this, it’s waiting for me on the chair, on the edge of the dining table, resting on the sofa cushions, with its arms folded on the windowsill. It’s not intrusive even though it spies me just for a while before I wake up, but it’s distracted it stands out. I see it out of the corner of her eye unraveling on those square white ceramic tiles that before had never been so beautiful and so different from each other, and so at that point it is as if it was saying “Can you open me, I’m here”.
I open the windows and it embraces me; it tells me an infinite number of stuff that, in a matter of fractions of second, it has already burned; but it doesn’t matter I can do it again, but at least it’s here. It is the Light.