Silent Geometry
In this series, I explore the silence within the image as both subject and guiding principle. Starting from photographs of weathered surfaces, I add restrained painterly interventions that do not seek to dominate the image, but to deepen its stillness.
About Artist
Antonio Domingos
Born in Porto in 1957. Degree in Painting from the Faculty of Fine Arts of the University of Porto (FBAUP). He dedicates himself to Painting and Photography , in parallel with his teaching activity. Since 1978 he has participated in several collective exhibitions and had some solo shows of his works, both painting and photography. In his work he has been exploring the limits of minimal painting, basing the composition of all his works in the division of the rectangle by lines derived from the “golden ratio”. Two symmetrical rectangles are a doorway to a sometimes mysterious, silent space. The magic alchemy of colour fills with texture the static and rigid framework. "Rectangles all around me. The paper I write upon or the monitor’s light-rectangle. The ruler. The surface of the table, the covers of the books. Windows. Curtains are rippled rectangles that surrendered to the golden sun and faded away. The closets. The drawers in the closets. The handles of the drawers in the closets. Inside the drawers, the white and coloured sheets, thick, rough, or almost transparent. On the rectangles of the floor, clouds of accumulated paint sprinkled by liquid miniature explosions. Each one contains unending galaxies scratched by my footsteps in whirls of fallen stars. Outside, rectangles are stones, bricks, tiles. Wood, half-devoured by the cold grey of the mist, where stories of smoke and dust were written by the wind. Shiny plates became rusty rectangles flowing upon crumbling cement. Ridges of light draw on the walls horizons of silence where the vision is lost in nebulae of granite. Masonry rectangles lay upon ground lines of concrete." As an abstract painter, my photos are a kind of “readymade” paintings, surfaces that are worked by the hand of time, where wood, half-devoured by the cold grey of the mist, had stories of smoke and dust written by the wind.
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