En - about Deborah

Visual artist, Italian painter born in Benevento, lives and works in Rome.

STUDIES

Graduated in Painting with Aldo Turchiaro at the Academy

Of Fine Arts of Rome. Vote: 110 cum laude out of 110 Supplementary course

Artistic high school diploma obtained at the Liceo Artistico di Benevento - Italy (Architecture section).

Artistic high school diploma obtained at the Liceo Artistico di Campobasso - Italy (Academy section).

EXHIBITIONS

• During his high school years he participated in various group exhibitions both in Benevento and Naples

• Year 1996/1997 Collaborates with the “Villa LAIS” day psychiatric center which is based in Rome

Year 1997/1998 Participates in a European project at the non-governmental association "Cooperations" based in Wiltz in Luxembourg, holding painting workshops in Luxembourg and Portugal

• During the academic years she participated in various group exhibitions including "ACCADEMIE" twinning between the Academy of Rome and the Academy of Brera (Milan)

• Year 1999 Participates in the Madonnari Festival in the town of San Marino near to Rome

• Year 2000: Lives in Paris coming into contact with French underground artistic activity.

• In the following years he lived in various Italian cities including Bologna, Milan, Florence and Naples in continuous contact with the local underground circuits.

• Year 2008 Personal exhibition at the Contemporastudio gallery in Florence

• Year 2010 Exhibits at the congress held by the CGIL on women's bodies at the Teatro Nuovo in Naples.

Personal exhibition in Naples at Professor Oliviero's garden

He exhibits one of his works "La Pietà" in a venue in the historic center of Naples.

• Year 2012 / 2015 Various exhibitions in venues in Rome

Year 2016 Personal at the Anomalia Bookshop in Rome

• Year 2018 Personal exhibition at the Caffè Letterario Intra Moenia in Naples

.Year 2019 finalist of the Rospigliosi Art Prize 2019

Francesca Deborah Artist

The painted veil

By Deborah Francesca

The face of the Other is also the face of the Author. The comparison with the face forces each of us to rethink the foundations of its culture. In viewing painting we understand it only by passing through the principle of identity to the principle of otherness, from the primacy of the self to the primacy of the other. We can understand ourselves only if we understand the strangeness of the other and ethics is born just like that discovery of otherness. We exercise responsibility in looking at the face because true responsibility it enhances diversity and leads to an adhesion to the other in his otherness, which is also the uniqueness of being.

Who is the Other and what is the profound meaning of this "face"? The face of the other is the limit that questions us continuously and is the revelation of a transcendence. Recognizing the irreplaceability of the other,

I recognize myself and take possession of the world. In this veiled yet clear face, the presence and the voice are manifested: the Other exposes himself, allows himself to be met and known.

Francesca Deborah Artist

The Other concerns me not because he is like me, but because he discovers me, questions me.

The face becomes a representation of the human, discovered

of the other as wealth, leads us to understand the preciousness of the individual and concrete man,

restoring his dignity. The gaze of the Other determines my growth as a person, it is the first and the last glimpse of the world. In the discovery of otherness we discover ourselves and we reflect ourselves in mystery of the Human, as if we were the only ones who could do it.

Marilina Veca

Francesca Deborah Artist

COMPASSION'

Like Adam in the early morning

he went out into the open air refreshed from sleep,

look where I go, listen to the voice, come closer,

touch me, place the palm of your hand on my body

as I pass,

don't be afraid of my body.

WALT WHITMAN

Fear of existing. Therefore human. A growing bulimia of images that speak, because, let's remember, we are made of pulsating flesh, of blood and matter, nothing else. The body is the manifesto of pain, as well as of hope. Apparently fragile physicality, certainly unique, which instead knows how to take in the suggestions of frightening surroundings. The cell of solitude is hugs and contact. It is only contingencies, now, that give impulses to our instinct, when instead, in history, our physicality should be the only system for relating to the world and to others. Man's innate wisdom to reveal his own intimacy is increasingly narcotized by society. Your own humanity. Fear of suffering. Therefore existence. Being there, as a chasm to offer, added to other chasms, to the world and to others. Man is an abyss capable of feeling the depths of others. Or at least it was. He was before he started walking the path of individualism. Before he stumbled into the trap of lack of time. Before it was corrupted by new induced rivalries.

The pack has disintegrated in favor of many pack leaders seeking integration. Waiting for recognition, hungry for merits in which they themselves find it difficult to believe. They sacrifice their nature in honor of artifice, of what reassures, of waste paper models created by powerful damned people. The concept of damnation has changed. Now the damned enjoy themselves, alleviating their condition thanks to ephemeral satisfactions. And this is terrible. The damned of today will never be peaceful, because, unlike their ancestors, they are blind. Made blind. Cleverly obscured by abilities that they chase without knowing they don't possess. Fear of feeling pity. So I'm returning.

The return to that mother's embrace, which was the first. The great, selfish privilege: the hope that it may be the last. he absolute selfishness that this desire brings with it. The new damnation is blind, it does not ultimately see the testimony of having been there. It assimilates the terror more than the apocalypse of another genesis. We live in an era where the capacity for meeting seems limitless. In which it seems natural to establish a relationship. It is a duty to establish a relationship, nowadays, yet another of the infinite possibilities that we collect, without realizing that we carry trifles of ourselves. That we are not that.

That this causes nothing, in the deep interior darkness of our flesh. Nothing for our body. It is the body that in the representation of its defeat, in that time and in those ways that mark its inevitable decomposition, becomes the only seal of authenticity of one's experience. The energy of these canvases lies in the representation of what we are no longer capable of feeling, or simply seeing. A path that drags you towards your identity like an abyss. Until the rediscovery of understanding the abysses around you. Cold colors and rigorous shapes, which you can no longer recognise, expertly hammered by the exact opposite. Canvases that understand their origin. Fear of the origin, because that is where the unknown circulates more than anywhere else. So drama. Uprooted from the daily association with the sterile image of yourself, you reflect yourself in a new light. And it's terrible. Mirrors, these canvases, which reflect like a vague dream the primordial soup in which you were formed, an indelible sign that welcomes every human being. Which you slowly denied until you became a spoiled puppet.

Francesca Deborah Artist

The subject of these canvases is human truth, you are just an imperfect and distant reproduction. You will be alone forever if you don't take many steps back to face this truth. You will forever be a wandering pack leader, hysterically searching for something you will never be able to reach. Or distinguish, eternally struggling with something else. Stop, touch, let yourself be touched; rediscover the value of time; try to feel how much stronger the heat is and how much more intense the reverberation of a hug is; how much more energy there is in a stranger who is at your side, how much more value is blood compared to all the gold in the world; this is what these canvases say. It's a desperate cry, that of these canvases, and I can't believe you've become so deaf.

I can not believe.

I can not make it.

Emanuele Bianco

Francesca Deborah Artist