It’s awfully pretentious to laureate any artist’s work with an elaborate vocabulary. Although it very often happens. Somehow, we have forgotten that art is still the privileged space for intuitive apprehensions and less for logical debates. Art is work but it is not science. Thus, when describing art creations we should be on the lookout for feelings, rather than justifications. It is a different reality, away from logicisms or deductive reasoning, we are invited to listen and not to ask questions.
Rita Lino’s work shows an intuitive understanding of the latter notions. And I’m glad it does. She – with her many variations of auto-portraits and fragmented experiences – knows that personality is still the single greatest originality. Whoever comes across her journey is invited to time travelling’s, flashing lights, nude breasts and everything you would expect from a young female artist who came to embody the spirit of her time. It’s a heavy cross, but there’s beauty to its tragedy. Rita Lino does not pretend to be interested in anything rather than reality – her reality.
In those things which have knowledge, sense receives the species of all things sensible, and the intellect, of all things intelligible, so that the soul of man is, in a way, all things by sense and intellect: and thereby, those things (…), approach to a likeness to God, in Whom all things pre-exist.
Rita’s work is the showground where she artistically expresses the species of all things sensible and intelligible. Things which not only she came to perceive, but which while being perceived succeeded in changing her. She is a distant traveller. A widowed Serbian. A hooker. Sometimes a blasphemous witch, others a self-absorbed female blogger. In liken herself to God, she is bound to be everything while expecting your every prayer.
Luis Ferraz, 2011