Just as with his Hands, now, in this work.
Hands joined in prayer, opened in greeting, closed with rage. They are wooden, metal, light. They have touched and caressed, they have loved and lived. They are dirty, full of work, wounded. Hands that know, about work and life. Hands with memory of gestures and surfaces, bodies and objects, waits and thoughts. Geometrical hands of air and space. Naked hands. Real hands. Biasiucci’s hands run over land and landscapes, stations, alleys, stables, across uninhabited places and the industrial areas of Brianza. They are hands that understand and work because they think. They are of a strong nature like volcanoes, signs of a material that boils and trembles. In the areas of production, perched on numerical control machines, infiltrated inside the paint rooms, between assembly and storage, he captures the everyday gestures, the gestures never taken for granted, of work. At the moment when the design idea becomes real, concrete, measurable in centimetres, angles, folds, because that is where idea becomes action, thought becomes object, when the gesture gives life to the aesthetics of representation. So hands become icons, sculptures, remains on which work fixes another poetic declension, of another infinite tale of the world.