Calvin Marcus, Untitled, 2015, glazed ceramic. Courtesy the artist.

A very young Calvin Marcus (1988) introduces himself to the Italian public with his first solo-show in Milan, in a multifaceted project in which he talks while making others talk about him. Perfect balance between the spaces, in which he proposes the idea of obsessed narcissism through a dualism of technique and expression. An introspective journey, among the exhausted multitude of one, replicated, mood. An almost obsessive need to reconfirm himself every time, through self-reflection and the awareness of technical skills. As if to convince someone, but first of all himself.

Anxiety in the gaze of various self-portraits, all are impersonating the same moment, as a reference to the exact opposite of a cold rationality. It reminds me a nemesis of the Joker, the very first one from 85 years ago. The most insane and charismatic of all the Villains, extremely charming in his evil brilliance. The uniqueness of the portraits lays in the morbid attempt to bring the great format to its original nature, as well as finding the spontaneity of the mark in small pastel drawings (which, to be honest, I would have really liked to see). What drives the artist towards repetition? Is he, perhaps, afraid of the reaction of his being unpredictable?

The decision to associate to the large number of portraits pretty ceramic sculptures confirms the appeal of this unpredictability. Looking for extreme loneliness while trying, on the other hand, to find ourselves among others. Sea creatures keep company to each other while enjoying an unusual stillness, in their immature and childish appearance, they are peaceful to the point of monstrosity. Pastel colors, smiles in the pool and the domestic and familiar appearance characterize a human presence comfortably laid in the plates. An atmosphere that is about to be unleashed by an uncontrollable fury. The dominant element is the rhythm of the architectural arrangement. A hypothetical soundtrack? Beethoven’s ninth symphony, that advances in a crescendo towards the last of the three rooms, until it violently falls. Turning around, contemplating the past and comprehending the unsustainable nothingness. Silence.

And it was like for a moment, oh my brothers, some great bird had flown into the milkbar and I felt all the malenky little hairs on my plott standing endwise and the shivers crawling up like slow malenky lizards and then down again. Because I knew what she sang. It was a bit from the glorious Ninth, by Ludwig Van, says Alexander DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange, while he sips “Moloko Plus”.