Then the postwar period arrived. Venice was throbbing with curiosity:
the city in ferment seemed to shake itself, with the somewhat naive
but spontaneous uproar that came from the blinding illusion of total
liberty at hand, ready simply to be grasped.
Art was reinventing itself in the burning, more or less extemporary
discussions at the Bottegon, in the almost riotous debates, often
so incoherent, at Bevilacqua La Masa. Groups were formed. The New
Arts Front discovers cosmopolitanism at all costs, which breaks
down the barriers of the provincialism of feelings. There was a
great fuss and by being in it, with a little bit of talent and luck,
there is the chance of making a name for oneself, to become a flag
for the newly emergent criciticism.
Lucatello participated and listened, with the angry anxiety of someone
who doesnt want to let the essential thing he was pursuing
escape him. But his dialogue with painting was solitary, made up
of jealous intimacy: he didnt accept comparisons, connections,
schools. He spent whole days in the revealing rooms of the Biennale,
which bore luninous messages for the young artists gloomy for the
dross of our national academical mentality.
Exuberant and generous, he had lots of friends and lots of women.
Stories that he lived out with cheerful lack of seriousness, but
in which he identified that incessant need to feel involved in the
frenetic pulsation of life that assaulted him. Women would always
be a constant subject of wonderful juxtaposition, on the faces of
women that he drew and painted he would unload the gentleness, hope
and resignation of human experience, and would end up by immersing
them in nature to the point of breaking up the nude in the landscape.
But also, still very young, he fell in love. And it was to be the
tie of a lifetime: made up of tenderness and respect, of sudden
tumults and deep friendship, of conflicts at times bitter, but also
of continuous new meetings. His family and it was a large
one unreserved source for him, in the plan of a life where
the yearning lyricism of a suspended mystery was mixed with the
earthy taste of rigorous rationalism.