And the suns of the burning sunsets. And the great green pictures. The monochrome ones white or yellow, or all black or all brown. The guiding line of Lucatello’s work is not betrayed, the need to be realistic through a different point of view, which from detail leads to the cosmic. And the result is not reached through an anthropomorphic representation, but through the material form that vibrates and empathically transmits because it is interwoven with the human.
Friuli was like a dreamed–of destiny. In the midst of a sea of difficulties, probably Lucatello is happy.

The first few years are very hard. He doesn’t know anyone. His wife has stopped working and there are five children to bring up. Those children whom he loves and often draws, always worried about th lack of food: as often as he can, perhaps remembering ancient famines, he rushes out to buy huge steaks that the little ones can hardly swallaw.
Luckily for him the director of the Institute of Art at that time is Bruno Santini, a Venetian of great intelligence and refinement, and between the two there was both admiration and respect. Thus becomes easier the impact with the school, that other twisted institution that for many years would stimulate him to sometimes exasperated protests.
With the Friulan art world, with the critics, nothing changes very much; the provincial candour tries to emulate the unprejudiced blindness of the greater cultural power of the envied centres. But after all he is lucky. He who has always followed the hope of finding someone who would share “his” vision of reality through “his” painting, meets very precious friends who would accompany him all along his Friulan path. Some are painters, others are hardly able to find the space to operate in local culture and finally, through them, the collectors. With this group of friends, who manage to read him in his paintings and accept his obstinate reduction of everything to painting, begin an authentic dialogue which compensated him for the lack of attention of official critics, and calmes his anxious need to feel understood. The spokesman for this unusual – but then is it? – battle is Renzo Viezzi, who for years tries to go ahead with his idea of cleaning and clarity in the paths of painting. This intelligent local man, who quickly burned the baggage he carried inside in order to range with his careful eye there where he sees the emerging of a sign, sensitive and exuberant but deaf to compromises, angry and headstrong almost as much as Lucatello was, would end up peevishly throwing up the sponge, reducing his world to a few tangible values.