Polymorphously perverse, the ethnic, eidetic deconstructions of Pseudo DiGiolino present, as it were, a fractured synthesis of peripatetic realization; a forced march through shattered-glass synecdoche, as visually realized in sequential synchronicity.
The viewer is astonished at DiGiolino's deconstructed entelechy; the matrix of surds, both analog and digital; the holistic-yet-fractured fractals recalling Feynman diagrams or Coach Vince Lombardi's representations of football plays.
Atom or etym, pigskin or boson, the biomorphic abstraction proliferating within DiGiolino's work seems to multiply geometrically; rapidly advancing and receding in the picture plane; ultimately crawling out and devouring the inattentive viewer in one gulp, sending screaming, panic-stricken, art-walking crowds into the streets as the biomorphic abstraction grows and grows and grows, bursting through the roof, destroying the gallery in one enormous jet of flame, as the relentless biomorphic abstraction emerges to crush, to destroy, to grow, to feed.
Such imagery recalls the work of Caravaggio, with oblique references to Destroy All Monsters, as well. One sees bread sticks, biscuit tins, buckets and bears. This is a tickertape parade for newspaper people who tear themselves into millions of little bits; flesh shredded to shards of meaning, blowing in the wind; words reduced to nonsense celebrating the triumphant arrival of the man who wasn't there. Because nothing ever was.
But there is something to be said for nothing.
As the artist himself once said, "Art is like a baked potato, except the potato is made of dynamite and the microwave oven is a nuclear bomb."
DiGiolino acknowledges his debt to Dadaism, not to mention his mounting credit card bill, which is now a five-digit figure. Other influences include: Caravaggio, Davide, R. Crumb, the Venus of Willendorf, dirty pictures on the bathroom wall, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Art Levine, Stella (the artist), Stella (from A Streetcar Named Desire), Stella Artois (the beer), Jackson Pollock, Jackson Pollack, Chuck Close, Chuck Far, Chuck Norris, Chuckie the evil doll in Child's Play 1-3, all those paintings in Rod Serling's Night Gallery, Caravaggio, Norman Rockwell, Tristan Tzara, Dirty Duck, the Lysol Duck, and a napkin drawing of an unknown dying artist's penultimate expression of aesthetic experience that briefly existed on the floor of the Horn and Hardart automat in New York City, but is now, unfortunately, lost. And, of course, Caravaggio.
I could go on. DiGiolino's art, in fact, reminds me of everything. Fittingly so, because everything which has existed up to the present moment has led, ineluctably, to the creation of that art. DiGiolino's existing body of work is also strikingly reminiscent of the work he will produce in the future. As these pieces are unavailable to this reviewer, I cannot comment on these resemblances at this time. But what am I really saying? The question intrudes like a doctor's finger in a latex glove. To truly understand DiGiolino's work, one would have to see with the eyes of God, and understand with the mind of God, all that ever was, is, and will be, as well as the penumbral matrix of hypostasized possibilities and potentials. Lacking this omniscience, my review clearly means nothing. But, I have reached my word count. That has to mean something.
—Jackson DeVoe, Artist at Large
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