Arcangelo Sassolino standing in front of one of his dark, textured circular works, wearing a black shirt and facing the camera with a neutral expression.” width=”970″ height=”838″ data-caption=’For Arcangelo Sassolino, unpredictability is not a glitch but a goal—each piece holds the potential for transformation or collapse at any moment. <span class=”lazyload media-credit”>Photo: Ginevra Formentini</span>’>
There are many good reasons to visit San Gimignano—its medieval towers, sweeping Tuscan views, the perfect gelato—but right now, one of the most compelling can be found in a luminous old cistern at the heart of the town. “Present Tense,” the latest exhibition by Arcangelo Sassolino at Galleria Continua, gathers new works that feel both elemental and precarious. Sculptures that move, drip and almost seem to breathe. At their core: oil, glass, steel and time.
Sassolino has long built his practice on the edges of mechanics and poetics. His materials are not simply chosen for their visual qualities but for their capacity to act: to fail, bend, crack or defy expectation. With a career spanning more than three decades and exhibitions at institutions like Palais de Tokyo, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and, most recently, the Islamic Arts Biennale in Jeddah, Sassolino continues to challenge the static image of sculpture with work that is a choreography of instability and precision. A space where matter becomes metaphor.
In “Present Tense,” he pushes this even further. Fluids spill and settle, steel hovers above fragility and each moment threatens transformation. On a quiet morning, right after a bustling opening, Observer sat down with Sassolino to talk about the physics of presence, the seduction of unpredictability and why letting go might just be the ultimate creative act.
What does ‘present tense’ mean to you?
The title came out of a conversation with my studio manager, David, who’s fantastic with language. We bounced ideas back and forth, and “Present Tense” just felt right. It’s simple, but sometimes that’s what works best. The phrase resonates deeply with the work I’m showing—and with my broader approach to sculpture. I’m drawn to the idea that something has to happen in real time while the viewer is present. I don’t want to hide this intention. I’m obsessed with the passage of time, so I work with materials in a way that they almost become time. The show speaks to this urgency, but also to the paradox: the present is already past by the time we acknowledge it. Like fluid, it slips away.
What can you tell me about the works on view?
There are three main sculptures: rotating steel discs of varying diameters, each coated in industrial oil. This oil never dries. It remains thick, viscous and perpetually in motion. The discs spin continuously, and if they were to stop, the entire installation would collapse. Gravity pulls the oil downward, creating an ever-changing surface. No two moments are the same. It’s a living image in constant flux.
There are also more intimate pieces involving glass and weight. In one, a large granite stone rests on a jar. In another, a heavy steel block presses down on a bottle. These are works I’m especially attached to. They may appear simple, even banal, but the tension they hold is real. The materials are under stress, and their vulnerability is not metaphorical—it’s physical.
The tension in these pieces feels almost theatrical. Do you see them as performative?
I like that idea. They are activated. For me, the work functions like a countdown. You don’t know if it will last another five minutes or five hundred years. That ambiguity creates a real emotional response. There’s a conflict embedded within the material itself, a constant potential for failure. But it’s not just a symbolic gesture. I want that fragility to be factual, not fictional.
What draws you to materials like oil, glass and steel?
Throughout history, artists have tried to capture time using stable materials such as marble, bronze or wood. But fluids, especially industrial oil, are time. The moment you release a liquid from a container, it starts moving. With these rotating discs, I’ve given the oil the chance to be itself: unstable, mobile, unpredictable. It doesn’t want to sit still. It wants to occupy space and shift form. That’s exactly what I’m after. A composition that exists in real time, always transforming.
Does your interest in steel have to do with its strength?
Not exactly. I’m more interested in what happens when materials are placed in impossible relationships. When you put three hundred kilos of steel on a glass bottle, you’re pushing things to their limits. It’s a question of friction, tension, incompatibility. That’s where something meaningful reveals itself. When collapse feels imminent.
Still, there’s a clear sense of control in your installations. How much room do you leave for unpredictability?
There’s always a mix. Some works are carefully tested in the studio with engineers and technicians. We know their limits. But other pieces resist calculation. Their behavior can only be understood empirically, once they’re installed in the exhibition space. Even then, things can shift. That uncertainty is crucial. Each time, there’s a genuine possibility that something might happen—or not.
Do you enjoy that unpredictability?
Very much. Life itself is unpredictable. We don’t choose who we are from the start, and everything can change in an instant. My work needs to reflect that instability.
What do you think is revealed when a system is under pressure?
I believe the artist is like an antenna, picking up signals from the world around them. We absorb technology, science, politics and emotional currents. All of that filters into the work, often without conscious intention. I don’t always create from a rational place. Sometimes I feel like a witness to my own mind, just watching ideas form and unfold. I’m not trying to represent the world, but I can’t help but reflect it. Artists can’t escape their time—they’re products of it.
Some viewers have linked your work to the fragility of contemporary society. Is that a fair reading?
It’s not where I begin from, but I understand why people go there. Especially now, when everything feels uncertain, it’s easy to see these precarious objects as metaphors for social collapse. I’m not trying to illustrate that concept directly, but if the work evokes those feelings, I welcome it. The work is already a subject in itself. It doesn’t need to be explained.
You’ve said that art is about shaping the future. How do you see your role as an artist in this moment?
I’m not sure artists are necessarily ahead of their time, but I do think we have a unique ability to condense the present into form. That said, I do feel a responsibility to push forward, to move beyond tradition, even the rich tradition of Italian art I come from. The challenge is to find new solutions, embrace new technologies and produce forms that make sense in today’s world. The chaos and instability in these fluid works mirror the world we’re living in. That’s not intentional, but it’s inevitable.
What did you have to let go of to arrive at “Present Tense?”
Letting go is crucial—for artists and people in general. One of the works in the show is titled No Memory Without Loss. It’s about the idea that in order to remember, you must also lose something. One part of the sculpture remains intact, but another part drips away. It’s a form of disappearance.
To move forward, I’ve had to release past ideas and open myself to new possibilities. I honor my journey, but I believe that letting go is the most constructive way to face the future.
Arcangelo Sassolino’s “Present Tense” is on view at Galleria Continua through August 31, 2025.
