Energy and blood were tangible in Adriana Jebeleanu's paintings, Jebe for us all. She was a fast painter and her big canvases were painted rapidly, leaving a lot of white space around, always with recognizeable figures: a dog, a man walking, a tank. And a splash of blood red paint, almost all the times. The joke was about her being Transilvanian. I couldn't say we were friends, but we shared in the past many an exhibition in Modena, and many a frustration about the Italian art world, about gallerists' behaviour, and the backstabbing scene of Italian individualism.
It's hard for me to accept that she committed suicide. Especially hard to know that I will no longer see fresh new works of hers at the next art fair, her sweet laughter after my compliments, a new development of her work. It's hard to accept that a creative research in progress has been broken in a split second.
The Italian art community is not a community, but episodes like this make its failure more tangible.
I will miss Jebe, and I will miss her art.
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