Philosophy

The Responsive Eye

Gianni Sarcone

“The Responsive Eye,” held at MoMA in 1965 and organized by William C. Seitz, was a landmark exhibition in Op Art. Featuring over 100 artists—including Bridget Riley, Victor Vasarely, Richard Anuszkiewicz, and Josef Albers—it explored how geometric patterns and color could manipulate perception.

Riley stood out with her precise, rhythmic paintings that seemed to move and breathe, challenging the way we see. The show fascinated the public, drawing huge crowds, and sparked a wave of interest in optical effects across art, design, and fashion.

Critics were divided. Some celebrated its innovation and playful engagement with vision; others dismissed it as flashy spectacle, questioning the depth and seriousness of Op Art. Personally, I see it as a pivotal moment—one that reminded everyone that perception itself could be the medium, and that art could be both cerebral and exhilarating.

Bridget Riley
Victor Vasarely
Richard Anuszkiewicz
Josef Albers

Further information: https://ubu.com/film/depalma_responsive.html

The Cube That Lies

Gianni Sarcone

I’ve always been drawn to the architecture of geometry. The hexagon, with its quiet strength and symmetry, sits at the root of so many spatial illusions—it’s the seed of cubes, isometric grids, and 3D paradoxes. From this shape, I began exploring structures that bend logic and perception, eventually giving life to a trio of optical works: Enigma 1, Enigma 2, and Enigma 3.

enigma 1
Enigma 1 – Prints & T-shirts.
enigma 2
Enigma 2 – Prints & T-shirts.
enigma 2
Enigma 3 – Prints & T-shirts.

Each piece is built around the visual tension of the impossible cube, created by merging two tribars in perfect isometric perspective. The lines suggest solidity, yet the form escapes reality—what looks structurally sound unravels the moment the eye tries to make sense of it. That’s the game I love to play: where geometry behaves, but perception rebels.

These “Enigmas” are spatial riddles dressed in stripes and angles, each one twisting the viewer’s reading of depth, volume, and continuity in its own way.

Enigma 1 – Prints & T-shirts.
Enigma 2 – Prints & T-shirts.
Enigma 3 – Prints & T-shirts.

The Construction of a Stereotype: The Neapolitan Eating Spaghetti with His Hands

Gianni Sarcone

Images like the one below did not emerge as authentic snapshots of daily life, but as carefully staged performances. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, a wave of photographers—from northern Europe and even northern Italy—descended upon Naples in search of the “picturesque” and the “exotic.” They were driven by the same Romantic and Orientalist impulses that had shaped the artistic imagination since the 18th century: a fascination with the “other” as a source of aesthetic and commercial consumption. To satisfy these expectations, they asked members of the working class to pose while eating spaghetti with their hands or drinking wine directly from the flask, creating scenes that conformed to a folkloric, almost theatrical narrative designed for foreign curiosity.

In reality, Neapolitans did not habitually eat spaghetti in this manner. While the very poorest—often lacking cutlery—might occasionally have done so, this was an exception rather than a rule. The subjects of these photographs were usually recruited precisely for their visibility as impoverished figures, their gestures carefully orchestrated, and their participation purchased with a few coins. Here, the camera did not document an everyday reality; it manufactured a tableau vivant, crystallizing a myth that would outlast the moment.

This visual fiction illustrates a broader sociological and philosophical pattern: the ways in which communities are reduced to caricature when mediated through the desires of outsiders. Naples, with its intricate social fabric, vibrant markets, and rich urban life, became a stage set for clichés—its complexity compressed into a singular, digestible image. In this sense, the photograph is not merely a representation but an act of authorship, shaping knowledge and perception as much as it pretends to capture it.

The legacy of these manufactured images endures. Modern media, advertising, and even social networks continue to freeze identities into simplified, performative snapshots. Stereotypes, once formed, acquire a durability that can eclipse lived experience, influencing perceptions across generations and reinforcing asymmetries of power between observer and observed.

The “spaghetti eater” is thus emblematic of a philosophical paradox inherent to photography: while the medium claims to reveal truth, it is equally capable of constructing fictions—fictions that, once disseminated, can appear more real than reality itself. In the intersection of image, expectation, and interpretation, we confront a cautionary truth: to look at a photograph is not merely to see, but to negotiate between truth, myth, and imagination.

The Neapolitan Eating Spaghetti with His Hands

The Story of Blue

Gianni Sarcone 
Sonne au comble de l'or
l'azur du jeune hiver
– Paul Valéry

For me, blue is air, wind, melancholy. It is like a Fellini film—always haunted by the whisper of the wind, the scent of things, and the fleeting moments of time we wish we could hold in an eternal present. Blue can carry regret; it is, in a way, a conservative principle. Blue has always held a strange duality: so immediate, yet once so elusive. Looking back to antiquity, it fascinates me that Homer never described the sea as blue, but as ‘wine-dark.’ In Greek, kyaneos evoked a dark, mineral depth, while glaukos hovered between gray, green, and blue. The Romans spoke of caeruleus, tied to the sky (caelum), and of lividus, the bruised, bluish tone of flesh. They never elevated blue; it was the color of outsiders, the hue of Celts painted in woad. Only the Egyptians seemed to truly revere it. They invented Egyptian blue, the first artificial pigment, and made it the shade of eternity and the divine.

In the Middle Ages, blue nearly vanished from prominence. Christian art turned to red, white, and black, leaving blue to the margins. Yet the word itself was evolving. The Germanic blāo—and its Vulgar Latin adoption, blavus—once meant something far less precise: shimmering, lustrous, dark, gray, even pale or yellowish. That ambiguity makes me realize how fluid color once was, before language fixed its boundaries. From blāo we inherited English blue and French bleu. Meanwhile, through Arabic lazaward came the words azure, azzurro, and azul, all born from lapis lazuli.

Then, in the 12th century, blue was transformed. Artists began clothing the Virgin Mary in ultramarine, ground from lapis lazuli more costly than gold. What had been humble became heavenly. Heraldry embraced azure as one of its noble tinctures, and kings like Louis IX made blue their emblem. A forgotten hue became a sacred, regal presence.

By the Renaissance, ultramarine shone as a color of prestige, truth, and constancy. Painters reserved it for the highest subjects, poets linked it to loyalty, and explorers carried its name across the seas as azul. Blue had finally claimed its place.

The modern era democratized it. Prussian blue appeared in 1704, followed by cobalt, cerulean, and synthetic ultramarine. Blue poured into uniforms, flags, and revolutions; it became the shade of liberty, of nations, of collective identity. Goethe called it spiritual, a color that retreats yet draws the soul inward.

In the 20th century, painters gave blue an entirely new destiny. The Expressionists used blue to conjure emotion, depth, and inner turbulence—think of Kandinsky, who saw blue as moving ‘toward the infinite,’ or Franz Marc, who painted blue animals to symbolize spirituality and hope. Even Van Gogh’s Starry Night swirls with blue, capturing both wonder and melancholy. Later, Picasso entered his Blue Period, transmuting sorrow into tone. Yves Klein went further still, reducing blue to its purest intensity with his International Klein Blue, turning it into an immaterial field of experience. For Klein, blue was not simply a color but ‘the most abstract color of all,’ a space in which one could lose oneself.

Today, I see blue everywhere. In the jeans that became the fabric of daily life. In corporate logos designed to inspire trust. In flags that mark belonging. Blue is calm, yet melancholy; humble, yet exalted. Once overlooked, it is now the world’s favorite color.

Blue is more than a hue. It is an idea shaped across centuries—etymologically born of caelum, blāo, and blavus; symbolically stretched between heaven and earth; culturally tied to faith, power, and identity. Its story mirrors our own: restless, mutable, and ever searching for meaning.

I’ll end with a little story from my own family. After World War II, my paternal grandfather, a house painter, bought a massive surplus of blue paint from the military. He had so much of it that whenever a client asked how he planned to paint their home, his answer was always the same, year after year: “All in blue, yes, all in blue…” (in our dialect, tutt’azzurr, tutt’azzurr).

That simple phrase stuck. Before long, the whole village started calling our family the Tuttazzurr family, and I myself became known as Giuan Tuttazzurr. Blue marked our home, but also my identity and my story—etched in memory and in name.

Moonlight Reflections on the Waters

Gianni Sarcone

A memory from Japan, where I lived briefly in the 1980s. This piece recalls earthy colors, organic shapes, and fragments of that time. A circle emerges from a flowing field of triangles—like ripples of moonlight dancing on the sea near Kamakura.

Moonlight Reflections on the Waters of Kamakura (1998, collage)
Moonlight Reflections on the Waters of Kamakura (1998, collage)

Immersing yourself in my op art is an invitation into a world where opposing forces meet, attract, and interlock, creating a balance both precise and hypnotic. It is a silent yet unending dialogue between art, form, line, color, mathematical concepts, the science of perception, and, above all, symbols. The symbolic depth of my work reaches beyond surface appearance, engaging with archetypes and forgotten rites that still pulse within the collective unconscious.

Moonlight Reflections on the Waters of Kamakura (1998, collage) II
Moonlight Reflections on the Waters of Kamakura (1998, collage)

This unique op art piece is available as fine art prints and canvases in my online gallery.

Rediscovering Flutex: Simple Glass, Complex Illusions

Gianni Sarcone

I’ve been toying with the idea of revisiting an old, low-key material for my art: Flutex.

If you haven’t heard of it, Flutex is a patterned industrial glass from the 1930s and ’40s, mostly used to give a bit of privacy in bathrooms and office partitions.

In the ’70s, Op artist Sydney Cash started playing with this glass and found that its ribbed surface works like a lenticular screen—showing different images depending on how you look at it. The effect? Hypnotic, shifting artworks that change as you move around them.

It’s just simple glass, but it tricks perception in a really cool way.

I’m seriously considering giving it a try myself—there’s something about that mix of humble material and complex visual play that feels worth exploring again.

The Art of Discovery Between a Question Mark and an Exclamation Point

Gianni Sarcone

Science — like art — doesn’t really speak in the indicative. It doesn’t say this is, it asks what if? It begins in the conditional, in the open-ended curiosity of what could be, and unfolds in the imperative, the bold call to look, try, observe.

Discovery doesn’t start with answers — it starts with a question. And when it arrives, it rarely comes wrapped in neat descriptions. It comes as a gesture, a provocation, a set of instructions that invite us to experience something for ourselves.

Think about it: no one learns to cook from a description of flavor. They follow a recipe — a list of directives. A musician doesn’t explain the music in his head; he writes a score. And when we follow it, sound becomes experience. The composer’s vision is reborn in the hands of another.

In my own work, I do much the same — though my instrument is perception, and my notes are lines, colors, forms. Each visual illusion, each image, is a kind of instructional code. Not a description of what’s there, but an opening. If you engage with it, something clicks — not because I told you what to see, but because the form guided your eyes to see it for yourself.

G. Spencer Brown wrote that the act of drawing a distinction is the first creative move — a way of bringing something into being. In that spirit, I don’t aim to define the world. I aim to make space for new ways of seeing it.

So perhaps the real language of both science and art isn’t declarative at all.

It’s performative. It doesn’t tell you what reality is — it dares you to experience it.
And in that challenge, something unexpected happens:
You discover not just what the world could be — but what you might be within it.

Title: Follow the Light
“Follow the Light” – A visual imperative that pulls the eye into the unknown. This piece doesn’t describe — it directs. It doesn’t tell you what to see — it invites you to find out. Available as a fine art print.

The First Hero’s Quest for Immortality

Gianni Sarcone

The Epic of Gilgamesh is the oldest known long-form poem in history—predating the Bible, The Iliad, and even the Mahābhārata. Often hailed as the first great work of world literature, this ancient Babylonian epic tells the story of a mighty hero, king of Uruk, who embarks on a quest for immortality. Its timeless themes—love, friendship, grief, the fear of death—still speak to us with surprising clarity.

Originally transmitted orally, the poem was later inscribed in cuneiform on clay tablets. The version we know today was written in Akkadian, the lingua franca of the Babylonian Empire, over four thousand years ago. For centuries, the text was lost to history—until its rediscovery in fragmented form during the nineteenth century sparked renewed interest.

The tale begins with Gilgamesh, a powerful yet restless king, and Enkidu, a wild man created by the gods to challenge him. After a dramatic contest of strength, the two become inseparable companions. They journey to the sacred Cedar Forest, where they slay its divine guardian, Humbaba. When Gilgamesh rejects the goddess Ishtar, she unleashes the Bull of Heaven. The two heroes kill the beast—an act that angers the gods, who punish them by taking Enkidu’s life.

Stricken by grief, Gilgamesh sets out on a perilous journey in search of eternal life. He ultimately meets Utnapishtim, a flood survivor granted immortality by the gods. From him, Gilgamesh learns a harsh truth: death is man’s destiny; immortality belongs only to the divine.

More than a heroic saga, The Epic of Gilgamesh established the prototype for later epic heroes—from Heracles to Odysseus—and continues to inspire writers and artists today. Its enduring influence stretches across millennia and cultures.

In Forests, Robert Pogue Harrison draws on The Epic of Gilgamesh to explore the symbolic power of forests in the Western imagination. Gilgamesh’s felling of the sacred cedars and slaying of Humbaba reflects humanity’s first mythic confrontation with nature—marking the forest not as sanctuary, but as territory to be mastered. For Harrison, this moment signals the dawn of civilization’s long, uneasy relationship with the wild.

To truly grasp the spirit of the ancient world, I encourage you to read The Aeneid by Virgil, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, as well as the timeless Mahābhārata and The Epic of Gilgamesh. These foundational texts continue to illuminate the hopes, fears, and questions that have shaped human thought across the ages.

Gilgamesh

A Hidden Time Machine

Gianni Sarcone

We all carry within us a time machine—hidden in plain sight, right in the middle of our face. It may sound unlikely, but the NOSE is the only sensory organ capable of transporting us into the past without our even realizing it.

Our sense of smell activates memories like no other. A single scent can unlock a precise moment from childhood or early adulthood: the fragrance of oranges at Christmastime, melting snow during your first school field trip in winter, the scent of your sweetheart’s sweater the day you met, your grandmother’s simmering tomato sauce during Sunday lunches, the waxed floor of your grandparents’ house, school glue in primary class, the sunscreen of beachside summers, old book ink in the town library, the leather of your first satchel, or the aroma of fresh coffee at dawn when everyone else was still asleep…

The nose is a powerful trigger for nostalgia because the olfactory bulb, where smells are processed, is directly connected to the limbic system—the brain’s emotional and memory center. This close link allows smells to summon vivid memories, often with startling clarity, and sometimes, with them, an unexpected flood of emotions.

Each smell opens a door to a suspended instant—fragile, vivid. It’s an inward journey to a hidden past, a place buried deep, that suddenly bursts forth like a firework of nostalgia.

Each of us holds a palette of scents capable of bringing us back—suddenly, vividly—to a time that’s gone. Mine carries rustic, earthy tones: my maternal grandparents were farmers, and I spent much of my early childhood with them in the mountains of Irpinia.

I remember the sticky perfume of freshly harvested tobacco leaves, the white film of yeast clinging to wine grapes, the wild asparagus gathered by riverbanks, the unmistakable sweet scent of the ceuze—what we called mulberries in dialect—and the zenzifero, a local mint that gave ricotta ravioli its delicate fragrance…

I doubt I’ll ever stumble across those long-lost smells again—or perhaps they’re just dormant, waiting. But if they do return, that would be the most beautiful time travel I could ever hope for.

And you? What scents carry you away to other times, other worlds?

smell memory, nose

Misdirection → Illusion → Aha! Moment…

Gianni Sarcone

How misdirection, illusion, and wonder shape my creative process.

The path from misdirection to revelation is at the heart of how illusion and wonder spark insight. Misdirection steers our attention—often subtly—away from what truly matters. It disrupts our expectations, creating a gap between what we see and what is. Within that gap lies the illusion: a crafted discrepancy, a visual or cognitive sleight-of-hand that unsettles our perception.

But the magic doesn’t end there. When the illusion is cracked—when the mind shifts, recalibrates, and sees—the famous Aha! moment erupts. That flash of understanding isn’t just delightful; it’s deeply educational. It rewires how we interpret the world.

This sequence—misdirection, illusion, revelation—mirrors the creative process itself. It shows how confusion, when carefully designed, can be a gateway to clarity. In the right hands, illusion is not deception—it’s a tool to awaken curiosity, stretch perception, and provoke insight. Wonder, in this sense, becomes a powerful cognitive catalyst.

That’s why my art and, I believe, my writing, revolve around this sense of wonder—arguably the most direct and playful route to that pleasurable, often conflicting moment of insight: the sudden discovery of something previously unknown.