There’s a quiet moment, just after the hunt, when the tiger sleeps.

Not from exhaustion, but from purpose fulfilled.

A stillness so complete it borders the divine.

This is where Gregorio Zanardi’s new collection begins:

with a yearning not to transcend humanity,

but to abandon it, to dissolve the noise, the overthinking, the digital perfection,

and return to something primal, instinctive, whole.

Each work is a pulse.

A beat in the chest before the leap.

A whisper of fur, a flash of fang, the glimmer of something ancient beneath our polished skin.

The animal does not ask itself why, it moves.

And in that movement, it becomes free.

But freedom, in this collection, is not peace.

Zanardi paints the struggle between surrender and control.

The surfaces are vivid, explosive, populated by figures that recall childhood fantasies, beasts of dream and delirium.

Yet beneath their playful silhouettes lies a current of unease.

They are not simply animals.

They are us, becoming.

This is not a nostalgic return to nature.

It’s a confrontation with the raw, unscripted self.

The one that feels before it speaks.

The one that aches without needing a reason.

The one that stares into the mirror and does not recognize the polished face, but sees something truer in the shadow.

In the act of painting, Zanardi chases that moment,

the moment before reflection, before interpretation.

A state some call flow, others grace.

He calls it instinct.

And instinct, here, becomes both method and message.

There are no answers in these paintings.

Only questions that prowl.

What if the divine is not a perfection, but a surrender?

What if the machine is not our future, but our prison?

What if salvation lies not in rising above,

but in remembering what it means to crawl, to run, to hunger,

to sleep without guilt?

"I want to be less human," the artist whispers.

And the works respond,

not with clarity, but with the vibrant confusion of being alive.