Albino Mattioli’s paintings carve spaces of light from suggestions of the past. Rome, Calcutta, New York, Atlanta—the overwhelming power of the city, the tragic persistence of nature, landscapes, and visions infused with nightmares of light. “I live the light and the suggestion of the past,” says Mattioli. “A light that is lost. Something that we always lose; something we are not able to preserve.” Once, in Calcutta, he saw a man with eyes the color of mud shooting heroin in the middle of the crowded bazaar. Life itself streamed around him like water past a stone. A light that is lost. Walking one day (he walked everywhere then), he saw the luminous shadows of street kids dancing before a window display of high-definition screens. Something that we constantly lose. In one painting, a field of negative light resolves into a dark head, eyes effaced, and mouth collapsed. Something we are not able to preserve. In another, the earth becomes the light, and the sky becomes a seeping wound. Do not avert your gaze; Mattioli’s work ensures that we never should want to.