Federico Fiorentini is a perennial traveler: extraneous to the concept of a place reached or to be reached. You can’t tell if he has just arrived or if,  

as he is leaving, he stops to steal an image chosen within the spreading fabric of places like New York.  The canvas, subsequent to the click of the camera, has the same proportions of the moment he captures. Something draws us into his paintings, in a physical sense: the depth of the places, both in vertical perspective, with our gaze forced upward by the rising walls of the buildings. 

The same marvel can be found in his other paintings in a horizontal sense: streets sink in the traffic and sidewalks lose their length with people  continually underway, doing what they do.  Obviously, it’s the eye of the painter that creates this geometric depth. Or better, it’s the position of the person who finds him/herself looking at the painting: the perspectival reality is reinforced not only by the vanishing points, but also  by the fact that often Fiorentini’s canvases are huge and therefore engage the figure of the observer standing in front of his cityscapes.  

Andrea Mello

Fiorentini never attempts to create a hyperrealist copy of the photographic image. Instead, some passages are so confused it seems 

The color invests the capacity of light to define perfectly reality. The color does not identify or give meaning to the object: the meaning undeniably

pre-exists the image. The city, the people are captured. Their nudity is captured, their true being, in the acuteness of the eye of the observer.

Nothing more. The ‘more’ is seen in and by the color that softens the forms. The color is the trace left by the author. 

The color is the passage of the eye over the scene, the image of an instant, of time.  Andrea Mello

Large canvas, lost corners of big cities, human images like tinted shadows, often depicted from the back, while going away, parked cars, silent streets, inhabited buildings, all treated with a sort of melancholy affection, tender piety.

 On deserted and lonely lanes, on facades with iron fire-escapes or neon signs, mostly off or hardly lit, in empty cars life has stopped, the passer-by seems devoid of corporalità, emptied, soft and light shell of air, caught while going toward nothingness. Everywhere one sees the traces of life

that seems over, traces of a loss of sense. A story that is finished.

The wealth of punctual details evidences the absence of life as well as the lack of dynamism, emptiness and silence. - Luca S. Verrone