Cretto Grande is an impressive, surreal vision. Like a sheet stretched out on the green of the hill. Burri has transformed tragedy into a work of art. He has compacted the rubble, tracing the map of the destroyed town, and then covered it with cement. He performed an exercise of crystallization of memory and pain. The result was a footprint, like a shroud on the ruins of that small town. Cretto is pure magic. You have to go there, immerse yourself in those outlined streets, caress the physical matter from which it is made, listen to the silence of the wind. Only in this way is it possible to fully capture the force that emanates from the place. It contains many meanings. It is a labyrinth, an architecture, a monument. It hides the remains of the town, but you never have the feeling of being in front of a tombstone. It is more like a dream, a trip down memory lane that takes a memory into the future. Cretto is physical matter. it is rough, porous cement. With unpolished walls, as the artist wanted. The physicality of the place almost seems to envelop you as you lose yourself inside. It is a fundamental element. The almost uniform color, the rounded corners of the crossroads that all look identical. Matter seems to coagulate sensations. You feel the need to touch, caress and blend with those walls. Cretto is time; frozen but also suffered. The years have created wounds. The surface has been broken and the iron of the inner soul has come out. Some plants have grown here and there. Cement has been transformed, it has come to life. As if that place had an inner force pressing to get out. Time also means old age. A veil of gray covers the original whiteness. Mold creeps in and marks the walls with its long black streaks. Like the face of an imperfect and wrinkled man.
