The women of Frusta’s stories are an elusive cornerstone of his work. At first glance we might be tempted to draw a line with saints on one side and sinners on the other. That is too simplistic and far from being right. The traitors are also victims, the petty snakes also giants of independence, the chancers accomplices of our most wonderful dreams. They are rarely made flat by a conventional view. The catalogue is variegated and exciting, and the multi-faceted list extends beyond this individual programme: lion tamers burnt by love, pretend convent girls, madonnas with daggers in their chest, pitiful figures who betray their mothers on their deathbed. Don’t be fooled, you’ll never capture them.

Andrea Meneghelli