Many of us, consciously or unconsciously, have already seen a work by Novella Parigini, perhaps fleetingly, out of the corner of our eyes, in the homes of grandparents, friends, or relatives. Novella Parigini's production is extensive and widespread, a testament to the success of the Dolce Vita painter (as she was known in Rome) in the 1950s and 1960s. Today, however, her story, though well documented, is remembered by few. Her art may at times seem dated, but, on the contrary, it remains highly relevant even today. Rapid, vibrant lines cross monochrome backgrounds; the deliberate gesture of the hand dragging the pastel across the paper gives rise to an instantly recognizable iconography. This is how the artist narrates her time, yet, more than fifty years later, we discover that much has remained unchanged.
Novella Parigini in a photograph by Manlio Villoresi, ca. 1950.
Novella Parigini was born in Chiusi, to a noble Sienese family, in 1921. From birth, an aura of mystery surrounded her. Her name, in fact, was not given to her by her parents, but by one of the most important figures in twentieth-century Italian literature: Gabriele D'Annunzio. After the artist's death, several letters between the poet and Novella's mother, Emilia, were discovered, in which D'Annunzio not only suggested her name but also gave her a talisman he believed to be infallible. A sign, perhaps, of a destiny already laid out. Parigini soon proved herself to be a free spirit, determined to break every chain. Curious and courageous, she interacted with the leading figures of the artistic scene of her time. She chose to attend the Academy of Fine Arts in Paris, where she came into contact with Jean-Paul Sartre and became a student of Salvador Dalí. It was in this context that her concept of existentialism was born, a synonym for absolute freedom for her. She also built her persona on this idea: unconstrained by ideology, politics, or sentimentality. Upon returning to Italy, she settled on Via Margutta, in a home-studio that felt like a veritable personal palace. This space was transformed into a literary salon, almost evoking an ancient tradition, frequented by the greatest names of the era. Guests included Hollywood actors such as Brigitte Bardot, Errol Flynn, and Tyrone Power—the former wanted to marry her, the latter was "stolen" by a friend—and artists such as Fellini, Dalí, De Chirico, Sartre, and Cocteau. Novella sat in a throne-like armchair in the center of the studio, surrounded by necklaces, objects, cats, trinkets, and photographs: tangible signs of an "extraordinary" life that, since she was a girl, she had constructed, lived, and narrated to journalists and photographers like a myth, a beautiful fairytale. It is precisely this conscious construction of her persona that firmly places her among the most significant figures of twentieth-century art. Parigini embodies the aura of the "divine" of art, the woman who freed herself from preconceptions and stereotypes, without ever renouncing her charisma. After all, as her mentor Dalí taught, it wasn't enough to be an artist: you had to become a brand. For the first time in the history of art, the artist's brand mattered as much—if not more—than their skill, because it was the brand itself that generated understanding and fascination with their work. In the 1950s, Parigini was at the center of numerous scandals. She walked barefoot, wore men's clothing, flirted—as she liked to point out, only with actors, dukes, and princes—had a daughter without a husband, refused marriage, wore provocative bikinis, and popped buttons under the indignant gaze of puritanical policemen. She flaunted her love affairs, stole boyfriends from her friends, surrounded herself with beautiful women, and strolled around Capri with a lion cub on a leash. She worked naked at home. She is considered the queen of a personal kingdom where sex and social life mix with aristocracy, cinema and culture.
Novella Parigini in Rome
Her painting style reflects everything she saw and learned in Paris. Nonconformist and transgressive, her art combines existentialism and surrealism, anticipating the expressionist traits of Pop Art. The repetition of subjects prefigures the processes of massification that would be made famous a few years later by Andy Warhol. Her figures become icons: ambiguous Madonnas, feline eyes on male and female faces, pronounced cheekbones, full lips, ample breasts. She is the prototype of the contemporary woman, a beauty that seems to anticipate the obsessive search for eternal youth and foretell today's social identity crisis, where the aesthetic ideal becomes a dictate and a promise—often illusory—of happiness and fulfillment. Novella Parigini died in Rome in 1993, after a long illness. Even in death, she left traces of her adventurous life: among the last people to bid her farewell was the Swedish actress Ursula Andress. Until the very end, she insisted on the makeup that always distinguished her—blackened eyes, colored eyelids, red or pale cheeks—maintaining the character's facade until the very end. Today, this great figure of the twentieth century is rarely remembered. The efforts of memory seem to have stopped with the 2006 retrospective in Vicenza, yet Parigini was a sought-after artist throughout the world. She exhibited in New York in the 1950s, in 1962 President Kennedy commissioned a Christ for a church in Texas, and her works still adorn museums and churches worldwide. It's often thought that fame comes after death: it happened to Van Gogh, Schiele, Modigliani. But not everyone does. In fact, more often the opposite happens. The true challenge for an artist begins after their death: does their work evolve silently along with society? Is it understood over time? Is their memory preserved? This is where the art historian's task comes in: to recognize those who shaped their time and prevent their memory from fading. And this is precisely the goal of this new column, which seeks to bring to light the forgotten greats of the twentieth century.
* The text is partially based on the article “La Dolce Vita Loses Its Muse,” by Liliana Madeo, which appeared in La Stampa on October 2, 1993.
