Looking at Cecchi’s paintings, we immediately notice a chalky white, soaked with the yellow of oxides—a hue that perhaps comes closest to the idea of the placenta, the yolk, the substance that accompanies things in their beginning.

Thus, it is the white of emergence, of birth, of coming into the world, of revelation—and let’s say it, even if the term has been shamefully worn out—of epiphany. [...] What he gazes at is probably his own interiority: explicitly lyrical, elegiac, made of semblances and essential signs; perhaps even organic ones.