The Colosseum was the great arena of ancient Rome. Today's gladiators wear helmets with face masks, and their arenas shine under floodlights. The fight has stayed the same.
After the game, silence. A shattered helmet in brilliant blue lies in the sand, beside it a torn-open ball. Around the helmet sits the victor's laurel wreath in cadmium yellow – three of its leaves lie on the ground before it. Quinacridone magenta runs from helmet and ball, flows forward and spills over the edge of the picture. The arches of the arena stay black, grey and white; only a torch still burns, and embers glow behind the helmet. The colour names come from the pigments David paints his originals with.
Gloria Ferita tells of the price of victory. Brilliant blue is the fighter, cadmium yellow the glory, quinacridone magenta what it has cost. Every fight demands a stake, every victory leaves a wound. The laurel crowns the winner and has still shed leaves: part of the triumph stays in the arena, with what was lost. Whoever wins always gives something up – and whoever loses has fought.
When the noise falls silent, what remains is the peace after the war: the stillness in which it becomes clear what the victory was worth.
In landscape format, the arena opens across the whole wall. Above the sofa, in the study or in the library, Gloria Ferita reminds you of your own battles – the ones you won, and what they cost.
