Tiger’s Head, 1957
In Tiger’s Head, Ligabue does not merely portray an animal. He confronts us with an emotion, a cry, an inner flash that strikes us head-on. The tiger, framed frontally, opens its jaws to the extreme, teeth bared, tongue tense. It is a roar suspended in time—a pure act of expression that transcends zoology and becomes psychology, pain, identity.
The image fills the entire canvas and is violent, immediate. There is no distance between us and the subject: we are inside that mouth, overwhelmed by what is not just an animal sound, but a cry of the soul. The black stripes across the muzzle resemble cuts, emotional nerves. The slightly crossed eyes intensify the tension. Everything is exaggerated—and for that very reason, intensely alive.
Ligabue knew inner roaring well. Isolation, misunderstanding, marginalization from the “normal” world all condense here. The tiger—fierce and solitary—is the artist’s double, both powerful and fragile. Its expression is not aggressive, but desperate. As if the roar were not a threat, but a way to exist, to be heard.
The background landscape is secondary: blue sky, clouds, a few blades of grass—almost symbolic details, suggesting that the surrounding nature remains still while the tiger explodes. The contrast between calm and fury heightens the drama.
With a vivid palette and a nervous brushstroke, Ligabue delivers one of his most memorable images. Tiger’s Head is both portrait and confession. It is not simply observed—it is confronted. And in the silence of the exhibition, that roar continues to vibrate within us. It is not only the tiger’s voice. It is also our own.