Massimiliano Gioni: my job is a typo

PF:  And yes, we can start. We are recording. Yes. Okay, so let’s go. As you know, for those who were here, you have to imagine also the soundtrack. So I will say music and you have to imagine the music.  Okay, let’s go. 

I am Paolo Ferrarini and this is Parola Progetto. 

Music.

Parola Progetto is a podcast of conversations with people whose lives are made of projects, where we explore design in all its forms, without objects or images, simply through words. 

Music. 

Today we are in Brooklyn, hosted by our friends at Salotto, for the third and final night of a series of three very special live events of Parola Progetto. Our guest is Massimiliano Gioni, curator, artistic director of the New Museum in New York and director of the Trussardi Foundation in Milan. Massimiliano is an absolute reference point for art curation. His omnivorous gaze connects contemporary art, objects and spaces with a rare encyclopedic vision. He entered the art world as a critic and journalist for Flash Art, but soon began curating his first exhibitions. In 2003, he was called to lead the Trussardi Foundation, a nomadic museum that organizes exhibitions and public art interventions in forgotten palazzos, public squares and symbolic architectures all around Milan. Among his most renowned projects are Manifesta V in 2004, the Berlin Biennale in 2006 and the 55th Venice Biennale in 2013. He joined the new museum in New York in 2006, and since 2014, he leads the curatorial team and oversees the museum’s exhibitions program. Music. Ciao, Massimiliano. Welcome to Salotto and welcome to Parola Progetto.

MG: Music!

PF:  Okay. I have to say one word, finally. I say this because we attended the legendary DAMS at the University of Bologna. We graduated about 25 years ago. Should I say that number? A few decades ago. Not far apart. You, Massimiliano, with a thesis on Gastone Novelli, so real art, and I with a thesis on footwear design, but with the same professor, Renato Barilli. Over the years, we’ve met quickly at openings, exhibitions, but we’ve never sat down to chat like we are doing today. So, very simple question. What happened in your life during these past 25 years?

MG: You know, the joke I always use is that — maybe like our country — I have a bright future behind me. So, it’s been a while that I do this job, and I think it started professionally probably around 2003. I think I graduated in ’97 or so from university, where we were classmates, and I came to New York at the end of 1999. Among the bragging rights, you know, that everybody has when it comes to New York was that my salary for Flash Art Magazine was 500 dollars a month — wow — which obviously wasn’t a lot. So it came with a few extra jobs. And also, I always joke I was saved by RoseLee Goldberg, who is a great curator and art critic who runs an institution called Performa, because she offered me a room in her house. The idea was that I would, you know, live there for a couple of months as I settled in and found an apartment. But because I was so broke, I stayed there three years. And I was a kind of au pair for her kid — who now has at least one child, maybe two, I don’t know. And yeah, so that was the beginning of my career in New York. Originally as editor of Flash Art Magazine, and then as curator for a few freelance projects. Then I returned to Italy and Europe for a couple of years, and then I’ve been back here since 2006. But, you know, keeping — as we say — a foot in two shoes, and working still a lot in Europe and internationally.

PF:  You fell in love with art as a teenager after reading a book on pop art by Lucy Lippard. Then you spent your high school years diving into the manifestos of the futurists and the works of dadaists. So I have to say you are a true art nerd. There’s no other words that comes to my mind. But what was the moment when you realized that art was something truly interesting to you? Was that the book or something else? Yeah, it was. I mean,

MG: I know this sounds probably completely suspicious, but it’s entirely true. You know, I was born in Busto Arsizio, which is not exactly an artwork capital. I encountered really this book by Lucy Lippard, who then I met many years later, and I thanked her profusely for that. And it was a book about pop art. And I was just very taken by this book, mainly by the pictures, and the texts were incomprehensible to me. But in a way, what clicked, and that continued in the early years of high school, was precisely the fact that most of what I encountered in art was not meant to make sense. Or at least that’s how I perceived it. And you know, in a society, in a life, in a family where everything was very much directed to making sense or having a clear goal, having a cause-effect… so my mom is and was very Catholic, and so, you know, there was a notion of rationality and consequence. And art, suddenly, with pop art, it was mysterious, because I couldn’t understand exactly if it was being critical or not of consumerism. But particularly with the Futurists and the Dadaists and the Surrealists, suddenly there were people who were not making sense, and for whom, you know, A would lead to D and B would lead to F, and that was very liberating. Also, strangely — and that’s something I think a lot about in my job — what made that world attractive was the fact that it was not taught in school. No, you know, certainly not in high school, certainly not in middle school. So it was a world on its own, of which I felt I had some sense of ownership, where my parents weren’t involved. It was more a thing that I would do with my friends, and we were knowledgeable and independent and somewhat alternative with it.

PF:  So you had people you were sharing this experience with. It was not just you in front of the book by yourself.

MG: I don’t want to date myself, but when I was growing up, there was still an alternative culture. I wasn’t a hippie. We met in school also. By the time I got to university, I thought being alternative was because we were in Bologna, which was extremely alternative. Then I became maybe a big contrarian against the idea of being. So when I was growing up as a teenager, it was part of some lifestyle in which art seemed to be alternative. It went together with music. It went together with drugs. It went together with an attempt of being different in probably what was an extremely provincial and conformist environment.

PF:  At 15, you’ve been arrested for graffiti.

MG: There we go. Yes.

PF:  I want the details.

MG: Well, I should also say, at 15 I won a scholarship and I moved to Canada to study. So I was a very, very studious person. But yes, we were into graffiti, into comics. You know, in Europe, probably since the ’80s — this was, I guess, late ’80s — there was a rich tradition also of comics being embedded in the history of art. Or anyway, you know, Frigidaire, which was this alternative magazine from Bologna, is where I actually learned a lot about art also early on. And yes, so we were into graffiti and we were arrested one night as we were painting the walls. And that was particularly complicated because it was the summer before I would leave for my scholarship. So I was nearly losing my visa. I had to go through this very humiliating process of writing an apology to the captain of the Carabinieri. You know, my uncle was a Carabiniere — a retired Carabiniere — so he took me to apologize to him. And that was… and, you know, the night of the arrest was also quite interesting because they held us in the station. And they called our parents because we were all underage. And they called our parents like at 3 a.m., 4 a.m., just to, you know, at the peak of the middle of the night, to freak them out completely. My dad came — in front of, that was very interesting — in front of the cops, he was like, “You should be ashamed of yourselves if you go out arresting teenagers instead of drug dealers.” And so he was defending me, which I thought was very endearing. But then, the moment we left the police station, his position was slightly different. Of course, I’m sure. So those are the details. But actually, it goes back to Bologna now, to speak about more serious things, because another influential book for me was the catalog of the exhibition Arte di Frontiera, which was a book by Francesca Alinovi, who was a critic from Bologna. Sadly, she was killed early on in her life, but she was arguably the first European critic to embrace graffiti art and bring it to Italy. So many graffiti artists actually started out internationally in that exhibition in Bologna. So that was, for a long time, a very influential book for me.

PF: And talking about underground, something that you also did in a sort of underground way was founding an online magazine in the 90s.

MG: Yeah, it was a magazine called Trax, T-R-A-X. And it was, you know, during university I was working a lot in the publishing world. I guess what would be called the cultural industry. And it was a way to support myself. And so I got to know some friends who were a little older, and we started this magazine, which was an art and literature magazine online. It was really at the beginning of the Internet, and we had this idea that we were somewhat inspired by Salon magazine, the American website, to do culture and literature and art. And we had amazing luck. It was early. You could literally — you didn’t Google people, you Altavista’d people. And, you know, you could reach out to amazing… you know, we published Gilbert and George, Tracey Emin, Chris Ofili, Rirkrit Tiravanija, Hans-Ulrich Obrist and many others that we literally just sent emails to. And it was a very exciting moment, and it was all done for free. You know, it was also — it was free for the readers, we were doing it for nothing. And it was actually through that that eventually Flash Art got to know about my work, and I started working with them. All this could be fake, by the way, that I’m telling.

PF: It’s not online anymore. Are there any traces left?

MG: I won’t tell you, but no, I think there are… you know, that was also an amazing thing. Like, we had this meeting with — I think it was called Micanet — the provider, and we went there asking for space on their server, and they said yes. And we thought, wow, this is incredible. And then IBM gave us a little money to make a magazine. It was a sense — actually, among the claims to fame, we wrote to Jeff Bezos to ask for an interview, and he replied through his assistant. And eventually the interview never happened because he asked for the questions, and I guess the questions were too stupid. But it was quite impressive. You could actually send an email — and now I’m not really making this up — you could send an email to Jeff Bezos and get an answer in, I think, ’96, ’95, when that was happening.

PF:  These are details. I’m learning a lot about the years when I was at university. I don’t know what I was doing, but anyway, you were doing much more than I did. Anyway, something I know from those years that one of the activities you had in the cultural business was translating romance novels.

MG: Yes.

PF:  And you also worked on an opera dictionary.

MG: Yeah, the opera dictionary was around 1996, and that was a proper job. I mean, also the translating Harlequin novels, or Mills & Boon’s novels — those are romance novels. In Italy, you can buy them in… well, they used to be newsstands. I used to joke I learned more synonyms for the word nipple in that year than — you know, come up with lots of nautical metaphors for orgasms. Because, you know, there are a lot of words that you cannot use. And so you had to — you know — there was a lot of waves, and a lot of tides, and things like that. And then eventually I decided to give precedence to my dignity and I stopped. But it was, you know, it was actually decent. One could make a living by translating three to four novels a month. But it was really not… this is actually the truth. Also, when I went to study art history in Bologna, I never thought I would make a living out of contemporary art. So basically, throughout my life, I thought living with art and being involved with art would be my free time passion, and I had to support myself with other jobs. So there were many crazy editorial jobs, like the Harlequins. There were… I translated many obscure books that should remain such.

PF:  Do you feel more like a curator or a critic? Because these are two terms that sometimes they’re very different, sometimes they’re interchangeable.

MG: Yeah, I mean, I think to put things in perspective, you know, right now, you know, everything is curated. But it’s hard to believe — in the ’90s, it was a word that wasn’t so used. And even as I was growing up, I always made a joke that — also beginning of 2000 — if you wrote “curator” in Microsoft Word, it would highlight it as a mistake. You know, so I used to joke that my job was a typo. But so growing up, you know, people like Germano Celant or Achille Bonito Oliva, they were described and recognized as critics. So as I was growing up, I would think I would become a critic. Little I knew — and I know some of you in the audience are too — that being a writer is not exactly a viable financial proposition. And it’s become, paradoxically, the most hurt profession in a world that actually has grown financially.

But to me, it had a lot to do with coming here also — that I came to the States and I was not a native speaker. Even though I had lived in Canada when I was a teenager, so I certainly could speak and write in English, but I couldn’t write with the same proficiency and complexity that I did in Italian. And also, I guess, my temperament, my character, is more interested in making things.

You know, I always think that the critic — the way we imagine the critic, or certain critics, particularly newspapers like, you know, Roberta Smith or so on — is a figure that comes into the room once the show is installed and judges it, right? And gives a license of good and bad art. And I think as a curator you are somewhat closer to the genesis of the artwork. And you are — I mean — an accomplice to the artist. You can be. And you have to be equally critical, but you are on the side of making the artwork be born. And you’re certainly — you’re never in a kind of objective distance with the artist or the artwork. You are certainly compromised and close.

And I thought that that, paradoxically, was the way in which people like Tristan Tzara or Breton or Marinetti — you know — they were the spokesperson of the artist. They were together with the artist. And so I found naturally gravitating towards curating, probably for kind of character reason, and also simply because I didn’t speak English as well as I spoke Italian. And I felt that by making shows, I could express myself in a way that was… you know, not attached to language.

PF: Is there a right question to ask ourselves when standing in front of a work of contemporary art?

MG: No, I mean, first of all, the first accomplishment is being there and standing in front of it, which is a… no, there is a lot of threshold fear. I mean, in America it’s different, but I think in Italy there is still a suspicion — or, let’s say, in New York it’s different. I think for some people, the idea of even going to a museum or a gallery is still a bit of an anxiety-generating prospect.

And that’s also why I like New York so much — you know, the offer. And you can see 400 exhibitions for free in galleries. So there is not… or let’s put it this way: the act of asking the question is probably the most important contribution that art has to offer. You know, the fact that you stand there, puzzled — you know, “What does this thing want from me?” There is a beautiful book by W. J. Mitchell titled What Do Pictures Want? And I think it’s a wonderful question.

You know, it’s not the question you’re asking yourself — it’s a question that the artwork is asking you. And that’s the beauty of it. And, you know, every time it’s renewed with contemporary art — that you go to a place and this thing is asking you: What am I? How can you understand me?

I always say that there is an aspect of art that has to do with being confronted with a question of not knowing, and that prepares us for a life in which we don’t know a lot. And I think being open to that feeling of ignorance and questioning probably makes our life a bit better. If we were used to trying to understand what faces us all the time, I think we would be better people.

PF: There’s a lot of money circulating around art in particular when you are in a city such as New York you see that very very clearly there’s a lot of wonderful public art there’s private galleries you see the prices and they look insane sometimes but Is the amount of money that is circulating around art a good thing or a bad thing?

MG: It’s good in the way that it has amplified the world of art enormously — for bad and for worse. I don’t think it’s that… you know, it wasn’t cheap to get Michelangelo to do the Sistine Chapel. You know, it’s always been — and I don’t mean this cynically — there has been a close relationship between wealth and art for centuries. And, you know, again, as we started art history, the whole relationship between patrons and merchants and art is as old as the world.

I think you still should be able to disconnect — and not naively — from it. You know, I was saying recently, like, if you know that the Sistine Chapel was painted in two different times… but in the 16th century, certainly the Roman Catholic Church in that moment wasn’t the nicest kingdom in the world. In conversations around colonialism and so on, they were probably what today you would describe as a genocidal empire. Still, they were commissioning Michelangelo to do first the vault and then The Last Judgment.

Are we meant not to look at it? Are we meant not to… I think you’re meant to look at it and be aware of also all those tensions — but still, you can appreciate it. And, you know, famously, Walter Benjamin says, “There is no document of civilization that is not also a document of barbarism.” No? So there is no wealth that didn’t have other consequences.

As long as you’re aware of that, I think you can still enjoy — or maybe the enjoyment is being aware of different tensions coexisting. Which goes back to, you know, that question that the artwork asks you. It’s not, “Am I pretty?” or “How do I look?” but, “How did I get here? Who paid for me? Who wants me here?” And many other questions that, I think, just keep your intelligence awake. And I think it’s problematic if you turn your back to those questions.

PF: Since our university days, our dear mutual friend Marco Altavilla and I have been arguing about the meaning of art. He insisted that art should make you think, while I believe it should primarily have an aesthetic value. To oversimplify, art as a provocation versus art as beautification. Between these two extremes, where do you place yourself?

MG: I’m still a punk at heart. I think that art needs to be somewhat uncomfortable. There is a great painting by Ed Ruscha, which is a terrible image — it says “Sand in the Vaseline.” Art needs to be the sand in the Vaseline. It needs to be something that jams the system. It can’t be a lubricant. But that, again, is not exclusive. You can have an aesthetic and a static experience also towards something that is so shocking and disturbing. And so, again, I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. But I do think great art is somewhat uncomfortable. You’re not on social media, right?

PF: Is that a choice that is a sort of ideological choice?

MG: No, it’s more to do with time. You know, I have a lot of emails to answer every day and messages. And so if I have to put into my schedule, also check in. I do have an Instagram account that I used to look at people rather than post, but I just can’t have more media of communication.

PF: And you don’t use social media as a research tool?

MG: What do you mean?

PF: I mean, to search for new artists or search for new names, new trends?

MG: No. I also had a funny experience with Facebook where an artist made a fake profile for me, and that was also quite interesting. It’s basically impossible to get somebody to stop pretending to be you. You know, I had to go to the police and blah, blah, blah. And this was in Italy. And it was just impossible to have them stop. Which, I guess, is ironic for somebody who pretended to be Maurizio Cattelan for a few years. Yes. It was with his permission — let’s put it that way.

PF: Your colleague, Paola Antonelli, senior curator at MoMA, she was here a few nights ago, believes that museums are the research and development centers of society. You’ve described museums as gyms for complexity, places where we learn to live with what we don’t understand. How do you see the evolution of the contemporary museum?

MG: It’s an infinitely complicated question — particularly complicated in New York nowadays. Or, let’s say, nowadays… it started maybe shortly before 2020, and then it got somehow accelerated after 2020. You know, we still live in a moment in which, mysteriously — and I take that as a great compliment — museums are held to standards that no other institutions in America are held to. I mean, certainly not the presidency. You know, the presidency can lie, and swear, can do — you know — and many other institutions are not called to terms with the same scrutiny as museums.

You know, museums are expected now to be in the field of social justice. They are expected to scrutinize the money that supports them, and to be extremely aware and careful with where their money comes from. They’re expected to refuse that money if it’s even tinted with distant — or more or less distant — relationships.

So I guess all that demonstrates that museums and art do have a place. They become somewhat the last phantasm of an idea of democracy that we have given up in any other field.

It makes it very hard, though, because, you know, they’re impossible standards to withhold, frankly. And particularly, they become more and more difficult when you’re faced with financial decisions and costs that are more and more complicated. But I do think there is clearly — and also, if you think of all the demonstrations, the climate protests — the fact that they hit on museums, again, it’s probably a sign that those are places that matter to people. It’s not just a matter of communication.

I think there is still a belief in the institution of the museum as a crucial place — maybe a battleground for democracy. And I take that as a great compliment, a great responsibility. I don’t know if it’s a fair question, or if it’s fair to expect so much from museums.

We expect from artists probably equally unreasonable behaviors. You know, now we live in a moment in which the artist has to be a kind of angel — completely desexualized, you know, good in every aspect. When I was growing up, you know, the artist was somewhat meant to be immoral. And by being immoral, he or she would transform morality at large — because he or she would lead as an example of revolutionary behavior that would transform everyday life.

So, you know, many of these assumptions also change historically. So that’s also what’s important to keep in mind — that, you know, these too shall pass. But I do think we live, particularly in the United States, in a moment in which the expectations around museums are as frightening as they are exciting — because they’re expected to deliver on so many levels. Which is probably impossible. But they remain, somewhat, crucial in people’s imagination.

PF: In a recent interview, you said that art and the museum is a place of madness, not morality. What’s the next madness you’ll be putting on display?

MG: I mean, I think that’s what he… I didn’t know if I said that it is currently, but what he used… what sometimes, I think, people have looked to art for. I don’t know. Most immediate projects of sheer madness — I mean, there are, you know, there are many that I’ve done, and probably many others. I’m trying to have some vehicles fly in the New Museum when it opens next year. You know, I also think — whenever I make shows, this is more, you know, shop talk — when I work on a show, I always like to have elements of craziness, impossibility. And those can range from, you know, having to fill out a swimming pool with thousands of gold blankets, or have a presentation at the museum of 3,000 photographs of people with teddy bears. You know, there has to be a challenge within the exhibition that makes it impossible — that literally gives you insomnia. Not because of, you know, delusions of grandeur — or maybe because of that — but because I think then people connect with the exhibition on a more emotional level.

You know, if they step into a room and see something that seems slightly impossible, the whole experience gets more exciting and more rewarding.

PF: This is also what you did with your Venice Biennale 11 years ago. The theme was the Encyclopedic Palace. If you were asked to curate a second edition today, what would you add to the original journey? Is there next levels of knowledge that could be added?

MG: No, I mean, I wouldn’t do a second episode. You know, I think also when you work on shows like Venice, you kind of try to take the temperature of the world you’re in and react to it — or against it. So I don’t know what… first of all, nobody’s going to ask me to do it again, so it’s a fake, false problem. But yeah, I don’t know. I haven’t really, really thought about it. That show, in a way, also had a lot to do with a moment of explosion of information that now probably seems naive. I did a show in Gwangju, in Korea, three years before that Venice Biennale, and it was a show about the relationship between people and images. And both shows literally had thousands and thousands of objects. And back then — you know, 2010 — it was only three years since the introduction of the iPhone and the camera phone. And so certain ideas around the volatility of image seemed new. And, you know, the kind of feeling under siege by images. And also, when I did the Venice Biennale, it was about information and knowledge. And what has happened in 10, 11 years in terms of misinformation and knowledge is… you know, back then I could still have an idea — and an affection — for people who wanted to know everything, knowing that they were also doomed to fail. Now, even, you know, knowing the truth seems to be a provocative proposition. So I think, you know, things constantly change. And, you know, going back also to your question about criticism and curating, I think curating has embedded in itself the fact that you have to renew the questions you ask yourself. You know, criticism is more to do about — or at least that’s how I envision it — having some principles. And I don’t want to sound cynical and completely opportunistic, but, you know, the critic, in my mind, has some sort of principles that were fixed. The curator knows that he or she has to interrogate himself every time a new generation of artists then asks new questions.

PF: Is there one artwork that you’d never get tired of contemplating?

MG: I don’t contemplate much, to tell you the truth. You know, a lot of curating, or at least for me — I call it action criticism — going back, you know, a lot is akin to going through a divorce. Fortunately, I haven’t been through it. You know, there is a lot of talk of money, a lot of more or less passive-aggressive comments and behaviors with the artist. It’s a lot about editing, about, you know… so there isn’t much room for contemplation. It’s a lot of action and convincing and fighting and cutting budget, finding money. But the good news is you put all that work in so that then the viewer can come and contemplate. Of course, you know, there are works and artists that I often think about, and they go in phases. I also tend to change a lot about my appreciation for some artists and others. But yeah, I often answer — you know, there is this work by Piero Manzoni which is called Le Socle du Monde, The Pedestal of the World, which is a pedestal where it’s written upside down, and by extension it means that the entire world is an artwork. So I think that’s maybe an artwork that stays in my mind, because it transforms everything into an artwork.

PF: So this is also one of the reasons why you put so many different things inside of your exhibition so you Ancient art, but also objects, sometimes design objects and artifacts.

MG: I mean, you know, first of all, I say I’m a maximalist because it’s in my name. Second is my curatorial motto. I joke, I borrow it from — you know, there is a spurious but supposedly famous exchange between Lou Reed and Andy Warhol when Warhol used to produce The Velvet Underground. Supposedly, Lou Reed asked Warhol, do you think our songs are too long? And Warhol said, no, no, always leave them wanting less — you know, which means just, you know, keep going until. And so I like to make shows that are, as we say in Italian, as full as an egg, you know, and it’s for a few reasons. It’s David Weiss, who is an artist who sadly died in 2012, told me something about a show of his together with Peter Fischli. He said they made it so big so you couldn’t remember it. And that was something he actually learned from Walt Disney, because supposedly Walt Disney had this idea that when you were in Disney World, you should not see the outside. And so David thought, you know, you have to make shows that are so big that you can’t fully remember it, so you go back. I also like them to be full in such a way that they can compete with the siege of digital images. You know, how many images have you seen today? Probably, I don’t know, thousands. But then when you go to museums, you’re expected to contemplate a single object in what I call bovine stupor. And I want to try to make shows that are competing with the amount of images you’ve seen today, but with images that have an intensity and a complexity that is superior to the one you have in the cell phone. I also want people to kind of get lost and ideally not look at their phone. So I just want them to be surrounded by images to a point that it gets a little maddening. And, you know, not necessarily everybody likes it, but that’s how I can do shows. And, you know, I had an art teacher who told me, if you can’t make it good, make it big. And I still go by that principle. Do you observe people in your exhibitions? Yeah, I’m a little maniacal. You know, a nice thing about the New Museum is that the offices are there and it has elevators. So I go through the shows multiple times, like at least once a day. And I look at people. But I’m also — I mean, maybe a little pretentious — I’m not a fan of the notion, this is maybe an Italian–American divide, I’m not a fan of the notion that the viewer or the client knows what they should see. You know, I always thought when I came to New York, you know, if you go and buy a sandwich in New York, you can choose the bread, you can choose the mayo, you can choose the cheese, you can choose… so, you know, you make your own sandwich. If you go to Italy, you get a sandwich, and the sandwich belongs to the chef until it’s in your mouth — and then you like it or not. In America, the sandwich belongs to you the moment you order it and you shape it. I don’t think museums should act like the deli in America. I don’t think the viewer knows, but that may be probably completely pretentious and not so savvy about audience. And that goes back also to the notion, is art uncomfortable or not? I think they should come to have an experience that is choreographed — not by me — but choreographed by the artist and constructed to even get in their way. I don’t like when the experience of going to museums is so fluid that it becomes a little music on the elevator. It’s not that I believe going to a museum should be an effort, but I don’t think it should be as comfortable as wearing flip-flops in public — which, there is nothing wrong, but the museum should not be the flip-flop of us.

PF: At least not your museum. Talking about the New Museum, now it’s closed for renovation. What’s going to happen next year with that museum?

MG: Well, we are doubling the spaces, and we have a new building designed by Rem Koolhaas and Shohei Shigematsu, and they are integrating the interior. So that’s the reason why we are closed — because we are joining, you know, from outside, they look like two separate buildings, but on the inside, they are integrated. And so it will open again next year. Many people ask me what I do while we are closed, which I think is a crazy question, because they assume I sell the tickets at the museum and give tours. I’m doing — I want to go on the record — I’m doing what I do all the time, which is to work on shows. And to a certain extent, it doesn’t matter if we are open or closed. You know, we’re working on the next shows.

PF: In preparation for the Parola Progetto events in New York, I reached out to previous guests and asked them if they had questions for you, for Paola Antonelli and Debbie Millman. I received many responses, and the following questions are a selection of these replies that I got from previous guests — from the alumni of Parola Progetto. From Alberto Cavalli, director of the Fondazione Cologni and Homo Faber: Will the artists of the future need to be more like artisans of their own work, crafting their artistic visions directly without intermediaries?

MG: No, I don’t think… I mean, what do I know? I’m certainly not a prophet — if I were, I wouldn’t be here tonight. I don’t think so. You know, I think it will be whatever each artist wants them to be. You know, there are artists nowadays that are very crafty, there are others that literally phone things in. I don’t think there is a rule.

PF: Patrick Abbattista, founder of Design Wanted, he’s asking: how do you see technology impacting art today?

MG: Well, that’s a big theme — a theme that, in a way, I’m attached to since a long time. Um, but ultimately, I don’t see it in any different way than it has been. You know, perspective was a technology. You know, using gold leaf was a technology. So I think artists innovate, transform — they decide how to use that technology. I don’t… you know, maybe the distribution of art changes more through technology, but again, I… you know, I’m getting to the point — I’ve seen also some industries disappear. You know, the record industry, the print industry. I hope — you know — I hope it’s not the museum industry to disappear next. But I think it’s more frightening, in a way, the way in which technology affects distribution more than the making. Because the making — every artist uses technology how he or she or they want to.

PF: Massimo Giacon, designer and illustrator: in your Biennale you featured Robert Crumb among the exhibited artists, and it caused quite a stir. The comic world has been debating for years whether comics or graphic novels are art or not. Do you think this is still a valid question?

MG: You know, it’s funny because as I grew up — as I was saying — comics had such an impact also on my life. You know, the reason why we got arrested was because we, as graffiti artists, were painting a huge number 30 on a wall, because the 30th level was in the graphic novel Rank Xerox. Rome is developed vertically, and the 30th floor is where all the scum of the earth lives. And so, you know, I always loved people from, you know, Rank Xerox. And I remember having fights with my family, whether or not Crepax and Valentina were pornography, you know, growing up. Obviously, I was saying no, but I wasn’t certainly looking at it for its formal qualities. But if there is something that maybe is my contribution to exhibition-making, it’s that in my shows there is no difference — particularly in the group shows — there is no difference between art and non-art. I think for me it was actually very liberating, and it took a while, when I understood that you could put things in exhibitions — and paradoxically I learned that from artists and from more historical museums — you can put things in exhibitions that are not artworks. And that lends an understanding of visual culture. You know, I think of my shows as visual culture. So, in a way, it’s not a problem. I’m not giving out a license. You know, when I put Crumb, I’m less interested in… of course, I think Crumb is an amazing artist, but I’m not giving out a license that says he’s as great as Michelangelo. If anything, I’m more interested in what happens to looking at Michelangelo in the vicinity of Crumb. You know, what if Michelangelo and Crumb were closer relatives, rather than what if Crumb now enters the pantheon of artists? You know, the challenge is really: can we actually lower — and not because it’s perverse — but I think you learn more. You learn more also about your consumption of images if you treat all images as equal, no? And then start distinguishing between intensity and quality of images, but it doesn’t matter if they’re art or not.

PF: Last one, from Luca Nichetto, designer: what is the role of fairs and trade shows today? Should they be purely commercial events, or should they be curated like exhibitions?

MG: I don’t know what their role is. Certainly, they are places of information. They are watering holes. They are places where people sell and buy art. For me, they remain commercial at heart. But what I’m sad about is that, particularly when it comes to politics and administration, there has been a shift from making biennials to making fairs. You know, until 10 years ago — maybe 20 years ago — every decent mayor in a city dreamt of having a biennial. Nowadays, they dream of having a fair. And that’s a little sad, you know, and that has taken away a lot of resources for making art and so on. But on the other hand, I go to fairs, I learn a lot. It’s a convenient way to share information. And, you know, ultimately, again, the more art, the better. It just makes you, I think, more awake and ultimately smarter. You know, I think even bad art just awakens your senses and your intelligence. And it’s like seeing your life twice. I always think that. That always strikes me — particularly about beautiful solo exhibitions — that you go through it and you wonder, how on earth did this artist make all this? And that’s why I also like shows that are packed, because I want people to go through and ask themselves, how has this person made and done so much in their life? You know, famously, Henri-Pierre Roché, who’s a great writer, said about Duchamp that his greatest masterpiece was his use of time. And whenever I go through shows, I think, how can they do so much? Or how is their life structured to allow for all that? And the beauty of it is that, basically, you’re seeing the artworks, but you’re seeing a life. And it’s like you’re given the opportunity to live somebody else’s life through those works. So even when the art is bad, you still get a second life. And that’s pretty cool. You know, it’s — yeah — you’re living twice, or three times, or four times. And, you know, life is short. A way to overcome that is to multiply your life experience through other people’s artworks.

PF: Massimiliano, it’s time for La Raffica. La Raffica is a classic segment of Parola Progetto. As you know, raffica means burst, and this round features a rapid-fire set of 10 either-or questions. We’re looking for sharp answers, but there are two bonuses: you get one chance to pass and one opportunity to elaborate. But of course, we set the rules, so we do whatever we want. Okay, let’s begin. Abstract art or figurative art?

MG: Art. You know, Enzo Cucchi, the Italian Transavanguardia painter, used to have a business card in the ’80s that said, “Enzo Cucchi, figurative painter.” And I always loved that. I don’t know. I tend to be more a figurative curator — let’s put it that way.

PF: Okay, so elaboration. You have one bonus less. Board games or card games?

MG: Can I call home?

PF: No. This is not “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”!

MG: Can I ask for that? Games. I like games in general. It doesn’t matter.

PF: Sea or mountains?

MG: Surf and turf. I don’t know. Both. I like both. I’m clearly ecumenical about my taste.

PF: One impossible evening of conversations with Caravaggio or with Cézanne?

MG: Caravaggio.

PF: The audience said, Cézanne, why Caravaggio?

MG: I’m sure it would be a more eventful evening than looking at a pear with Mr. Cézanne, you know.

PF: City loft or mountain chalet?

MG: What the hell is that?

PF: These are stupid questions, that’s the thing.

MG: I think probably city loft or city chalet.

PF: A city chalet? That could be the title of an exhibition, “City Chalet”. Live concert, arena or small club?

MG: Arena, probably.

PF: A way to relax, long novels or short stories?

MG: It depends in which city, if I can elaborate. In New York, I find reading long novels extremely challenging. So short stories in New York, long novels in Milan.

PF: Your retirement, working or relaxing?

MG: Working, probably.

PF: You’re gifted $10, 000 to spend in just one hour. Do you buy books or buy art?

MG: Books, probably.

PF: Your future, in the city or in the countryside?

MG: I mean, first of all, there is a question of if either will exist in the future. Not to be pessimistic. So I leave it to that. Yeah.

PF: So, you didn’t respect one single rule of La Raffica, but La Raffica is done. So, thank you. Guys, are there any questions from the audience?

Audience: Hi. So, my question — I was interested in the point you made when you said that art has to be uncomfortable, that you think that. So I was curious, like, you know, I wanted to ask you to elaborate: why does it have to be uncomfortable, and what do you mean by that?

MG: You know, I can’t be prescriptive, you know, about what art should be. And I should say that I do like art that is uncomfortable, that makes me feel uncomfortable, that makes me question my beliefs. But of course, art can be anything that artists and culture believe that art is. But yes, I do like when art kind of pulls the rug under your feet, or when you’re confronted with an experience that you never thought you could make. I think that’s what is great about art. I think a lot of bad art you could think you could do. And I also hate the distinction between bad and good art. But when you’re confronted with an artwork that you could have never imagined doing, that is inevitably uncomfortable. Because it’s like seeing a portion of you that you had no idea was within you. It goes back to what I was saying — being confronted with what you don’t understand. Ultimately, I think the experience of art, the most rewarding experience of art, is being confronted with something you didn’t know was possible. Whether it’s bringing two colors together in a way you’ve never seen it, or making something. So, being confronted with something that you didn’t know was possible can be fearful, can be a shock, can transform your assumptions. And by that, I mean uncomfortable. I’m also uncomfortable spilling out all these platitudes like they were meaningful. I would suggest some skepticism towards everything I’m saying.

Audience: We learned that you like games in the burst.

MG: Who doesn’t?

Audience: Do you think that, like comics you were discussing before, they can move on the boundary of art and pop culture?

MG: Yeah, I mean, absolutely. Yeah, it’s — you know, I think the definition of art is very broad. And actually, you know, it’s often sad when it gets restricted. And so I think, you know, you can love anything. And I guess what makes it art is a level of strangeness about it that goes back to what I was saying — that it confronts you with an experience you didn’t think you could have. And yeah, you know, I think in my shows I’m very partial to thinking that everybody’s welcome. Holland Cotter once said that art has open arms, and I think it’s such a wonderful definition. No, it does welcome anybody — it welcomes the lunatic in the madhouse, literally, and the professional artist. And so, who am I to really create hierarchies in the exhibition? Of course, I always inevitably have to leave some things out — I can’t include everything. But it’s also beautiful to think that art is anywhere. And comics have proven over and over again that it’s an access, again, to a life. What I like about comics, what I like about art, is particularly that somebody sat there and spent time to tell a story that was individual and personal. And if you can, when you’re making the show, translate that experience, it can be very rewarding, because again, you live vicariously the life of others through these objects that they’ve left behind.

PF:  The last question for the podcast. Could you recommend a book that has been important to you, the one book that we should all read?

MG: Jeez. I mean, I can’t. . .

PF:  This is the most difficult question.

MG: I mean, we can stay here all night. I wouldn’t recommend any theory, even though many books were incredibly influential. You know, we studied in Bologna — basically, the entire bibliography of Umberto Eco has been extremely influential for me. I think novels, in a way, are…

PF:  Maybe one of the novels that you translated.

MG: No!

PF: Do you remember one title?

MG: I don’t even remember those titles. [Maybe] The Pirate and the Queen. No, I don’t know. Earlier I mentioned Rocher — you know, Jules and Jim is an amazing novel and movie. I’ve been working and thinking a lot about science fiction, and Solaris by Stanislaw Lem is an amazing novel. Extremely pertinent now that we think about robots and replicants. I don’t know — I mean, sadly, what I hate about my job is that I mainly read emails now more than novels. But I think novels, again, they offer you the possibility of living somebody else’s life, and that’s quite something.

PF: So thank you Massimiliano, grazie.

Episode recorded in Brooklyn at Salotto NYC on October 23, 2024, and published on December 1, 2024.

The transcription was generated using artificial intelligence tools and subsequently edited by the author.

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