Interview

Best known for his facetious art productions, which are as surprising as they are unsettling, Maurizio Cattelan is the ultimate sideliner artist, poking holes in art, art history, monumentality, and nationalism. Take, for instance, Daddy Daddy (2008), the sculpture that Cattelan exhibited last winter at the Guggenheim in New York. A life-size, 3-D version of Disney’s Pinocchio floats face down in the museum’s rotunda pool and, in one gesture, seems to mock the forced optimism of the art world and the authoritative status of the museum. Of course, the 49-year-old Italian artist, who currently lives in New York, has been up to his tricks for quite a while. He described his co-curation of the 2006 Berlin Biennale, which involved looking at 700 artist entries, as an experience akin to “having a gun pointed to your head and smiling while waiting for someone to pull the trigger.” Cattelan speaks here about why the current political and economic climates could surprisingly turn into an opportunity for artists to reclaim their destiny.

MICHELE ROBECCHI: It seems like we’re living in a time where it’s essential to develop a strategy for survival. What’s yours?

MAURIZIO CATTELAN: I don’t think that the big crunch should be seen as a menace, but rather as an opportunity. It’s one of these times in -history—and we have plenty of examples from the past—where it’s possible to really make a difference. And if art is serious about claiming a central role in today’s society and culture, this is the best chance it’s had in ages. The current climate doesn’t represent a threat to the production of art but to the market. I think it’s time for artists to get over auction houses, galleries, and high-production-value exhibitions and start using our voices again.

ROBECCHI: Now, when you say exhibitions and galleries . . .

CATTELAN: I’m not talking about the intrinsic value of exhibitions. I’m criticizing the way they are perceived. I was going through a book of Marina Abramovic and Ulay’s 1970s performance work the other day. These people did two, even three Documentas or Venice Biennales over the course of a decade without any fuss. They would just treat it as any of their other engagements, with the same level of dignity and commitment they’d reserve for a one-day event in a small gallery on the Austrian mountains. Today, large-scale exhibitions are overrated. I’m not saying the 1970s was a golden age—I don’t believe such a thing exists in art . . . It would be like talking about a golden age of science. But it’s true that those were slightly more ideological times, and the relevance of artists wasn’t established by their CVs but by their work.

ROBECCHI: I agree about the market becoming too predominant, but at the same time, don’t you think artists could be partially responsible for this? After all, it takes two to tango. If the system was so rotten, you could have refused to play the game a long time ago.

CATTELAN: Part of the blame can be put at the artists’ door, too—no question. But I see our involvement more as a consequence. When there is too much money at stake, the whole system gets corrupted. Artists can be very vulnerable to these mechanisms.

ROBECCHI: Why?

CATTELAN: It’s in our nature. If you are a plumber, there is an objective way to establish whether you put together a great piping system or not. Art is a bit more slippery than that. So, when you fill a gallery with dirt and someone comes along waving wads of bills, it’s difficult not to take them because they become a tangible acknowledgement that what you’ve been doing actually makes sense.

ROBECCHI: Do you see this vulnerability as a relatively recent phenomenon? Or is it something in artists’ DNA?