Читать книгу Maurizio Cattelan: All - Maurizio Cattelan - Страница 8
Оглавлениеfig. 9 L.O.V.E., 2010
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political dimensions
The true history of the work is the history of a difficulty repeating itself. I’ve also started to think about the difficulty of being Italian, having a heritage, relationships with other artists, being a member of a community with a history.40
FROM the beginning, Cattelan has refused the mantle of revolutionary provocateur. He claims that his art merely holds up a mirror to society, like Warhol’s bland and at-times glamorizing looking glass, without commentary or judgment. Though it often touches cultural, political, and social nerves with unflinching honesty, the work offers no opinion or call to action. It simply reflects, he asserts, what he witnesses around him. “I actually think that reality is far more provocative than my art. . . . I just take it; I’m always borrowing pieces—crumbs really—of everyday reality. If you think my work is very provocative, it means that reality is extremely provocative, and we just don’t react to it. Maybe we no longer pay attention to the way we live in the world. . . . We are anesthetized.”41 Despite these claims to a certain indifference, however, and his work’s comedic air, Cattelan’s art often offers incisive critiques of specific political events or developments on the world stage. Much of his early work in particular revolved around Italian identity and the tensions of the country’s ever-shifting political landscape, changing populace, and stagnant national economy.
The Italy of his youth was politically turbulent, with the student uprisings of 1968 in Europe and the United States catalyzing unrest from both the Left and the Right in cities throughout the country, including especially Padua, Bologna, and Rome. The 1970s were marked by violent terrorist activities, which led to the era being termed at first the Opposti Estremismi (extreme opposition) and then later the Anni di Piombo (years of lead). Padua, home to the second-largest university in Italy, emerged as a center for the Autonomia Operaia (autonomy movement), which advocated a decentralized form of Marxism. Galvanized by the proliferation of pirate-radio transmissions in Italy (in Padua it was Radio Sherwood) and numerous journals (including Padua’s Autonomia), the movement promoted an everyday, working-class resistance to capitalism, one that took as its guiding principle the Situationist notions of disruption from within and détournement, appropriating and altering elements of the dominant order to use for different, more populist ends. For example, the Autonomists called for absenteeism and deliberate workplace slowdowns instead of mass strikes. While neither Cattelan nor his family were ever directly involved in the political milieu of his hometown, the coincidence of attitudes is striking, and one can argue that both the artist’s own aversion to work and his disdain for direct social activism ultimately had such intellectual roots. In one of his first mature works, Campagna elettorale (Electoral campaign, 1989, cat. no. 5), Cattelan took out an advertisement in the national daily newspaper La Repubblica as well as in papers in Bologna that declared, “Il voto è prezioso/TIENITELO” (Your vote is precious/KEEP IT), signed with an official-looking stamp for the Cooperativa Romagnola Scienziati (Romagna scientists cooperative), a fake workers’ collective he was using at the time as a nom de plume. In his cynical disregard for the potential of political agency, and for the power of labor organizations as a force for change, the artist jokingly encouraged voter apathy—which, in an inverted way, constituted a form of protest.
Cattelan has never shied from representing the social and political scars of his native country. The terrorist activities of the Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigades, a Marxist-Leninist extremist group in operation during the 1970s and ’80s provided very specific subject matter for his art. Their 1978 kidnapping and eventual murder of former Christian Democrat Prime Minister Aldo Moro was a tragedy of great proportions. Punished for his attempts to forge a compromesso storico (historic compromise) for parliamentary representation between two dueling factions of the government, the Christian Democrats and the Italian Communist Party, Moro came at the time to symbolize the impossibility of measured change, of intelligent negotiating. In 1994, Cattelan appropriated an old front-page article from the newspaper Avvenire showing a photograph of Moro as a beleaguered hostage in front of a Red Brigades banner. He transformed the group’s symbol, a five-pointed star, into a comet by spray-painting its tail flashing across the page (cat. no. 34). This “assisted readymade” was shown as wallpaper in an exhibition at the Galerie Daniel Buchholz in Cologne. The star symbol and its reference to gratuitous violence continued to occupy Cattelan through this period. He turned its image into a mock Christmas card, never sent, in 1995 (cat. no. 30) and the following year created a black-and-white photograph of five hands, each with two fingers extended in a V-shape to form the outline of a star (cat. no. 43).42 This reference, certainly inappropriate in the context of a holiday greeting, invokes a shared and painful history. Its blatant citation of a dark act of terrorism resembles in some ways Gerhard Richter’s 1988 painting suite October 18, 1977 commemorating the suspected assassination of four Red Army Faction members in Germany. But whereas Richter chronicles the events leading up to the murders through painterly reworkings of newspaper and police photographs in an abundance of visual detail, Cattelan strikes with an extreme economy of formal means.
fig. 10
Left to right: Catttelan, 1994; Lullaby, 1994
Cattelan was contemplating his country’s tarnished past during the mid-1990s in the wake of a new wave of upheaval in response to widespread anticorruption investigations that left no stone of government unturned. The Mani Pulite (clean hands) campaign brought to the fore the seemingly inextricable confluence of criminal interests and political power at the heart of Italian rule. Though the public welcomed this trend for ethics in the governmental sphere—even “stoning” Prime Minister Bettino Craxi with coins to protest his culpability in the crisis—the criminal sector reacted with violence. From May to August 1993, five car bombs exploded in Rome, Florence, and Milan, leaving ten people dead and dozens wounded. Orchestrated by the Mafia in retaliation for the crackdown, the bombings targeted churches and art museums, the nerve centers of cultural life in Italy.43 The Palazzo degli Uffizi in Florence was heavily damaged, as was the Padiglione d’arte contemporanea in Milan, near where Cattelan lived at the time. Shocked by the destruction, and, no doubt, by its proximity to his own life, the artist literally incorporated the tragedy into his work, taking rubble from the Milan site for two sculptures, each titled Lullaby (1994). Created for exhibitions at the Laure Genillard Gallery in London (fig. 10) and the Musée d’art moderne de la Ville de Paris (cat. no. 26)—Cattelan’s first showings outside of Italy—the sculptures functioned for Cattelan like a critical “snapshot” of his country.44 Each comprised a pile of debris wrapped for transport, one in clear plastic, the other in a blue industrial bag, which the artist described as a kind of “laundry grave,” reminding him of “the kinds of bags hospitals have to use to transport contaminated laundry.”45 This was a harsh commentary about corruption in Italy by an artist who was expected to make only humorous, self-effacing work. While unanticipated, this disparaging yet poignant gesture is an apt representation of Cattelan’s ongoing investigation into his Italian identity. Though he never appreciated being categorized by his nationality, ridiculing exhibitions that attempted to reduce his inclusion to such a criterion, he focused a critical eye on the political and financial instability of his country and has continued to do so through the present.
fig. 11 Cesena 47–A.C. Forniture Sud 12, 1991
For a 1994 exhibition at the Castello di Rivoli in Turin devoted to emerging Italian artists, Cattelan continued his critique of both nationalistic identification and the country’s modes of self-representation. For the occasion, he created a large round carpet bearing the insignia of a popular Italian cheese, Bel Paese—“Beautiful Country” (fig. 12). The image he appropriated includes a map of Italy adorned by a portrait of Abbot Antonio Stoppani, who authored an eponymous book in 1876 extolling the natural beauty of the Italian landscape. Its placement on the floor at the entry to the gallery guaranteed its near destruction by the end of the show, as people trampled over it in all kinds of weather. The role of food as propaganda notwithstanding, Cattelan seemed to be commenting on false nationalistic pride, on the disconnect between the country’s glorified image of itself and its crumbling political infrastructure. This was also the implication of a related work, I Found My Love in Portofino (1994, cat. no. 25), in which the artist set a group of hungry mice free to feast on a circle of actual Bel Paese. He captured its disappearance on video as the mice ravaged both the cheese and its logo. Cattelan’s consciousness of Italy’s tarnished past, with its fascist leanings and xenophobic tendencies, informed a spate of works that mordantly lampooned any contemporary manifestation of these trends. The 1991 founding of the Northern League, a political party that exploited resentment against both Rome’s status as the seat of the Italian government and new waves of illegal immigration, coincided with the creation of his piece A.C. Forniture Sud (Southern Suppliers FC [Football Club], 1991). Tapping Italy’s obsession with soccer, Cattelan formed a team composed entirely of North Africans. He outfitted them with uniforms bearing the word Rauss, which not so subtly recalled the Nazi-inspired phrase Juden raus, or “Jews get out.”46 In addition to actual regional competitions in the province of Emilia-Romagna, Cattelan’s team played a game in an exhibition setting on an elongated foosball table with places for eleven competitors on each side, the North Africans pitted against a team of Italians (fig. 11, cat. no. 12). As “manager” of A.C. Forniture Sud, the artist set up an illegal stand at Bologna Arte Fiera, an art fair, in 1991, intervening into this commercial context in order to peddle Rauss products to raise money for his team. Part performance, part political protest, the A.C. Forniture Sud enterprise perfectly demonstrates how Cattelan can wed the preposterous and the incisive to create a work that reverberates with profound cultural and social implications.
fig. 12 Il Bel paese, 1994
In subsequent works, Cattelan has continued to invoke and deride instances of fascist thinking, reflecting on a subject that still persists in Italy (and the world at large) with even newer examples of xenophobic activity. For his contribution to the large outdoor exhibition Sonsbeek 93 in the Netherlands, he proposed a citywide poster campaign in Amsterdam advertising a fictional underground meeting of neo-Nazi skinheads. While his goal, he claimed, was to simply create a sense of altered reality—akin to a drug-induced perception of the city he had experienced during a site visit—the curator deemed the project inappropriate, if not incendiary, so it never took place, and he was omitted from the show.47 Years later, in 2007, Cattelan created a truly enigmatic sculpture for an exhibition in Frankfurt comprising three male arms in business-suit sleeves protruding from a gallery wall (fig. 13, cat. no. 99). The disembodied limbs formally resemble Robert Gober’s sculpted body parts, but their specificity and rigidity belies a reading in keeping with that artist’s surreal, psychosexual work; the arms’ precise positions and their repetition unmistakably evoke the intense choreography of the “Heil Hitler” salute. The Nazi salute is commonly believed to have originated in ancient Roman times, but no work of art from the period depicts it, nor does any extant Roman text describe it. The first rendering of the gesture dates to Jacques-Louis David’s 1784 painting Oath of the Horatii, in which three warriors raise their straight arms 45 degrees, palms down and fingers outstretched in a gesture of solidarity and allegiance. From then on called the “Roman salute,” it was adopted by the Italian Fascist party as a symbol for its imperialist aspirations and then, in 1933, by the Nazis as their official salutation. For Cattelan, the conflation of German and Italian iconography is part of the deliberate and complex ambiguity of the sculpture; the three arms are not those of soldiers but rather well-appointed businessmen. The arms thus suggest the supremacy of corporate or financial quarters to brute force and the military, their banal anonymity alluding to the shadowy, multinational conglomerates wielding more and more authority around the world. The title of the piece, Ave Maria—the name of the traditional Catholic prayer, the Hail Mary, rather than the Heil Hitler—further complicates any definitive reading, however. In typical Cattelan fashion, the title and image are in seeming contradiction. Rather than illuminate his works’ apparent content, his titles often suggest unexpected tangents, deferring interpretation by obscuring rather than delineating meaning. This deliberate disjunction between text and image, a hallmark of the artist’s practice, allows for a kind of mental lacuna in which untested ideas and attitudes can emerge. In the case of Ave Maria, the reference to prayer asks that the arms also be seen in a position of benediction from, rather than submission to, a higher power. Or is it, as the prayer suggests—“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death”—an admission of transgression, involving among other possibilities the abuse of power, the adherence to false gods, or the capitulation to greed?
fig. 13 Ave Maria, 2007
Ave Maria provided a physical prototype for a public sculpture Cattelan unveiled in Milan in 2010, a thirty-six-foot-high white marble hand with an erect middle finger extended toward the sky (fig. 9, cat. no. 108). The other fingers look to have been broken off, as if the whole thing were the ruin of some ancient statue, a victim, perhaps, of iconoclastic frenzy. Ambiguously titled L.O.V.E., the sculpture references Italian cultural heritage, given its placement and proportions, even if its meaning remains decidedly unclear.48 Carved with the exacting detail of Michelangelo’s David (1501–04), of stone hewn from the same Italian quarry some five hundred years later, the piece invokes the legacy of the Renaissance. At the same time, however, it offers a most vulgar gesture, perhaps the most universal sign of derision.49 But the work’s origin in violence—imagine a hand held taut in a Fascist salute with all of its fingers, save for the middle digit, chopped off—disallows a purely amused response. This antimonument defies all the traditional functions of commemorative public art. Instead of commanding respect for some accepted ideology or focusing collective memory, it is both humorous in its irreverence and horrific in its brutality. Cattelan had rehearsed such contradictory impulses in an earlier “monument” he created in 1999 for an exhibition at the Anthony d’Offay Gallery in London. With a sardonic swipe at British pride, he presented an oversized granite plaque—with clear references to Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.—that listed all the defeats of England’s national soccer team (cat. no. 72). By treading on “sacred” territory, Cattelan acknowledged at the time that he was making a shocking gesture but not, he blithely claimed, one so out of the ordinary: “It’s like pointing a gun at an ambulance or insulting your own mother. It’s considered outrageous, but it seems like everyone does such things once in a while.”50 The piece in London was, of course, cloistered within the rarefied atmosphere of an art gallery and thus relatively protected. But the Milan sculpture occupied a public square for months, courting controversy and winning many converts.51 This acceptance eluded a previous, untitled outdoor sculpture in Milan commissioned by the Fondazione Nicola Trussardi for the city’s Piazza XXIV Maggio. This 2004 work (fig. 14), comprising three life-size effigies of charmingly innocent, barefoot boys hanging from nooses in an oak tree, was attacked by an outraged viewer who managed to injure himself while cutting them down from their makeshift gallows.52 There are, it seems, some subjects still considered taboo today, one of them being children suffering. But Cattelan reveals the paradox in such overly moralizing thought: such anguish is all too real around the world, and everywhere one looks—newspapers, magazines, the Internet—one is confronted by news of childhood starvation, displacement, and exploitation.
fig. 14 Untitled, 2004
In the case of the reception for L.O.V.E., however, Cattelan clearly hit a nerve in a way that was, for the most part, publicly acceptable. The work’s placement outside Milan’s stock exchange immediately anchored its meaning to issues of the economy, which in Italy at the time was near crisis.53 As Cattelan has observed in reference to the work, “Our trust in the social system has been broken. Have you ever doubted that a bank could falter? Have you ever doubted the financial system as a whole? Sure, there were earlier crises like the dot-com fiasco, but this is systemic. The whole system seems in need of deconstruction and reconstruction.” Italy’s economy shrank 5.1 percent in 2009, its worst year in at least three decades, and between 2008 and 2010 the country’s gross domestic product lost a total of 6.5 percentage points as a result of the recession triggered by the global financial crisis.54 An article published in late 2010 in The Telegraph of London, titled “Italy’s debt costs approach red zone,” sums up the country’s grim situation: “growth has been glacial for a decade, productivity has fallen since 1995, and global export share is in steep decline.”55 Cattelan’s intervention in the public square near the Borsa Italiana and in the Italian imagination couldn’t have been better timed. For many disaffected citizens, L.O.V.E. became a symbol of their anger and frustration.
Cattelan has examined the effects of economic deprivation before. His sculptures of “homeless” figures huddled against walls, rendered simply from stuffed clothes and blankets, are temporary outdoor installations that tend to unnerve the public for their casual verisimilitude and the interventionist nature of their placement (fig. 15). Andreas e Mattia (Andreas and Mattia, 1996), a slumped hooded figure, was created for an exhibition at the Galleria civica d’arte moderna e contemporanea in Turin and originally shown outside, where people mistook the figure to be a vagrant, ignoring him as they are wont to do when confronted with the hopelessly needy. (It took more than a few days for someone to call the Italian equivalent of 911 to report a homeless person who had not moved for an alarmingly long period of time.) Cattelan produced a similar intervention when invited to create an exhibition at the Institute of Visual Arts at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, in 1998. Kenneth (cat. no. 45), another disheveled drifter, occupied a space in the city as a monument to failure but also to freedom. As suggested by his aversion to work and his frequently staged flights from responsibility, Cattelan identifies with the trope of the vagabond. Reminiscing about Padua, he recalled numerous homeless characters who became staples of the city, “celebrities of the streets” who, in some cases, had become itinerant as an act of protest (against taxes, the responsibilities of ownership, and so on). Regardless of a certain admiration and curiosity, however, Cattelan does not glorify these figures. Instead, they represent a pervasive breakdown of the system, a reminder that the social contract has many devastating loopholes. Given his childhood deprivation, such investigations presumably have a personal resonance.
fig. 15
Gérard, 1999
The concept of a civic monument that refuses to commemorate or coalesce around culturally sanctioned ideologies has an important place in Cattelan’s oeuvre. If L.O.V.E. can be considered a culminating work in this vein, then the sculpture Novecento (Twentieth century, 1997, fig. 16) represents a critical beginning. It is a taxidermied horse suspended from the ceiling by a belted harness, the kind used for lifting heavy cargo onto and off ships. Cattelan had seen a photograph of a horse being hoisted in such a fashion on an album cover in a window on St. Mark’s Place in New York, and it continued to resonate in his mind until he found the proper sculptural form. Originally manifested in an untitled version (formerly The Ballad of Trotsky) for an exhibition at the Galleria Massimo De Carlo in 1996 (cat. no. 44), the horse figure evolved formally into Novecento, which includes exaggeratedly long legs. Now the suspended quarter horse seems to be stretched toward the ground, gravity forcing its body into a graceful and mournful arch, as if the weight of modern history is bending it ever downward. The title’s reference to the twentieth century is, in typical Cattelan fashion, multivalent. In addition to invoking a century of modernist experiment, technological advancement, and untold violence, it alludes also to the 1976 film of that name by Bernardo Bertolucci, which examines class struggle and the rise of Fascism in Italy.56 It could also refer to the proto-Fascist art movement Novecento Italiano, which emerged in 1922 in response to a postwar, pan-European “call to order” that rejected the formal and intellectual inventions of the artistic avant-garde. A monument to entropy, the destructive power of irresistible forces, Novecento is considered by Cattelan to be his first true sculpture in the “classic sense”: “It was the first work,” he has explained, “to measure itself against the classics.” Its physical form embodies the ancient tradition of equestrian sculpture, which depicts horses in commemorative tableaux. Cattelan cites as forerunner Donatello’s magnificent 1453 statue of the Venetian general Gattamelata (Erasmo da Narni) on horseback, which stands in Padua on the piazza in front of the Basilica di Sant’Antonio—the very church where he lost a job after drawing moustaches on the little souvenir Saint Anthonys. The Gattamelata was the first life-size equestrian bronze cast since antiquity, inspired by the sculpture of Marcus Aurelius at the Capitoline Hill in Rome. For Cattelan, Novecento marked an important turning point in his art. As a self-contained, highly resonant object that vibrates optically like any arresting image, the work no longer embodies a set of performative actions that precede it. That is not to say that the artist entirely abandoned his predilection for creating forensic scenarios. But as a strategy for art making, this new “classical” sculpture offered another aesthetic language for Cattelan, who described this move to a “new type of medium . . . [as] an important passage, a devastating, important passage.”
fig. 16 Novecento, 1997
NOTES
40 Cattelan, “Interview with Emanuela De Cecco and Roberto Pinto (extract), 1994” in Maurizio Cattelan (2003), p. 120. Originally published as “Incursioni” in Flash Art (Italian edition) 27, no. 182 (March 1994), pp. 116–18. Translated by Shaun Whiteside, 1999.
41 “Nancy Spector in Conversation with Maurizio Cattelan,” p. 17.
42 Though not created in direct reference to the Red Brigades—the V shape is in fact also a peace sign—the photograph has come to symbolize the terrorist organization in Cattelan’s work, having been cited in this context by numerous authors. The image was originally made as the invitation to an exhibition at Ars Futura Galerie in Zurich in 1996 in which Cattelan reconstructed the room in which the Swiss-based Order of the Solar Temple sect committed one of its mass suicides in 1994, with the addition of a disco dancer. Little known in the artist’s oeuvre, this perverse evocation of the Solar Temple cult is illustrated in the catalogue accompanying his show at Kunsthalle Basel in 1999. For a description of the project, see Madeleine Schuppli, “It happened in broad daylight,” in Maurizio Cattelan (1999), unpaginated. The illustration appears as that book’s Figure 8.
43 During a visit to Sicily in May 1993, Pope John Paul II urged Roman Catholics, who make up the great majority of Sicily’s population, to rise up against the Mafia. This address no doubt contributed to the ire behind the attacks, which targeted two Italian churches, San Giovanni in Laterano and San Giorgio in Velabro. In addition to the attacks on these sites and the two museums, a bomb exploded near the home of a television talk-show host, Maurizio Costanzo, a vocal Mafia opponent.
44 “Nancy Spector in Conversation with Maurizio Cattelan,” pp. 17–18.
45 Ibid., p 18.
46 The context of games specifically invokes a German board game introduced in 1936 in Dresden called Juden Raus, the object of which was to deport as many Jews as possible to Palestine.
47 In his interview with this author for the Phaidon monograph, Cattelan described eating a drug-laced cake during a visit to Amsterdam, claiming, “The experience was so surreal and intense that I thought afterwards, ‘Yes, this is what I want to do for the Sonsbeek exhibition.’ I wanted to alter people’s perception of the city in this total, all-encompassing way.” See “Nancy Spector in Conversation with Maurizio Cattelan,” p. 16.
48 According to Cattelan, L.O.V.E. is an acronym for “love, hate, vendetta, eternity” in Italian. Its Milan audience simply refers to it as il dito, or “the finger.” See Christina Passariello, “At Milan’s Bourse, Finger Pointing Has Business Leaders Up in Arms,” Wall Street Journal, May 13, 2011, http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704681904576317781140034982.html.
49 In describing the piece, Cattelan referred to the gesture’s origins in France during the Battle of Agincourt in 1415 when French soldiers threatened to cut off the middle and index fingers of captured English bowmen in order to render them incapable of shooting their arrows. But when the French failed to take any prisoners, the English waved their fingers in defiance. Historical evidence suggests, however, that the origin of the raised middle finger dates back to ancient Greece and was adopted by the ancient Romans, who called it the digitus impudicus. For detailed historical examples, see Ira P. Robbins, “Digitus Impudicus: The Middle Finger and the Law,” UC Davis Law Review 41 (2008), pp. 1413–17.
50 “Nancy Spector in Conversation with Maurizio Cattelan,” p. 12.
51 Cattelan arranged for the showing of L.O.V.E. in conjunction with an exhibition of his work at the Palazzo Reale in Milan (September 25–October 24, 2010); in fact, he agreed to the show on the condition that his outdoor piece would be realized. At first, after the expected red tape, the mayor of Milan, Letizia Moratti, agreed to exhibit the sculpture only during Fashion Week, presumably to deflate its potential for controversy, but once installed and embraced by the Milanese public, she extended its display until the end of the year. At the time of this writing (April 2011), it is still standing.
52 The piece was destroyed only one day after its unveiling by Franco de Benetetto, a forty-two-year-old Italian construction worker. Approximately six months later, a similar piece by the artist comprising a child hanging from one of three flagpoles (cat. no. 95) was nearly removed from the first International Biennial of Contemporary Art of Seville when the local government complained that it might frighten children. The exhibition’s curator, Harald Szeemann, refused, and the president of the biennial, Juana de Aizpuru, said the work denounced children’s suffering around the world. “How can society be so hypocritical,” she asked, “that it is surprised by a doll hanging from a pole, when every day we see horrible pictures of children dying of hunger or war?’’ See Dale Fuchs, “Arts, Briefly; Hanging Offense,” New York Times, October 8, 2004, http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D0CE2DB153BF93BA35753C1A9629C8B63&scp=13&sq=maurizio+cattelan&st=nyt.
53 The work was not, however, conceived as site specific. Its current location was only one of several offered by the city for consideration. But the confluence of site and sculpture in the case of L.O.V.E. has proven most productive for a context-specific reading that might have been different elsewhere.
54 See Jeffrey Donovan, “Italian GDP Shrank by 6.5% Because of Financial Crisis, Central Bank Says,” Bloomberg.com, April 12, 2010, http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2010-04-12/italian-gdp-shrank-by-6-5-because-of-financial-crisis-central-bank-says.html.
55 See Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, “Italy’s debt costs approach red zone,” The Telegraph (London), December 29, 2010, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/financialcrisis/8230413/Italys-debt-costs-approach-red-zone.html.
56 This point is made by Bonami in “A Short History of Meaninglessness,” in Maurizio Cattelan (Paris: Three Star Books, 2010), p. 21.
