All language subtitles for Maurizio.Cattelan.Be.Right.Back.2017.720p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-FLUX

For a living artist
under the age of 50,

Maurizio has done
as well as anybody

globally in the entire world.

Some people are suspicious

that Maurizio is pulling
the wool over their eyes,

that he'’s some kind of
flamboyant artistic conman.

His career is based on
anecdotes and lies

and imaginary stories.

In everything Maurizio
says and does,

there'’s an element
of surrealism,

and I wondered whether,

when he said
he was gonna retire,

whether he really meant it,

because I don'’t think
Maurizio knows how to stop.

-Maurizio Cattelan...
-...is so tasteless.

We will start with
lot number one,

"Daddy, Daddy"
by Maurizio Cattelan.

We'’ll begin this
at $1,800,000.

I think he'’s probably

one of the greatest artists
that we have today,

but he could also
be the worst.

I mean, it'’s kind of like...

it'’s gonna be one or the other;

it'’s not gonna
fall in the middle.

Well, there'’s something quite
sort of complicated about it

because Maurizio,
as you know, is, um...

a very elusive character.

Maurizio doesn'’t really
let anybody in.

He has many people
around him,

but, um, very few people are
actually close to Maurizio.

Are we testing the volume
or we'’re doing this?

-I already tested.
-Oh, okay.

I'’m probably fatter than last
time you interviewed me, no?

We are set.

He grew up in
a very poor family,

and he had practically
no schooling.

He has two sisters,

his mother was ill through
much of his childhood,

and he feels like
she blamed him for her illness.

She died, I think,
when he was in his early 20s.

Maurizio didn'’t
finish high school.

He was working to help
support his family,

but he had a hard time
keeping a job.

He was desperate, I think,
to find another kind of life.

I started going to Milan.

I was getting more
and more interested in art,

but I didn'’t have a place
to sleep or to live.

It'’s not that poverty
was new to me.

I had a long series
of shitty jobs

and living a situation
of mere survival.

I could see how easily

everything could
have gone wrong,

and I could have been

a kind of invisible member
of society, no?

Like, uh, yeah, so.

I knew what was expected of me,

and I had decided
I was gonna be something else.

So the idea of art had
a certain urgency for me,

and eventually I realized
I had nothing to lose.

There was this magazine
called "Flash Art"

which was and still is
one of the most influential,

interesting
contemporary art magazines

for a young artist
or for any artist.

But appearing on the cover
of "Flash Art"

had an almost mythical status.

Instead of waiting for
"Flash Art" to notice me,

I thought I would put
my own work on the cover,

so I made a sculpture
which was a house of cards

made with copies
of "Flash Art."

Then I took a photo of it,

and then I bought a whole bunch

of real "Flash Art" magazines

and I pasted the photograph of
my own sculpture onto the cover,

and I'’ve been always
very good at faking things,

and so this object turned out

to look exactly like
the real "Flash Art."

Then I went out
and I distributed

in magazine stores
and in galleries,

and if you went to a certain
store and you bought a copy,

you would get my knockoff copy
instead of the real copy.

"Strategies" was a piece
that acknowledged

that art was not something
I could just do on my own,

and, uh, that existed
in itself.

It was like a study of
the art world and how it worked,

and who was in charge of
fame and success, if anyone.

It makes you wonder if
being on the cover for real

is real at all.

The next thing he did
was a series of works

that were about avoiding
making anything.

They were basically embracing
failure before even beginning.

In 1989, Maurizio was invited to
his very first solo exhibition.

This was a really
longed-for opportunity,

his--his big break.

He was completely crippled
by performance anxiety

and felt unable
to come up with something

that would rise
to the occasion,

so he locked the gallery door

and put up a little
Plexiglas sign

that read, in Italian,
"Be right back,"

as if the gallery attendant
had just popped out for a coffee

or to do a little chore.

The visitor was never
allowed into the space,

and there was nothing to see
if they had been let in,

so there was
this perpetual refusal

to show work,
to create work,

and that was the first
of those projects.

Then, as the story goes,

having neglected
to come up with any ideas

for his next exhibition,

Maurizio came up
with a plan

to claim that his work
had been stolen.

He went to the local police
and reported a stolen artwork.

It actually is listed as
an invisible artwork

on the certificate,

which by all accounts the police
took completely seriously.

The police report was hung
on the gallery wall,

and that was the entire
content of the show,

and people loved it.

Maurizio'’s strategies
of evasion

have bordered on
criminal activity.

Rather than create a work,

he decided to break
into a nearby gallery

and steal the contents
of another artist'’s exhibition

and then take the loot
back to show as his own work.

The police had been called in.

For a moment or so,
there was a possibility

that he'’d be arrested,
and I think if he had,

it would have
pleased him no end.

The loot had to be returned,

and I believe that the, uh,

director of the museum
had to actually intervene

with the authorities
to keep Maurizio out of jail.

It'’s never about asking,

it'’s about taking it,
seizing it.

-Stealing.
-Yes.

He used this same tactic
to fund his early career

in a pretty innovative way.

He did this work called
the "Oblomov Foundation."

The "Oblomov Foundation"
was basically a scholarship

to disappear, no?

It took its name
from a Russian novel

that describes a lazy man

that basically doesn'’t get out

of his couch or his bed.

A lot of my works
were born on the phone.

He got a hundred donors to
each donate a hundred dollars,

and he offered this
as a scholarship

for any young artist

that they had to agree
not to make any work for a year,

which of course would
have put their career

at something of a risk,

and in fact no one took him up
on this generous offer.

And so I ended up
keeping the money

and using it
to move to New York.

Maurizio decided that
he wanted to come to New York,

and I didn'’t have
a roommate at the time,

so he came to live here.

This is our living room now.

It used to be completely empty

except for a light bulb
that was here.

There was zero furniture.

He was always trying
to have less and less.

He was really--
at the beginning of his career,

it wasn'’t a career.

He--he had one show

in which he had a donkey
and a chandelier.

I mean, he didn'’t know
his way around New York

or where he might be able
to rent a chandelier

or anything about
American culture, really.

It was pretty tough

because I came with
very limited resources,

and when I got a place,

the regime was quite strict

because I didn'’t
have much money.

At the beginning, I had, like,
a budget of five dollars a day.

I don'’t really know
how much he...

thought he would be able
to be successful.

You know how some people
when they get success,

they say,
"Well, I had faith

and I knew I could do it
if I tried,"

I don'’t know if he had that,

but I know he believed that,
in this world,

things can happen.

When he first moved here,

he said he would like
to one day show

at Marian Goodman Gallery.

When I heard Maurizio
say that, I thought,

well, that is ambitious,

but how--how does he
have the nerve

to think that he will be showing
at Marian Goodman Gallery

when he'’s just arrived
in New York

and he'’s put a donkey
in a gallery

and is eating rice
every day

because he doesn'’t have
any money

for more food than that?

Nobody knew at that time
who he was or what he was doing.

The donkey and the sausages
and the chandelier,

nobody found it interesting

so nobody really
pay attention to that.

I think an important shift
in Maurizio'’s career

took place when he met
Francesco Bonami.

Maurizio and Bonami
immediately became friends.

They were together
as immigrant Italians

in the New York art world.

We are living
in the same street,

12th Street in the East Village,

so we kind of see each other
very often.

There'’s this figure
that enter your life,

then you find yourself
doing things for him.

Interestingly, Francesco Bonami
put him in the Venice Biennale.

It was the first time
that he was invited

to participate
in the Biennale,

which is of course one of
the international art world'’s

most important events,

so it was
a very momentous occasion.

He was given a very prominent
spot in the exhibition,

but Maurizio couldn'’t
think of a work

that could possibly rise
to the challenge

of this wonderful opportunity,

so he thought of another
of his ingenious escape routes.

Maurizio rented out his space
in the Arsenale

to a billboard company

who then put a perfume ad
in place of the work.

The first Venice Biennale he
gave me the stupid billboard,

that not by an artist

but that was the work
of an advertising company

that for some reason
then stayed there,

and some, I think, slightly
gullible collector bought it

for some probably not
irrelevant amount of money.

It'’s pretty amazing
and hilarious

that he kind of
got away with this.

What Maurizio is doing,

what he continually did,

was usurp and turn on its head

the whole process
in which the relationship

between an organization
and the artists, uh,

were accustomed to.

He was very interested
in how he as an agent

could change the structure
of the art world

and the relationship between
the institution and the artist.

Massimo De Carlo,
take three.

If you could just tell me
your name

and what it is that you do.

I think this is
a stupid question.

Massimo De Carlo has been
a friend and an enemy,

or anyway has been a dealer,
has been my gallerist,

uh, for many years.

Maurizio saying, "I would love
to do a show like this,"

and I say, "Yes, okay,
let'’s do it."

"Perfect Day"
is a piece in which

Massimo De Carlo
got duct taped to the wall

like a strange, profane
crucifixion.

I was supposed to be
on the wall for two hours,

and was very hot, uh,
with lights,

so it was
a little bit difficult.

I was very, very close to...

to--to collapse.

Unfortunately, Massimo fainted,

so we had to call
the ambulance.

So at least he went
as far as he could

in--in, uh, taking on
this pretty absurd piece.

For another show,
he had his Paris gallerist

dress up in a costume
that was a pink rabbit

shaped like a penis.

Perrotin, I guess,
was a famous womanizer,

and so this was a commentary
on his proclivities.

I think Maurizio,
what he did was

he sort of flipped it
on its head,

and, uh, you found yourself

as a curator
not the commissioning agent

but the person who'’s
actually been commissioned.

Maurizio is actually
commissioning you.

He came up with some sort
of weird formula

where people are complicit
in their own abuse.

The more he abuses people,

the more popular he becomes.

Contemporary art
is about belief.

And successful living artists

understand that they have to
corral belief in themselves.

It is really intriguing
to think of the way

that Maurizio
builds up relationships.

Maurizio wants something
from everybody.

In that respect,
he'’s surgical,

he'’s super strategic.

It can be friendly, sex,
uh, money, a work, a show.

He always wants something
out of everybody.

He has a very clear idea
when he'’s talking to someone

what they'’re capable
of doing for him,

what they'’re capable of
realizing for him and his work.

I first met him when
he came up for a meeting.

I think he was very shy
and modest,

or so it seemed to me.

I invited him to do a piece
in the summer show,

and it was actually fantastic.

He had these two little
taxidermied mice

sitting in sun chairs.

And the next thing I knew,

there were a lot of people

coming to the gallery

to see this.

When I saw that he was showing

with Marian Goodman,

then I began looking at--
looking him up,

and, um, checking him out.

I remember calling over
to Marian'’s gallery and saying,

"Do you know how I could talk
with Maurizio Cattelan?"

And somebody there said,
"Oh, he'’s right here."

And we set up a time to meet,

and I wasn'’t sure that
it was Maurizio when I met him,

-but it was.
-Because you had heard

the stories that--

that he had other people

who impersonated him.

He was charming.

He'’s like a magnet.

He pulls you in.

Well, my impression was
that he was immediately,

uh, very drawn to you,

and he came for dinner

and, um, we got along
extremely well, and...

I think we both really love him
like family.

-Yeah, I think so.
-Um...

and I know that makes it
sound strange

because if you'’re a journalist,

you'’re--you have to have
some distance,

but there is--there is
something about Maurizio

that just gets under your skin.

When his show was going
to happen at Marian'’s,

that was a moment to do
something with "Vogue."

Maurizio is
a perfect connoisseur

of many different aspect
of the art world.

And as a good artist, uh,
should do now in this time,

he is able to manipulate them

in order to have, uh,
a better access

and a better visibility.

He had a highly developed
understanding

of this kind of bizarre
art world landscape.

There'’s a kind of
consensus of belief

that accrues around artists,

and that consensus involves
collectors, curators,

critics, dealers,
and other artists.

One of the things that is
intriguing about Maurizio

is the way these different
sectors of the art world

have come to believe in him.

You don'’t know it,
but in this moment,

he'’s manipulating you

because is much more
clever than you and than me,

and, uh, he knows, uh,
the system very well.

I mean, Maurizio is an artist

that has not dedicated
his life to art,

he'’s dedicated his life
to success in art,

which is different.

In 1999, Maurizio made the work

for which he'’s probably
the most well-known.

I was invited to do a show

that consisted of a sculpture
of John Paul II,

but then as I was
working on the piece,

literally as I was
installing it,

the piece didn'’t have
the presence

that I thought
it would have had,

and so that'’s when the idea
came of changing the piece.

And so this image went from

what was supposed to be
a sort of image of authority,

it became this
much more aggressive image

of the Pope being hit
by a meteorite.

It'’s very strange how art is.

At one point,
I hit some chord,

and then people,
they really pay attention.

His profile increased hugely

when Christie'’s put the Pope
on the auction block,

and it sold for $900,000.

That changed his relationship
to the market, there'’s no doubt.

He knew when he did the Pope
that that was sensational.

I think anybody who would have
a meteorite hitting the Pope...

is interested in controversy.

The Pope piece
slowly picked up speed

and it started circulating
more and more in the media.

And it start having
a very volatile life.

It was an image that everybody
was uncomfortable with,

but that nobody
could get enough reproducing.

It was shown in Poland

at a moment in which
there was a return

to very conservative
right wing politics.

Two members of Parliament
were so offended

that they went to the exhibit,

broke through security,

and they rolled the meteorite
off of the Pope,

and they tried to stand him up
on his feet.

I thought that was
quite important

in terms of the weight
of a physical object

that it'’s so unbearable

that somebody has
the responsibility of...

changing it, no?

Ultimately, this sculpture
was so popular

everyone wanted to show him.

In 2001, Maurizio was invited
to again participate

in the Venice Biennale.

They asked me
to show the Pope again,

and I was a bit uncomfortable
with that choice

because it was becoming
one of these, um, situations

in which you only become
known for a piece,

and I was quite
uncomfortable to be--

you know, it felt like
the meteorite had fell on me

more than--than on the Pope.

I had this idea around
the same time as his invitation,

and I felt nobody had
ever been in a Biennale

by being elsewhere.

People were already projecting
an idea of glamour

and sort of international
jet set onto Venice,

and so I thought, um,

well, why don'’t we go to a place
that is like the anti-Venice?

I think many people didn'’t even
think it was an artwork

and just thought it was some
eccentric wealthy guy

up in the--in the hills
building his own dream.

He recreated a version
of the Hollywood sign

and installed it on
actually centuries-old dump

above Palermo.

At that time,
it sounded so over the top

that it almost seemed
unreal, you know?

This Hollywood sign, which was
a perfect replica one-to-one,

was installed onto a hill

that was actually
created by garbage.

He convinced a collector
to charter a plane

to bring a pile of patrons,
curators, collectors

down to Palermo to have
a champagne reception

just under the Hollywood sign
in this dump.

At that time, he felt more of
a provocation, in a way,

and--and the fact that
all these beautiful people

would be taken
to a garbage dump

and see this Hollywood sign,

it felt more meaningful
than people probably expected.

I'’d been always attracted by
what you gain

the moment you have a name

that is bigger than
an individual, no?

When you create an association,
an institution

by simply inventing a name.

When I did
the Caribbean Biennial,

it was a similar situation.

At one point in the '’90s,

there were so many biennials
everywhere,

and so I just felt that I
and also many of my friends

who were sort of employed
in this system

just went from
biennial to another

or--or making work
for biennials.

Of course it'’s very important
for them to show their work,

but there is
this ancillary benefit,

which is the kind of party
of the event itself.

And so I thought what if, um,
I make my own biennial?

I convinced a collector who had
a hotel in the Caribbeans

to give us the rooms.

I asked for, um, ads from,
uh, magazines for free.

Then we--we had to fundraise
for all the tickets,

and I invited 15,
20 artists maybe.

Journalists came.

But in my biennial,
there is no art.

Basically, he organized
a fake biennial.

There was no work on display.

One of the critics who went
there from "Frieze" magazine

was absolutely appalled
that there was nothing to see

except the artists themselves,

who were basically just on
holiday swimming and drinking.

It was just an exhibition
of everything

that surrounds art.

I loved the Caribbean Biennial.

I find that kind of work
not only amusing

but somehow to kind of like
puncture some of the pretensions

of the art world.

It was also quite awkward

because then when you bring

all these artists together,

it became a sort of
social experiment,

and, um...

yeah, I don'’t know,
now it feels--

I--I don'’t know
how I feel about it.

You know,
he'’s a little bit tortured

in the way that
many creative people

are self-questioning,

wondering about their value,

wondering if what they'’re doing
is meaningful or ridiculous,

or, uh, excellent
or asinine.

I know artists are all--
on a different level,

they have a percentage
of being piece of shit.

Why, why is that?

It'’s--it'’s like that.
It'’s like being a boxer;

you know, you have to smash
the face of the other person.

There are very, very few
great artists around

because it is like a sport.

You are born a good artist

and maybe you--you can
become a decent artist,

but great artists,

I think they'’re having something
inside that set them aside.

You know? And--and, uh,
to survive,

you can'’t be sentimental,
I think.

For Maurizio, I think his art
has been his mission,

the sacred part
of his life.

If a relationship
threatened the sacred space,

you know the relationship
would stop, not his art.

Many, many people have always
asked me through the years

to actually, um,
talk about Maurizio,

and I'’ve never really wanted to.

I think that...

he will end up alone.

That'’s what he thinks too.

The actual funny thing was,

he didn'’t really know
what I did

'’cause he lives mostly
in the States,

and so he didn'’t really
have a clue

of what my job exactly was.

At the time we actually
met each other,

my specialty was
bust in press conferences

and asking George Clooney
to marry me or...

Yeah, baby!

Antonio, Antonio!

...asking Antonio Banderas if
he could autograph my knickers.

There, here you go.

And so he used to actually
insist to follow me

while I was actually
filming these things.

Yeah, yeah, keep going!

My writers who write
the show with me,

they all know Maurizio
really well,

and, um, they'’ve
always called him

the ghostwriter of my shows.

He'’s very inspiring.

He saw things that
I didn'’t know I had.

He saw--he saw
probably potential,

and he pushed me to the limit
in that sense,

and, um, and I think,

yeah, that'’s probably
what--what he gave to me,

what he, you know, he...

he always thinks that
everything is possible,

and, um, I do too now.

I mean, the younger woman always
ends up with the older man.

In a way, it'’s--
it'’s kind of fucked up,

but...

older men, they--they get
a good deal out of it.

I met him at the party.

I remember showing up
and I just noticed this guy

in really tight pants.

That'’s like the first thing
I noticed--

and he was drinking tea.

I didn'’t know who he was,
I just saw him kind of

off in the corner, watching.

I met him through friends.

I was invited to go skiing
up the mountain,

and turns out Maurizio'’s
there too,

and, you know, he was,
like, really nervous,

and he didn'’t really know
how to kind of approach me.

The first date that we had,
it was not very good.

It was really awkward.

I just felt he was so
embarrassed and so tense

that I gave him
my phone number and I said,

"Just text me if you need
anything."

And we were sitting, like,
opposite each other,

and it was so funny '’cause
he started texting me,

and we--we spent the whole
evening texting each other,

and, uh, I think we kind of
fell in love straightaway.

He was like a big kid.

I think that'’s part of
what I love about him,

that, you know, every time
we'’re with each other,

it'’s an adventure.

It'’s not like he hasn'’t
done bad things

and isn'’t a total dick
sometimes, '’cause he is,

but--and he'’s very generous
and very sweet,

even though he doesn'’t like
to admit it.

I don'’t want to get married,
I don'’t want kids,

and he'’s the same.

He'’s never wanted
to get married

and he'’s never wanted
to have kids.

So we'’re pretty much
in agreement with that.

As long as it'’s nice,
then it'’s nice.

I ended the relationship,

and I ended it every single time
we--we actually ended it.

We have this
very strong connection,

and, um, we still do
no matter what.

We love each other dearly.

I don'’t know if this is--
he snores.

He'’s the only dog that Maurizio
hasn'’t stuffed yet, so...

There is, um, a piece
of, uh, taxidermied dog,

you know, another funny
type of piece

but dealing with life and death.

With that piece, we had several
people come in and look at it

and go,
"Oh, you have such a cute dog

and it just sits in the same
place all the time."

Funny enough,
our dogs don'’t fall for it,

but at least plenty
of people fall for it.

I think a lot of people
who are new to contemporary art

don'’t understand
processes

in which the artist
is not making it himself.

This is conceptual art,

which means the artwork
is just the concept, the idea.

So Maurizio does not
make these objects,

and in fact he absolutely
never touches his works.

Maurizio is very involved
with the aesthetic outcome

and spends a great deal of time

with the wax fabricators
and the marble cutters

because he knows exactly what
he wants it to look like.

I think there'’s a high degree
of craftsmanship

in a lot of the work,

and, you know, Joe the Plumber
would want to pay more,

let'’s say, for something that
was highly crafted and detailed,

and frankly realistic,

and, uh, those kind of smushy
abstract paintings might be,

"My child could do it."

Um, so Cattelan'’s work

does not fall into the category

of "My child could do it,"

but it does fall into
that pocket of skepticism

amongst people who are not
familiar with contemporary art

that, you know,
he'’s not making it himself.

One piece I'’ve always loved
is the early piece

of the squirrel who has
committed suicide.

He'’s sitting at
a kitchen table

and he'’s slumped--his head
is slumped on the table,

and there'’s a revolver
on the floor.

And there again
it'’s one of these pieces

that you laugh when you see it.

It'’s very funny,

but it goes way beyond
being a joke.

I think the power
of Maurizio'’s work

derives from the fact that
it is sometimes deeply serious

and deeply sorrowful work.

There are a number of sort of
bad boy-ish artists,

and, uh, you know,
Maurizio was kind of the best

because he was the funniest.

But he wasn'’t always
the funniest,

he was also the one

who kind of could use humor

to touch on larger questions:

What it is to live,
what it is to love,

what it is to die.

It'’s really difficult
to decipher what he'’s saying

or what he'’s thinking,

but whatever he says,

it'’s dead serious.

I would say that probably
the worst work Maurizio ever did

was the Pope

because at the end,
is a joke.

It'’s a joke in a way,
but a very complicated joke

'’cause it'’s a joke with many
layers of meaning behind it.

Uh, you sort of laugh,

but it'’s an uncomfortable laugh.

You don'’t really know
what you'’re laughing at.

Starting from the point of view
of that work,

which was very, very popular,

everybody'’s always thinking
that you have to laugh

when you see a work
of Maurizio,

but it'’s not.

It is not funny at all.

It'’s not funny at all.

I think when you look
at a work by Maurizio,

there'’s almost
two temporalities.

When you first see
one of his sculptures,

there'’s an instant
gratification

where you--you understand
the twist.

But then when you spend
more time with the works,

you really see
these profound themes emerge.

The works deal in a poetic
and thoughtful way

with failure...

...with feeling alienated
from the world around you...

There'’s a really searing
critique of power

and its misuses
in the work,

and ultimately many
of the most powerful works

are about death
and mortality.

A lot of people
find it funny.

I find it...

sometimes very tragic,

and, um...

I do believe that there is
a lot of pain in there.

He has a lot of anxiety,
I think,

and feeling like someone
is around smothering him,

or he has this responsibility
to someone.

He would just leave.

I mean, he can'’t deal
with it at all.

He works alone,

and he likes to be alone,

and he likes to be left alone
while he'’s working.

You know, you can'’t control
that instinct,

and you can'’t say, "Okay,
from Monday to Friday,"

you know, "I'’m gonna
stare at a white wall,"

and, uh, and I kind--
I can understand,

I can relate to that.

And so sometimes it could be
quite frustrating and hard

'’cause he would find a way
to isolate himself

and be evasive and hard
to kind of track down

or relate to.

He doesn'’t like to be
intimate with people,

and, uh, he hides a lot
of--of his--his thoughts

and, uh, preoccupations.

A lot of what he does
is about that sense of hiding

and of retreating or becoming
invisible behind the work.

How did you become
so interested in Maurizio?

My mother knew Maurizio

in the early days
in Milan and New York

in the late '’80s, I think.

She was kind of in the scene.

So they were friends?

Yeah, they dated.

Well, sort of.

I mean, it wasn'’t serious.

So do you spend a lot
of time with him?

No.

But I kind of feel like
I know him from his work.

Maybe that'’s a better way
to know him.

I mean, with an artist,

maybe you shouldn'’t try
to know them at all.

Doesn'’t their work
speak for them?

Maurizio so often uses
his very distinctive likeness

in his work.

But sometimes
the self portraits

are not direct mimicry
of his actual face;

they'’re these characters
which function as personae.

A lot of my work had to do
with the problem of identity.

Maurizio generates
all these other identities,

like "Daddy, Daddy."

I imagine that
it'’s somehow deeply rooted

in Maurizio'’s psyche
in some way.

"Daddy, Daddy" was a sculpture

which depicted the figure
of Pinocchio

lying facedown in the pool

as if the little boy
had drowned.

Could have been a suicide,
it could have been a murder,

it might have been
a terrible accident.

It was certainly
a very sorry scene.

The title is drawn
from the gospels,

you know, "Father, Father,
why hast Thou forsaken me?"

It'’s the ninth hour
which is also the title

of the sculpture
of the Pope,

which is the time
when Christ is on the cross

and cries out to His Father.

Maurizio'’s works are
kind of little poems

with an actual figure in them,

so they'’re--they'’re quite risky.

It'’s almost a miracle,

this idea
that you would be able

to nail a woman to the wall,

I mean, that'’s inappropriate,

or have the Pope
hit by a meteor

or float a dead Pinocchio
in the Guggenheim.

I mean, how many people
want a dead Pinocchio

floating in a pool of water?

I mean, come on.

The fact that people do
is remarkable.

Good evening.

Ladies and gentlemen,

before I open the floor
to bidding,

I would like
to warmly welcome you

to this evening'’s sale
of contemporary art.

Maurizio'’s work
is purely conceptual.

This is selling you an idea

in a pretty raw form.

And many of the ideas are,
in their essence,

unsaleable, unmarketable.

Lot number five,

"Daddy, Daddy,"

by Maurizio Cattelan.

We will start this
at $700,000.

Svetlana at $850,000.

$900,000.

It'’s in the room at nine--

One...one million dollars.

$1,100,000.

The far left corner,
$1,200,000.

Still against you, Svetlana.

$1,800,000.

At $2,200,000.

The bid is on my right.

Last chance then.

Sold.

Everybody has
different objectives,

you know, when they--
when they buy a piece of work.

Some of it is purely for
the passion of collecting,

some of it because
they think it'’s a good deal.

So, people have
a multitude of reasons

why they buy and why they sell.

At $32,500,000.
One more.

Thank you, $33,000,000.

I shall sell "Double Elvis"
at $33,000,000.

Fair warning,
your bid, not yours.

I'’m very sorry,
but I'’m glad for you.

$33,000,000.

Some people are shocked
by the high prices

commanded by artworks nowadays.

But I think that
artists have become

the strongest brands
in our world.

Francis Bacon'’s painting,

"Three Studies of Lucian Freud,"

sold for an eye-popping
$142 million,

making it the most expensive
artwork ever sold at auction.

When a Francis Bacon painting
sells for $142 million,

and it'’s really just
three bits of canvas

with a bit of paint on top,

it'’s not about
anything physical.

It'’s about the power
of that artist'’s brand.

$500,000, $550,000,
say $600,000.

$600,000 already, $650,000.

I think that'’s true
with everything.

If Goldman Sachs
sells something,

it looks a lot sharper
than if it'’s sold by, uh,

I don'’t know what,
some bucket shop in, uh,

in Toronto.

Art really became perceived
as an asset class

during the last recession.

After Lehman Brothers
collapsed in September 2008,

most of the world went into
a deep economic ravine,

and one of the first things
to pop out of, uh,

that ravine
was the art market.

2009, there were a huge number
of record prices.

And at that moment,

financial advisors
all over the world thought,

"Oh, my God,
this is the hedge."

Art became, in a sense,

the hedge against
stocks and bonds

and all of those, uh,

invisible digital
financial instruments.

Lot number 31.

Maurizio Cattelan.

Because this market
is global enough

and is in some
highly visible hands,

including museum collections,

Cattelan work is perceived
as a financial asset.

At $2 million,
any more than $2 million?

If you look,
it'’s like any asset.

You know, art as
an investable commodity,

not as a piece of art,

but purely on a sort of
mathematical standpoint

has been one of
the best asset classes

for, I'’m willing to bet,
for the last 15 years.

It'’s a multi-billion dollar
annual revenue business.

Over $2 billion worth of art
sold in just 40--48 hours.

This is now the highest-grossing
spring auction season ever,

and the Christie
is wrapping up

its contemporary
evening sale last night.

Trying to sell art as an
investment is a dangerous game

because what'’s here today
could well be gone tomorrow.

An artist may be
a real genius today,

but if he is spoiled
or contaminated

by the sea of money around him,

his genius will completely melt
and become zero.

If he'’s going around too much,
then became a commodity,

and we are not here
to sell commodities.

There is something wrong
about the system.

Well, I think any asset is, uh,
supply and demand.

So if people are willing
to pay for it,

it'’s a real--
it'’s a real market.

Is it a bubble
that'’s going to burst?

Maybe by the time
your movie comes out,

the whole thing
will have collapsed.

At $27 million,
$28 million,

$29 million,
already at $29 million.

$30 million, new bidder,

at $30 million is bid.

$34, $35.

$40 million.

So, what'’s the value of it?

There is no value.

At $40 million then.

Truly last chance.

Art has no value.

But on the other hand,

if two or three people want it,

they put any number
that they choose on it.

I shall sell it then

for $40 million.

Thank you, Lisa.

Maybe in the end,

making money is art

and working is art

and good business
is the best art.

If you just wanted
to treat it as something

you don'’t really
give a shit about

but that you'’re interested
in as an investment,

you know,
there'’s more and more ways

that you can go about
doing that.

So this is Jamie
and that'’s Frank.

It'’s funny '’cause they--
they have their guns,

they have their radios,
they have their tear gas,

their bullet holes.

Their bullet, uh, cartridge.

There'’s definitely
a segment of its market

which is populated
by wheeler dealers,

collector/dealers
who have huge inventories

in particular artists'’ work.

We'’re collectors but at
the same time we'’re art dealers.

So pretty much what I do is
I like buying art and artists

that I love, respect,
want to live with.

With art, people go,
"But what does it mean?"

I'’m like,
"It doesn'’t mean anything.

What does it mean to you?

That'’s what it means, period."

Lot number 15.

"Frank and Jamie"
by Maurizio Cattelan.

And here we'’ll start
at $1,400,000.

This is the art market.

This is not the stock market.

This is just art.

So, on some level,

everyone can do
whatever they want.

I can sell it
for $2 million then,

all done.

Sold.

Thank you so much.

Lot number...

Some things, they'’re just,

like, they'’re factual.

They'’re just
objective realities.

And, um, you accept them
or you don'’t.

I'’m not saying it'’s right,

but it is.

Maurizio is criticized
for creating sort of jokes

which are like riddles
for the cognoscenti.

And then it'’s kind of like

if you get the joke
you'’re on the inside

and if you don'’t get the joke
then you'’re on the outside.

So it'’s sort of using
the vanity of collectors

and their desire to be
in on the joke against them

in the sense that,
you know,

pulling money
out of their pockets

to pay for things
that are basically junk.

I think Cattelan works
appeal to collectors

who want to be perceived
as adventurous and knowing.

So, you own "Daddy, Daddy."

Yeah.

How do you know
what I own?

For instance, "Daddy, Daddy,"

it'’s a tough work.

You need to have a pond
or fountain in your home.

I bought the "Daddy, Daddy"
because, um,

it was on the cover
of the art section

of The New York Times

when it was in
the Guggenheim show.

It'’s difficult to install.

The subject matter can be
exceedingly difficult.

There'’s all kinds of reasons
why, you know,

someone'’s not gonna buy
a piece of a hanging boy

or, uh, you know, a sculpture
of, uh, Adolf Hitler.

It'’s usually installed
facing a wall,

so you have to get up
very close to see the face.

And when people
see who it is,

they jump out of their skin.

People are still afraid
of his appearance.

Is he begging forgiveness,
is he--is he saying,

"What have I done?"

It'’s just merely a way
of getting a headline

and drawing attention
to his work.

And, unfortunately,
in this case,

we have no choice but
to denounce it and to protest.

The first time we brought it
into our home,

my daughter, who,
at that point in time,

was probably about seven
or eight years old

and did not know
who Hitler was

just completely freaked out
by the creepiness of it.

Frankly, even if you do
understand it, you'’re like,

"Why are you living
with a sculpture of Hitler

in your home?"

A lot of his work
is profound and interesting,

but it can be very demanding
to live with.

One thing that is very
intriguing is that, uh,

the Hitler sculpture
traded behind the scenes

for $10 million
a few years ago,

and I think that is still, uh,
his record price.

I'’m always intrigued when
the market rewards difficulty.

You need to go pretty far,

otherwise the piece
doesn'’t exist.

You have to convince the museum
director and the curator

that a hole in the floor
is necessary for the piece.

You need to push your, uh,

friends and enemies
and collaborators further

and you have to be
uncomfortable about it.

The further you go,
the more satisfaction is created

by the level of discomfort

in which all the
participants were put.

And I think that'’s
what his art is about,

getting a reaction
out of people.

And that'’s what he loves.

I mean, he lives for it.

It'’s like he wants
to be told that he'’s bad.

It'’s like he wants
the punishment.

We are used to think
of monuments

as places where victories
are celebrated,

but what if instead of
celebrating a victory

a public sculpture
or a monument

was to capture a loss?

"L.O.V.E."
is the public sculpture

placed in front of
the Stock Exchange in Manhattan.

He has a great understanding
of what it is

that will make the media
or the--or the wider public

really come to his work.

Obviously, it'’s a piece
about hating wealth

or about losing money.

But to me,
it'’s mostly about

excess of grandiosity
that has been dissipated

or an epoch
that has come to an end.

He must be a bit
of a masochist

'’cause he'’s constantly
asking for abuse.

It was very controversial
when it went up,

but I think that somehow
it was welcomed with sympathy

by the people.

You know, expecting
people to react strongly,

in a good way or a bad way.

I don'’t think he would do it

if he didn'’t think
he was gonna get scolded.

That'’s the joy
that he gets.

As other pieces of mine
that I put in the public space,

I'’m always interested
in the way

they maybe subtly
influence everyday life.

What Maurizio wants is that
it can'’t be permissible.

You know, so the question,
like, you know,

how does the work
function in the public realm?

You know, there'’s certain things
you can do,

some things you can'’t do.

And I think Maurizio
has always been

trying to push that
as far as he can.

You know, for example,

a while ago,

Maurizio said to me one day,

"Let'’s meet down
on Wall Street."

Beautiful, sunny
July 2001 day.

So we kind of walk around
for a fit,

and we'’re joking,
this, that, and the other,

and then, of course,
Maurizio says,

"You know what I want to do?

When the stock market goes down
by a certain percentage,

then I want someone
to come out on the balcony

as though they'’re
about to jump."

So the window would be open.

Yes.

Maurizio very much liked the
idea that people would call,

say, "There'’s a man who'’s about
to jump, he'’s about to jump!"

Cameras would come, "There'’s
a man who'’s about to jump."

That was really expansive work
that was supposed to really--

to electrify the whole street
of Wall Street

and sort of bring people--

bring Wall Street to a close
for a moment.

Why?

Then I realized,
of course,

that was exactly what
Maurizio wanted to do.

But then, sadly, you know, um,

9/11 happened two months later

and people jumping
from buildings

wasn'’t funny anymore.

There are so many images
out there

that we take for granted,

and some of them are awful,

but we just accept them,

and that, to me,
is quite shocking.

So some of my sculptures,
in a way,

on one hand they make us
understand what images do.

And also they deal
with this idea

that there are
still some images

we cannot simply swallow.

They, uh,
hopefully make us understand

something about
our level of acceptance

and, uh,

and ultimately
about our values, no?

I think there is too much work

that is just about being
a picture on the wall

that we are contented
looking at.

I think art needs
to be somehow disruptive

to then reconfigure opinions
and limits.

Three hanging kids, you know,

on a--on a tree branch in Milan

is an intensely discomforting

but yet powerful image.

I think it'’s amongst his
most important pieces of work.

When I was making those works,

I was interested
in understanding

what can we bear looking at,

and also what is
a physical object

that is so uncomfortable
that it requires somebody

to do something to it.

So one local guy just
decided to do something.

He got a ladder,
climbed the tree,

he cut down one of the children,

then the other one,

but he lost his balance
and he fell.

He was injured.

People called an ambulance
and he was taken away.

And later he was arrested
for defacing public property.

Some of my pieces
have been damaged,

like the hanging children.

I think that is often this,
on one hand,

this sort of media frenzy
that excites people.

And then there is
also somebody who feels

that the physical object
needs to be corrected.

There'’s an uncanny beauty
to Maurizio'’s work.

A way in which the work
is kind of like believable

in the world for a moment.

You know, is that
really a boy hanging?

We know it'’s not a boy hanging.

We know that the Pope
isn'’t hit by a meteorite.

We know this horse
is not alive,

is maybe taxidermied,
maybe even false,

but just for that moment
you kind of believe

there'’s a horse there
that'’s hanging there.

Suddenly there'’s
this anxiousness,

is, uh, infused in the work

and becomes kind of
a potent, I don'’t know,

existential question.

We know that Massimiliano

is not Maurizio Cattelan,

but Massimiliano Gioni
as Maurizio Cattelan

actually for this--
there'’s this moment

of suspension of belief.

Massimiliano Gioni has
performed the role of Cattelan,

done interviews for him,

and performed as him
for an extended period of time,

I think eight years.

Always send somebody else
to speak in your place.

We met in '’97 or '’98.

He had already decided,
in a way,

that he didn'’t want
to talk about his work.

Massimiliano was very energetic
and informed,

and we hit it off
and then it happened that

one of the days
in which we met,

I had to do an interview
with the radio and, uh,

and I say to him,
"Why don'’t--don'’t you do it?"

And I say,
"What do you mean?"

And he say,
"Well, we'’ll give

your phone number and they call
you and, uh, you do it."

I said, "Sure."

And so I gave the journalist

Massimiliano'’s phone number,

and, uh, and they called him
and he did it live,

and it was with
the national radio

and it went very well.

I don'’t even know if he heard
the interview or not,

but he called me up
the next day

and said,
"Oh, it was great."

Then that sort of escalated
into a much more, um,

systematic practice by which
every time that I was asked

to do an interview
and every time I was asked

to give a presentation,

I would ask Massimiliano
to speak in my place.

Um, good evening, everybody.

Besides the interviews,

I was also doing all
the lectures for Maurizio

in public or going
to universities to teach

instead of him.

I don'’t know, you know,

it'’s probably
close to hundreds

interviews and presentations
and press releases.

Massimiliano'’s impersonation
of Maurizio

was not unprecedented.

Quite famously,
Warhol enlisted

one of his acolytes
to perform the role

of Warhol in a lecture tour
of the U.S.

So it has been done before.

What'’s different here
is Massimiliano

really was involved
in the creation

of a certain kind
of verbal persona.

I'’m gonna try to go through,
actually,

273 slides.

Uh, if you fall asleep,
please do.

I think part of the reason

why Maurizio
liked this situation

was also that he doesn'’t
like to talk,

and so it was a way
of solving a problem

and saying yes
to interviews

that otherwise
he wouldn'’t do himself.

When people realize that
Massimiliano was not Maurizio,

sometimes people
are very upset

and felt like they had been
duped or taken in.

Other people in the audience
thought it was very funny

and really enjoyed the ruse.

I think it depends on your
relationship to authenticity

and what you expect in terms of
the authenticity of the artist.

I think it was
a clever thing to do

to enlist the support
of someone

who could bring
their articulacy

to Maurizio'’s work.

There was another way
to cultivate

that sort of misinformation
that made the work richer

or anyway more, um,
more complex.

When we'’re in
this process of, uh,

doing interviews
and playing being him

and sort of playing at being

to a certain extent,

I had a sense of his madness
because it would never end,

you know?

On many level, he has a sort of
addictive personality.

It'’s a sort of appetite
that can'’t get satisfied.

And I think,
for a while actually,

recognition was
perceived by him

as a restriction
of possibilities

or a widening
of certain possibilities

and a restriction
of others.

It sort of shrinks
your options.

I think he was very mindful
and worried also

about what that meant
and what to do.

I don'’t think he achieved
what he wanted

because, uh,

probably what he wants
is to keep looking.

And I think the show
at the Guggenheim

on many level
is an answer to that.

One day he walked
into my office

with this collage
that he had made

where he had cut and pasted
images of all his work.

And he said,
"This is what I want to do."

I thought
it was preposterous

that actually the Guggenheim
would do something like this,

and that Maurizio would risk
the safety of his work.

I don'’t really know
how he was able

to persuade the people at
the Guggenheim to do this.

It'’s never been done before.

I think he realized he had
to take on the building.

The most controversial building
in the history of New York City.

The Solomon R. Guggenheim
Museum.

No artists ever win
with the Guggenheim.

Every time they try
to do something,

they just enhance
the absolute unique spirit

of that museum.

I think once you get
up to a certain point,

now you'’re in
the catbird seat,

now you can do things
like go to the Guggenheim

and say, you know,

"Hang the whole body of my work

from the ceiling."

And it happens.

Unlike a conventional
retrospective,

where you'’re really
selecting the highlights,

the concept of this show
was that everything

he'’d ever made
was hanging.

In this, um,
rather disrespectful way.

He used the analogy many times
of dirty laundry hung up.

Hanging up the family
cat by its tail.

The mass slaughter.

Or like a big piñata.

Sausages in a butcher'’s window.

A toy that you would see
on an infant'’s crib.

That was the whole point
was to be disrespectful.

I met with
the key players

to see if we could
physically do it,

you know,
whether the building

could bear the weight
of the sculpture.

There are 12 ribs that
come down from the skylight,

and the work had to be evenly
distributed on those ribs.

Our engineers
reviewed the plans

and came up with a plan
that would allow us

to suspend the work
in the rotunda.

What I said to Maurizio
at the time

was that if we were to do this,

they had to be
the actual objects.

We couldn'’t use
exhibition copies

because the risk
had to be real.

We sent a letter
to the private collectors

that talked about
an unusual installation

that would be artist-designed

without any specifics.

And then the second letter
used words like "suspension."

And then the third letter
actually was a diagram

of how we were gonna
hang the work.

We weren'’t sure
if it serves any purpose

to categorize his work,

and, um, I think
Guggenheim was--

would not see to that.

He kind of put everything
on the same level.

Our conservator
and our mat maker

actually went
to see the works

in the various public
and private collections

around Europe
and the U.S.

Each work was
individually studied

so they could really
assess the objects

and decide how to best, um,

create a custom mount
which they would be hung from.

Maurizio would come
to our workshop,

and there was a lot of back
and forth about the aesthetics.

The closer we could get

to a kind of rope-like,
knotted look

so there was
a casual quality.

Most of these pieces were
made to sit on the ground

or stand on the ground.

"Novecento,"
the horse, of course,

is something that
was engineered to hang

but very little else.

The way we installed the show

is that the truss
started up from the ground

and then gradually
was lifted up.

Just really a few inches
a couple of times a day

as more works were added.

Our conservator'’s job is
to make sure that the works

are entirely safe at every point
that they'’re on display.

Usually, you know,
you'’re concerned

about people
touching the work, um,

or something like that.

This was a whole different set
of challenges.

So, over the course of a month

of the installation,

the truss gradually ascended.

And all of the works
were added,

ending with "Novecento,"
the suspended horse.

The revelation that
occurred to both Maurizio

and to me at about
the same time

was that by combining
all of the work,

he had created
an independent work of art

in that installation,

albeit a temporary one.

It could never happen again,

and probably shouldn'’t.

In the back of my mind,
I was very worried

that some miscalculation
had happened

and that the Frank Lloyd Wright
building would crumble

and it would be my fault.

But I think that
that'’s part of the power

of the exhibition itself,

that it looked preposterous.

I think
that was really key

to the experience
of the show.

We have a policy of
no photography in exhibitions,

but we recognized the fact that
people just needed to record it

'’cause it was--
it was so extraordinary.

And then it was
wonderfully distributed

out in the world.

People went crazy for the show.

The museum had
to extend their hours.

There were lines
around the block.

This sight,

good or bad,

crapola or transcendence,

you'’ll remember it.

This changes your idea.

I was expecting it to have

this anarchic,
rebellious quality,

for it to be this
very bold gesture

of--of spectacle.

But, really,

what struck me
more than anything

was the intense vulnerability.

You know, it was a bit
of a tragic gesture

that you just accept
what you'’ve done

and that'’s all
he amounts to

and you put it there
and you move on.

I don'’t like my works,
many of them.

I don'’t feel
necessarily good

about seeing them
all together.

All that was in
that building was, uh,

20 years of working every day,
you know,

so many hours
and minutes and...

It was just saying,
"Look, this is the stuff.

This is what they are
and it'’s up to you

to understand
if it was worth it or not."

Well, Maurizio hates his works,

he hates what he does.

Every time you ask him
about something,

he'’s like, "Oh, it'’s crap.

I can'’t look at it."

I don'’t know, it'’s like

he has like
an internal conflict.

He can'’t allow himself
to actually admire it

and say, you know,

"I'’ve done a good job.

I like this."

A while ago, Maurizio
said to me something like,

"I don'’t know
if I'’m funny anymore."

And I think, like,
you know,

Maurizio'’s trying
to rethink where he is.

His work really worked
when he was the guy outside.

And as an outsider,
then he can launch

these missiles
into the art world.

But once he becomes

one of the expensive
and valued artists,

you can'’t be the renegade.

You can'’t be the prankster.

You can'’t be
the court jester anymore.

The announcement
of his retirement

was greeted with
great skepticism.

Just remember,
he announces his retirement

at the absolute peak
of his career.

He'’s been in the press
and people have said,

"Oh, you know,
he'’s not gonna retire."

I think he will retire

to prove that
he is not a joker,

that he was serious
about everything.

He understood that maybe
it was a cycle of idea

was finished.

He understood that
something was finished.

And, in fact, you know,
it kind of

is out to beat him now,
you know?

I mean,
he works an insane amount,

he'’s working every day,

and he'’s always thinking
about the next move.

I think if he were ever
completely satisfied

or ever completely happy,

he would just be done.

I mean, he'’ll be happy
if he'’s dead.

Yeah, I think he'’s obsessed.

He'’s made for--for art,

and, um,
when we were together,

he used to say that art
was his other woman,

was his other girlfriend.

But I think she was
the most important one

out of the two of us.

And so I think,
yeah, ultimately,

that'’s the companion with
which he'’s going to die.

For sure.

Although at some point

we did want to have children.

It'’s just that
we never really managed,

and so...

It was very, very difficult,

but I know, in the end,

it was...really,
it was for the best.

I don'’t think we would
have been happy together.

And, um...

Mm...

You cannot really take Maurizio
from here to here.

It'’s a question
of navigating through these

narrow corridors
of the labyrinth

to discover who he is.

We can'’t judge it,

we just have to
go along with him.

We just have
to go along with Maurizio.

Art is very important.

When you boil it down,

there'’s not much to life.

There'’s eating.

There'’s sex.

There'’s family, children.

And then, that'’s it.

I mean, there'’s ice cream.

I mean, it'’s...

So, what'’s left?

The most powerful art

is art that makes you see
the world differently

and that makes you see
yourself differently.

Once you'’ve seen it,

it gets under your skin

and you never forget it.

We have our art
so we don'’t die of truth.

Paris gall--okay.

A Paris--a Paris gallerist.

-Okay.
-Paris gallerist.

Paris gallerist,
Paris gallerist.

Okay, so just in
that line then?

Yeah.

For another show,

he had his Paris gallerist

dress up in a costume

that was a pink rabbit
in the shape of a penis.

Pink rabbit in
the shape of a penis.

...in the shape
of a penis.

Shaped like a penis.

A penis.

Penis.

Okay, that one'’s done.

Never have to say it again.