Franti, Out!

On Stamm


Diego Marcon, Untitled (Head falling 02&05), 2015. Courtesy the artist.

Careof is a not-for-profit space in Milan hosted in a public architectural complex called La Fabbrica del Vapore (The Steam Factory) which, at the beginning of the 1900s, was where trams were built. The site is next to the calm beauty of Cimitero Monumentale, a tidy layout of trees and tombs of various styles and sizes. On the opposite side is the lively Chinatown, always buzzing with people, plenty of shops and more recently trendy bars serving bubble tea.

Caterina Riva, 2015

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On Nero


Diego Marcon, SPOOL BROADCASTING, block III, Tape 02. Elena, July 15 2012. Courtesy the artist

Milan, EXT. DAY.

A loud noise comes from inside the exhibition space. Once through the darkened threshold, a giant garden dwarf welcomes the visitor to Diego Marcon’s suggestive new body of works. The artist, on returning to Milan after over a year in Paris and after several months of tight work, faces up to what has been happening around him and analyses his own artistic drives, choosing to approach his beloved medium of film in an artisanal way. The conversation delves into Marcon’s older projects and how they are feeding this exhibition as well as driving the development of new characters for the future. Spoilers ahead: the interview contains mentions of Heads, Winnie-The-Pooh and what Franti stands for.

Caterina Riva, 2015

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Full conversation in Italian here

Antipodean Vision [EN-IT]


Margherita Moscardini, 1xUnkown, 2012-ongoing, Heuqueville (FR), still from video, courtesy the artist


Haven’t we got rid of Berlusconi yet?
Italy from abroad is filtered through the lens of La Repubblica’s website: from the daily column “L’Amaca” written by Michele Serra and the videos of Maurizio Crozza commenting on the vices of the country at the beginning of the talk show “Ballarò.”

Italy is far but follows me everywhere regardless.
In one of my favourite bookshop in Auckland, I notice on a shelf the book Art in the age of Berlusconi. I can’t bring myself to even flick through it.
Last weekend, my neighbors reminded me that there is an Italian Festival on not far from where we live; I am resisting the idea of going but I end up surrendering to homesickness and the lure of finding some Italian delicacies. What awaits me announces itself with the tune of the Italian version of “Old McDonald had a farm,” the song is broadcast from a speaker sitting next to 4 Ferrari Testarossa. Surely pizza, pasta and bread are well represented; I get immediately annoyed because the Italians there feel entitled to overperform the role of Italians, I find it extremely irritating.The shame for that immodest display of theatricality makes me reply in English rather than my mothertongue.

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