the performance, a voice realized with an electronic synthesizer has
recited in more languages the pseudo biography of the artist
"Where and when did you start the
real story of Federico Cozzucoli?
In his native city of
Messina was completely destroyed by the earthquake of 1908?
In his "family romance",
which features grotesque story of blackmail and extortion?
In his "sexual mystery",
made of perversion and incestuous impulses?
Or a misguided and
unlikely Weltanschauung-Wagnerian Nietzsche?
In investigative odyssey
that unfolds between Vienna and Monaco, Paris and Berlin, London and
Jerusalem, "S_OGGETTO" archives explores forgotten, memories of the era
of art dealers anticozzucoliani Weimer, compared with some of the most
brilliant critical our age, by Achille Bonito Oliva Philip Daverio, by
Giancarlo Politi, Massimilia-no Tonelli, until discussed Vittorio
Sgarbi. The result is a work that deals with efficiency and punctuality
of the many questions that since the war have been the focus of
controversy among art historians, professors of psychology and
aesthetics of form, animated by the desire to explore the personality
of the artist now the symbol of the century".
From Sabrina Sabius’s interview with artist Federico
Cozzucoli on the occasion of the performance S_OGGETTO [...] In
this work there is a strong reference to German dic-tator: the
performance consists in my identification with this figure, symbolising
our cultural original sin with which we in the West Europeans we have
to compare and maybe we can't forgive us, although we are not directly
responsible. I wasn't even born and I lived this historical experience
through the testimony of my grandparents, the history books and with
various insights on the subject, as well as several biographies on the
figure of the dictator and with big problems of interpretation; the
idea of choosing this particular figure is given by the fact that
represents the absolute evil, is not a figure that has lights as in the
case of the Italian dictator, who has heavy shadows, but some light we
can find. Further reflection on the people who followed that figure and
the question arises: is all his fault or any liability we can give to
those who followed him? What is the fault of the people? This is the
Why do you identify him
with your person? Because it is difficult to judge others, thus
identifying this bad with myself is like saying that I forgive myself
for my sins and not attributing them to other accountability.
It's as if each of us is
responsible? Yes, Yes, I am responsible for myself, because I
can't tell you.
Then I can interpret the
performance as a my liability? Of course, if you want, or you
can tell me “You are crazy”. these are the two possibilities that it
offers to the public. The action within this space is a multiplication
of my self-portrait for 144 times; re-petition is the
self-identification, believing themselves something strong, important
and powerful. The performance puts ourselves as an object of worship
Is the concept of Superman?
Yes, but is the idea of Superman distorted from its original
philosophical meaning and exploited as political propaganda; also
happened with Wagner's work. Contemporary artists are very politicized,
I don't support for nobody and I do politics with my work, I expose in
this sense. This work in particular then develops into a complex,
expresses emotions and should arouse emotions in people who go to see
What you define is
political then stimulate different evaluations compared to the opera?
Yes, of course. For example, once I happened on the occasion of an
exhibition of an artwork abaut death, a person, that had seen, had
expressed a negative opinion, I thanked his because his judgment had
grasped the meaning of the message: If you have a problem dealt with
this theme is right that express your discomfort. It means that the
work conveys his message.
Hitler, la fine del mito
That 29 April 1945 the drum beat of Soviet artillery had given no
respite. For several hours the dismal meowing of Katyushe had preceded
the terrifying explosions of rockets. Another day of ordinary madness
had accomplished in a Berlin in flames and hopeless.
The compost elegance of Unter den Linden, the vibrant Mitte, now
transformed into a seething reduced the defense of kids and old of the
Volkssturm, remained an opaque memory. Only the austerity of the
columns of the Reichstag, with blackened and sbrecciate, recalled the
greatness of Germany.
The atmosphere inside the last of Hitler's Lair, the reinforced
concrete bunker did dig from Speer under new, sumptuous millennial
Reich Chancellery now in rubble, it was surreal.
An overwhelming and warm hood made of damp, dust, smoke, smell of
alcohol badly digested mixed with gasoline odor pervaded the narrow
environments. The frantic shouting of the soldiers, it overlapped the
gloomy roar of power generators which fed lamps flickering but also
asphyxiated Führerbunker air pumps.
The military orders were dry counterpoint the hysterical laughter of
women. Some were drunk, others wept cursing the scellerate choices of
the past. Someone praying.
Released from its housing in grey uniforms, the Führer called the
officer of the order of the SS charging him to summon the faithful to
the last meeting. Hiding the trembling right hand behind his back
closed the door quickly, turning a fleeting look at Eva Braun who tried
to sit on the couch.
Gradually went into the meeting room, the one with the large table
clutter of military maps, some twenty people. In spite of the supposed
misogyny of the Führer, among them there were several women. The charge
to the Secretariat, some maids, the Cook staff and especially the loyal
Secretary Traudl Junge, at your service since 1942, who the night
before had dictated the Testament.
Greeted all the defendants, clutching to each hand. Also present were
Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels and his wife Magda. Stroking the
head of Blondi, the beloved trusty German Shepherd that the next
scodinzolava, Fräu Goebbels turned to short, giving it as a sign of
gratitude the party symbol in solid gold and enamel who had marched
from the lapel of his jacket.
After the painful farewell rejoined the private apartment in the
company of Eva. A river of the angustiava thoughts. She didn't want to
make the end of Mussolini. It was the day came the news of the
execution of Mussolini and his woman, Claretta Petacci. But mostly he
had terrified the description of the infamous destruction of their
Not intended to deliver himself, the myth, the son of Germany, the
founder of the millennial Reich, the infamous Bolshevik. Suicide was
the unavoidable solution. He had understood that no army would come to
free him. The armies that paranoid moved on paper did not exist
anymore. Were disposed in Russia, were dissolved on the Fiery sands of
the African desert, had been swept from the skies of Europe, rested on
the bottom of the oceans.
As a means to give herself to the gods? Poison, gun. As the most
worthy. As the safest. The solemn theme of Tannhäuser the haunted mind,
certainly the most suitable for a stormy night, the most appropriate to
describe the looming catastrophe.
Resolved for the gun. He would do with his Walther 7.65. With a quick
gesture grabbed the automatic perfect functioning. He made the basket,
making sure that the shot was in the barrel.
The dull clatter of metal weapon seemed aroused him. And Eve? He
remembered that he was not alone. Slowly turning the saw. He was curled
up on the couch, with his elegant blue polkadot dress whites, beautiful
shoes bought in Italy which have been abandoned on the concrete floor.
Her eyes lost in memories of beautiful days spent at the Berghof, the
villa on the Obersalzberg near Berchtesgaden in Bavaria. The image of
those sunsets Salzburger Alps, admired from the large window of the
living room, is opposing the reality of grey, cold, sounds and
The woman, the bride-to-be, then realized that it was time. Also had to
choose. He knew that he could not, not wanting to leave her man. But no
gun. You do not have to pull the trigger. He chose the cyanide.
Tasteless, odorless, painless. Meanwhile in the next room, as in a
witches' Sabbath, who had not yet fled were abandoned to a frantic
dance. Almost a liberating Rite sound unreal to a disc, between the
smoke of cigarettes and alcohol.
Hitler opened the door leaning that much needed to say with unusual
calm "Fairies". Then slowly closed the door. At that point the
Grammophone had stopped playing, people stopped dancing, time stood
Then the shot. A rap echoed among the strong walls. All they looked.
Realized it was over.
Otto Günsche, adjutant of the tyrant and Heinz Linge, waiter staff were
hesitant in the room. Hitler sat on an armchair, his head reclined on a
shoulder, his right hand hung inertly, ground the gun still smoking. On
the right temple was a small bright red coloured hole.
Eva lay lifeless on the couch instead. Her slender body was now prey to
silence of death.
Everything was accomplished. The story was once passed among men
leaving its indelible mark.