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facebook-icon-web.jpg youtube-icon.png   foto Federico Cozzucoli myhomegallery
S_OGGETTO
MARTYRIUM
DODICI
SIMONIA
COZZUFUCOLI
GLORIA
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • Autoritratto Funebre #8/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #21/144 oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #30/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #45/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • autoritratto funebre #49/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #60/144 oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #66/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #86/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #94/144 oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #95/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre #97/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • Autoritratto Funebre di #109/144oil and gold acrilic on cotton paper
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • Maschera Funebremold plaster from face of artist
  • Maschera Funebreone same 24 candle form plaster mold of the artist's face
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
  • S_OGGETTOperformance - photo Cristiano G. Musa
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federico.cozzucoli
federicocozzucoli@gmail.com
+393473327194

During 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 problem.

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 and representation.

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 it.

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.

SABRINA SABIU


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 bodies.
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 unfamiliar faces.
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 still.
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.

ALBERTO MONTEVERDE
FEDERICO COZZUCOLI