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Futuro Antico. Interview with Marco Delogu
2 gen 2024
Marco Bassan
Curiosity, dialogue, and passion are the keys to facing the future in a positive way. The photographer and president of Palazzo delle Esposizioni shares his vision of the future in this interview.
What are your inspirational references in art?
Definitely Roman heads. They are a fascination that entered my mind as a child. At the time, I visited the Capitoline Museums and the Forum, which were still free. On the bus ride home from school, I played a game born from boredom, trying to see if the faces of the heads I had seen at the museum could be found in the common people around me. This memory stayed with me so much that my first work was photographing Roman heads, aiming to give them life again. From that initial inspiration, my obsession with portraits and faces was born. Portraits are my primary inspiration, from 14th-century paintings to video art; I even obsessively visit the National Portrait Gallery in London and lament the lack of a true portrait museum in Italy. If I have to mention a photographer, I definitely think of August Sander and his portraits of 20th-century citizens. Among lesser-known artists, I also think of Costantino Nivola, who comes from my homeland, and Domenico Gnoli, up to great masters like Rothko or Pontormo; the latter particularly fits into my category of great portraitists. I’m not afraid to say that I admire the classics like Pablo Picasso; I still remember the sensation I had during my visit to the Tate for the exhibition Picasso 1932 – Love, Fame, Tragedy, where Goffredo Parise’s words echoed in my mind while looking at Chagall’s paintings at the 1948 Biennale: “I stop painting and do something else.” Since Andrea Lissoni introduced me to Joan Jonas, I can’t say I think about her every day, but almost; her video on the wind seemed truly incredible to me.
What project represents you the most? Can you tell us about its genesis?
The project that represents me the most is the latest one: the photographs I am creating using only moonlight, without any equipment or tripod, just with the camera. Especially those taken on the island of Asinara, where I worked in 2017 and plan to return very soon. The aim is to dismantle a series of photographic grammars; the exposures are extremely long, almost 30 seconds, and the biggest challenge is accepting that my body becomes an essential instrument in the photograph, registering when I move or when I don’t. Particularly working in a place like the former high-security prison of Asinara, an institution of maximum control, with the loss of control. Fifteen years ago, I stopped my obsessive thematic research on farmers in the Pontine Marshes, inmates in Rebibbia, retired cardinals, and many other categories like the jockeys of the Palio di Siena or composers at Ircam. Right now, I would like to return to making portraits and write a book in which I don’t show the photograph until the end, as a minimal element, but where I write about what happened while making the portrait. I would also write about portraits that didn’t go well, like the one I took at the end of an afternoon spent with Joseph Brodsky. After spending four hours listening to him sitting on a bench at Villa Aurelia overlooking Rome, I was so visually drained that the photo didn’t come out well, and today I remember him through a wonderful portrait by Irving Penn, not through mine, and that’s okay.
What importance does Genius Loci have in your work?
It is of total importance; I think it makes the difference. It integrates our identity with our culture and belonging. In my work, the genius loci has always entered into a dialogue with the education I grew up with: my parents became communists over their lives, renouncing the wealth they had thanks to their families. I grew up with fantastic teachings but in a state of poverty, so when I found myself doing commercial photography for fashion magazines to survive, I imposed on myself to reduce the time spent there and increase the time for experimentation and research.
How important is the past for imagining and building the future?
What interests me is the present, but even more so the future. Everything that can be projected and built for the future comes only from a careful study of the past. I really enjoy rediscoveries, like the exhibition by the Nivola Foundation about De Pisis's niece, Bona De Mandiargues, or the drawings rediscovered in a trunk belonging to Bobi Bazlen, which we showcased here at the Palazzo delle Esposizioni. Many people bring me a lot of projects I've seen hundreds of times before, and my advice is always the same: study and create something that relates to your identity or your genius loci, because that’s where you can make a difference. One of the problems with the Italian academy in training artists is precisely the tendency to overvalue or undervalue the past: in one case, it creates an oppressive stagnation, and in the other, it fails to teach how to relate to the national and international art world, leading to a generation of artists who don’t know how to carve out a path for themselves.
What advice would you give to a young person wanting to follow your path?
Be as curious as possible, study a lot, and understand how the mechanisms of the system in which you want to live and work function. I advise against getting stuck on a single path and to understand how deep identity can be tied to your language. A lack of curiosity is a disqualifying factor when choosing collaborators. The Italian reality is not easy, and you need to grasp how the system works, which is often difficult to decipher. I grew up in a world where, if you were going to speak with someone, the first thing to do was study and understand what that person had done, what their school of thought was, and their points of reference. I find it pathetic that even now, when seeking collaborators, people don’t know who McCullin or Mikhailov are. The average age of the audience at recent talks with Obrist was just a bit younger than mine, and I’m 63. At the talk with Curiger, the room was only half full: here’s a woman who founded Parkett, the Tate magazine, curated the 2011 Biennale, and can tell you incredible things, and you choose not to come?
In an era defined by post-truth, does the concept of the sacred still hold meaning and power?
The closer you get to the age when you have to come to terms with your departure, the more you confront this theme. My entire work on the sacred has been about reviving a project on the sacred woods of the Vatican Chapel after COVID, exploring the relationship between photography and the sacred image with important authors like McCullin, Francesca Woodman, Guy Tillim, Graciela Iturbide, and Martin Parr. The exhibition at the Cini Foundation allowed me to reflect deeply on this concept, which for me is not tied to religiosity. Of course, I would love for contemporary art to have a relationship with the Vatican, especially in a city like Rome. I live in the same house where Manzù made the doors for St. Peter’s, but perhaps that is one of the few things done in the post-war period with contemporary art. I see the 20th century as the darkest century for this relationship.
How do you envision the future? Can you give us three ideas that you believe will guide the coming years?
This is the hardest question to answer, especially since I have a 7-year-old son, and part of fatherhood is providing guidance on how to face life. What I tell my son is certainly to study, but perhaps even more importantly, to try to be happy by finding a passion, whatever it may be. For the first time, I admit to feeling a bit pessimistic, but then I roll up my sleeves and optimism returns. I think the period we are living in is very difficult; the recent developments in the war in Ukraine, the resurgence of nuclear energy, and the drama of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict make me think somewhat gloomily. I did a project on the European dream (on the Santo Stefano prison and the island of Ventotene), and reluctantly, I see that idea fading away today. In a year and a half at the Palazzo delle Esposizioni, I had a great lesson: I invited Dacia Maraini for the Pasolini exhibition, and we held an open meeting. The meeting was very beautiful, and in her closing remarks, Dacia emphasized how, in the Rome she experienced in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, one could spend the entire night talking with friends about literature and art, while now, at the end of that meeting, no one had suggested going for a bite to eat together or continuing the conversation. The era she lived in was different and produced many important things; perhaps in this era, it would do us good to recover some of those habits. Curiosity, dialogue, in-depth exploration, and a great deal of passion are the only keys that can lead us positively into the future.