The Brooklyn Rail

Enzo Cucchi possesses a poetic sensibility that resists categorization—subtle, enigmatic, and charged with symbolic force. A central voice in the Italian Transavanguardia, he has spent decades crafting a visual language that evades fixed definitions. His work is radically intuitive, mythological, and defiant of context. Instead, it unfolds like a dream: layered, fragmentary, and permeated by a metaphysical current that resists resolution.

This spring marks his return to New York with Mostra Coagula, a solo exhibition at Vito Schnabel Gallery—his first major US show since his landmark exhibition at the Guggenheim in 1986. To mark the occasion, we spoke over Zoom, in Italian. Cucchi declined to be seen on camera. Instead, he constructed a miniature stage before his screen: a mise en scène animated by a small, mysterious creature performing in front of a painting, with a handwritten note in the background reading “Great Alex K., Great Julian S.”—a reference that will resurface in the conversation.

Ginevra de Blasio (Rail): Enzo, your exhibition titled Mostra Coagula, which recently opened at Vito Schnabel Gallery in Chelsea, marks your return to the United States after over twenty years. The title refers to the process of coagulation, meaning the thickening—the joining of scattered elements into a form—and it resonates a bit with alchemical imagery. Can you tell us more about the title and whether it is connected to this moment of return? How does it feel to present your work here after twenty years?

Enzo Cucchi: Yes, you see, titles are completely replaceable. It depends on the mood, on many things, on when you are asked about it. I’m not interested in titles in a formal sense, but simply as a greeting in a certain state of mind towards the person and the place I’m about to encounter. It doesn’t have a particular meaning, and it wasn’t what I was trying to achieve.

As for the twenty years, as you said: do you know what twenty years means? Of course, those years were necessary.

Look, do you see what’s behind me? There’s something in the air, something written, right? Can you see the writing?

Rail: Yes, the writing behind says “Great Alex K., Great Julian S.”

Cucchi: Well, for example, speaking of years, you know, Alex means … you can imagine, it’s directed at Alex Katz. I think his work is so special, it has had a much more special evolution—even more so than Willem de Kooning’s from that American generation—and that’s very special. It pleases me, it gives me great personal pleasure.

As for Julian Schnabel, I think he was already much better than Jean-Michel Basquiat at the time, and he is still better today. This is what matters, you know? It’s about the America of all of us, but I’m very pleased to have rediscovered, after twenty years, in a certain way, the same quality, the same emotions, and in the end, the same values.

Rail: In 1986, you had a retrospective at the Guggenheim in New York. Do you feel—

Cucchi: Is there such a thing as a “retrospective,” for example? As you see, even back then, someone named these things with a definition—“retrospective”—so it’s something linked to time, or it might seem that way. But in reality, it’s not like that, is it? Because even in that case, I did an exhibition just like I would in any other place, but it was because it was necessary to go through these things to then meet again after twenty years. Probably if I had done, as you say, a “real” retrospective, maybe today we wouldn’t be talking about all this.

Rail: Do you feel that your work has changed since that show at the Guggenheim?

Cucchi: It’s not that the work hasn’t changed; it’s always changing. It’s us who never change. The work always changes inevitably. The only work that always changes is an artist’s work. All other disciplines don’t really change, because they have an idea of power, so they develop something along a linear trajectory, under this form of power and so-called “future.”

You know, art doesn’t care about any of this; art doesn’t care about the future, and so it has this type of capacity and wonder, precisely because it’s the only material that can change—it must! And it changes every day while always staying the same.

How does science change, for example? It’s like a single, rigid body, but that must be compact, it must always be that: recognizable. Art is exactly the opposite.

Rail: Regarding a difference that can be noticed between you and other artists of the Transavanguardia—like Francesco Clemente or Sandro Chia, who have spent a lot of time in the United States—you stayed more in Italy, more tied to our culture in a way. What guided that choice? What made you stay, rather than following them to America? Did you feel like it wasn’t necessary?

Cucchi: Exactly, because an artist doesn’t need anything, first of all. You can make choices on a personal level. In the case of the people you’re talking about, they made a moral, spiritual choice, thinking that it was necessary to be in America because at that moment they needed to be there.

But, you see, I think an artist doesn’t need anything, so it doesn’t mean anything to enter a country and make some kind of practical investment. It’s a problem I’ve never had. For me, it’s very natural to do the same things every day, out of habit, to even do them at the same time, even be sick on the same days of the year. So it’s normal that I lived where I still live, I don’t see what would have changed, you know? If someone thinks that changing places changes things, I don’t believe it. It would be too simple.

Rail: From the perspective of your work, it’s also very connected to Italy, to the images you know, your presence—

Cucchi: Well, that’s obvious, each of us works with the images we know. How could I work with images I don’t know? How do I do that? If you think there are images I don’t know, coming from another planet, what do I care? That’s not the problem.

The problem is how you work with what you know, what’s always been there—not only for me, but for everyone. It’s not like pears didn’t exist for Paul Cézanne or Pablo Picasso, or anyone else. Pears have always existed, right? Or apples? The problem is how you decide to change them, not to interpret them.

Rail: Moving to the New York exhibition, what immediately strikes me is the collection of works, especially—at least for me—all these small paintings placed side by side that almost form a visual rhythm. There’s an impression of a very precise curatorial choice, which I imagine comes directly from you. How were these works created? Did they come together at the same time or did they meet later, and what is their relationship with the space? How did you decide to set them up there?

Cucchi: As always: as they’ve always been there. Every time there’s an exhibition, like in this case, these things help me assemble the show; they come with me to decide how to interact together in a space, with the human creatures of the place, emotionally—but nothing too significant at a psychological or formal level, you understand? Because every time, I’m already working with things that exist, because I’ve never thought about imagining a work, doing it for something specific, which—over the past twenty or thirty years—is something that happens now, and I’m not here to judge it, but it happens this way. If you prepare a display, you’re preparing a display, then you already know what you’re doing. The Surrealists had already done this, and as you see, it’s very boring; they bored us then and they continue to bore us today, right? I don’t think there are any great paintings among those Surrealists, for example, because they were the first “window dressers.” Now it seems that there’s a lot of “window dressing” in every corner, every exhibition space in America, and in other places around the world—not to mention Europe—and in museums it’s even worse. So in this case, it’s simply a more normal thing in the world.

I don’t think Piet Mondrian ever did an exhibition when the works weren’t there at first, he did his work, and then when they were there, he thought about how to show them, right? Not to mention Kazimir Malevich, or whoever you want. Or Edvard Munch—you know how good he was, right? You work with what already exists, not with what you make just for the sake of it, you know? What does that mean? I don’t know how you would even make something like that, understand? That thing is a practice that should be left to those who deal with decoration, or fashion, for example. But that’s not my judgment, it’s just an observation.

Rail: Do you work on multiple pieces at the same time in the studio?

Cucchi: Of course, but that’s true for all of us, right? It’s normal. How else do you do it? Every day, you do the same things. Like walking. If you walk, it doesn’t mean the trees in your walk are always the same, right? But every time you see them, it’s clear that each time is different for a thousand reasons, you see? There’s the wind that changes everything, right? It’s like when you said things change. Of course, they must change, right? It’s the wind that takes care of that, and the important thing is that it changes them, and that you encounter that change every time.

Rail: Many of the works currently on view have both ceramic elements and painting, right? Which in some way makes them both painting and sculpture at the same time—

Cucchi: No—sorry, to interrupt you. More than being painting and sculpture, it’s not quite like that. These are simply materials that sometimes belong to what we call “sculpture.” Because they are material in that sense. In reality, it’s simply an additional image: a strong, external projection. It’s a mark driven by other marks, so it’s still an image, understand? The issue is always related to the image. The materials get involved in this, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m doing sculpture, nor does it necessarily mean I’m doing—I don’t know—something else, understand?

Rail: Yes, like painting, sure. You are very attached to ceramics though. Where does your connection stem from?

Cucchi: Ceramic, you know, like all things, being a very ancient and primitive thing, is a material that is really congenial to the artist. Like when you say, “What are you talking about?”—it’s like the word for a writer. Ceramic simply has a problem with light. Like when you do frescoes, you’re not painting green, blue, pink. That thing doesn’t exist; what exists is the light of that thing. The light of the blue, the light of the pink.

Mosaic is the most special tool because it filters this and gives you that type of quality. Ceramic likewise has this type of value. It’s a noble material, like a fish—a tuna in the middle of the sea, which is a noble fish—unlike some fish that don’t have any particular nobility or selection.

Rail: So you find that ceramics and ceramic elements in your works bring a certain brightness that perhaps painting can’t quite achieve?

Cucchi: No, I don’t think it’s exactly this. It’s not about using one thing because the other thing can’t achieve it. Both are necessary. That thing is like that because it feeds off those things. “Why” isn’t important—or understanding why it feeds that way. The problem is how you manage to metabolize that thing, naturally, to accept it, to welcome it.

Rail: Speaking of frescoes and considering your roots in the Marche region, it’s natural to think of Giotto di Bondone, Masaccio, and Piero Della Francesca. I imagine you’ve studied their works at length?

Cucchi: I wish I had. They’re impossible to study. They’re so great that it’s not about studying them—it would be too easy, understand? Because then everyone would study them, and everyone would understand them.

In reality, they are things that illuminate; it’s different. It’s an ancient, infinite selection, and they decide who can still continue to listen, to welcome that type of quality, of light, of necessity. So it’s something more sophisticated, more underground. Piero is there, as the others are, but simply for those who are lucky enough and capable of listening to it, of feeling it, of being illuminated in some way, or even a victim, which is the same thing.

Rail: From a painting perspective, absolutely, but from an iconographic perspective, they worked by referencing religious iconography, right?

Cucchi: Religion was a subject that didn’t matter at all because the subject was the commission you were given. But pay attention, this is very interesting. The commission asked for something; think about how they were able to transform it. Think about Piero’s Madonna del Parto. Clearly it was a Madonna with two angels, but imagine how he transformed it, and that was a commission.

Rail: Of course, they were all given guidelines, which they then surpassed.

Cucchi: It’s impressive, you understand? So the problem is never the subject or what it is or what it represents, how you see painting—speaking of window-dressing. If one thinks about narration, description, telling something, it’s exactly the opposite.

Painting doesn’t have to narrate anything, illustrate anything, or describe anything. Giotto di Bondone with the stories of St. Francis: what does he have to describe? A little friar talking to birds, and that’s describing him? I don’t think so, because if it were true, he would be considered mad: talking to birds, talking to animals. He would be seen as the village fool. But it’s something else, you understand? In fact, it was the story that entered into that painting for the first time. A real story entered into painting. And from there, the idea of painting, or art, was born. Otherwise, there’s only decoration. Very good, very beautiful, but decoration.

Rail: Do you see the images in your works in the same way? As images that don’t need to be understood—that aren’t iconographic?

Cucchi: Exactly, you’re right, but of course. First, I forget them by heart, I don’t even really know them. Many drawings, as soon as I see them, I understand they are mine, but I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember anymore. I forget them all, I forget everything.

Rail: I did notice, at least in the current exhibition, the repetition of certain images, like the skull.

Cucchi: It’s not a repetition, it’s simply something that confirms that, as you see, I know a few things. And that thing is known to everyone, right? Even flies. Any human creature knows that thing, that image. It’s an elementary thing. So it’s a matter of knowledge, simply.

It’s not about repetition, with meanings. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

Rail: Staying on this theme of the sacred, I know you’ve created two works that are spiritual: in the Church of San Giacomo Apostolo in Ferrara and the Chapel of Santa Maria Degli Angeli in Monte Tamaro, with Mario Botta. I wanted to talk a bit more about these works. How was it working in these contexts, and what did it mean to work within a sacred place? Was there any difference?

Cucchi: You see, within each place, there are rules, and I really like rules in this sense, and I don’t judge whether that thing is something that interests me or not. What interests me is that there is a place with very precise rules, and in that place, I meet very particular, special human creatures who are capable of enforcing those rules. Without these things, none of us would be able to do anything—at least I believe so.

When you speak, for example, about Tamaro, there was a figure I invite you to read, because he was the person who wrote about the iconography of antiquity up to the present day like no one else; his name is Father Giovanni Pozzi. That work was done by me and Botta because there was this spiritual arm, this figure who helped us, who kept us company, who made us aspire together. Even though our idea was an idea, let’s say—beautiful, special, very secular—it was his as well. But without him, we probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything. So, these things were necessary in order to meet other human creatures.

Rail: So, do you think the Father influenced the artistic process in some way?

Cucchi: He empowered it. Human creatures, sooner or later, when something is in the air, they must now know how to collect it. They collect it, whoever is more or less destined for this collection. This doesn’t mean they are special people; they simply have that kind of quality, they know how to collect things floating in the air, as if you are good at catching butterflies. In this sense, we should marvel and pay attention to each other—marvel at the often unconscious abilities of others. It’s not something that can be organized like it could be done—for example—by science, technology, or other things, other disciplines.

The discipline of art is a very special discipline, very close, as you can see, to the tails of animals, to the heart of a woman. This doesn’t mean that women should always become artists though, because they are already so special—they could just give up being artists. That would be interesting. If I were a woman, I’d give it up. I’d like that.

Rail: I imagine that a place like a church, a chapel—which is higher than a museum, and permanent—is still perceived as a sacred place, right?

Cucchi: The sacred is a place, as you said, where you find the sacred word. All the territory of Rome is sacred. No one ever thinks about it. You walk, and you don’t realize it, but underground there is another Rome, and then there’s another, and another still. In fact, the territory is sacred—it’s sacred in this sense, where history is. If you want to talk about the place as a sacred place, it means a place made of rules, understand? Because otherwise, it becomes something else; it’s not a church. If you don’t apply precise rules, like the distance of things, the proportion—which are tools of art—it’s no longer a sacred place, it’s something else: it’s a gym, it’s a supermarket, it’s Disneyland. I don’t know, whatever you want.

Rail: And if you say that operating by rules is important to you, do you apply precise rules to your own work?

Cucchi: It’s not only important for me, it’s important for the world, for everyone. It’s not possible to operate without rules in art. If someone is doing it that way, then they are doing something else. You might say, “What else?” They’re doing pleasant things, decorating, they’re having fun, they’re making Disneyland, I don’t know. A game for children, sliding around on the beach—it’s the same thing. They can do whatever they want, but it’s something else. It has nothing to do with art.

Rail: And what are the rules you apply to yourself?

Cucchi: The rules are what you saw in my exhibition—very simple things. I made an exhibition with the things I had around me. I didn’t set out to do something else.

Then one can always do better—continuously reflect. What can one do? What can an artist do? They must do that; they can’t do anything else. If they do something else, it would make chickens laugh, because they think they’re omnipotent, but it’s not true. It’s a boring thing. In fact, if you go to many artists now and ask them, “Do you want to fly?” they will say, “Yes, I can fly.” “Can you do urban furniture?” “Yes, sure, I can do urban furniture.” “Can I be an astronaut?” “Yes, sure, I’m an artist, I can be an astronaut.” It’s not true. It’s a disaster, right?

Rail: Absolutely, absolutely. I also wanted to talk a bit with you about drawing, because I was reading a passage from Mario Schifano’s biography where he expresses great admiration for your work. The author also mentioned how your shared interest in drawing probably brought you closer together. I wanted to hear from you if you had a connection with him, and if you think this interest in drawing set you apart from other contemporaries who were perhaps less interested in drawing.

Cucchi: Ah, I hadn’t read this. Of course, you know, drawing is the most important thing; it’s absolutely fundamental. For an artist, it’s crucial—if there’s no drawing, there’s nothing else, almost.

It’s very complicated to explain, and it’s not even necessary to explain it; it’s just like that, it’s a rule as well. If there’s no drawing, many things are missing—it’s a symptom, nothing serious, but a symptom of great fragility. Through drawing, you can easily tell if the thing you’re about to do has anything to do with art, or with decoration, or illustration, or storytelling—which we’ve just said has nothing to do with art.

Drawing is a very, very special thing, and therefore, it has to be there.

Rail: Did you have a relationship with Mario?

Cucchi: Well, you see, it’s not about having a relationship with Mario Schifano, or anyone you want.

Every artist, whether they have a relationship with someone on a personal level or not, it doesn’t change anything. There is a relationship because it’s inevitable, because every artist’s body passes through the body of other artists. So they have it, it’s inevitable.

Rail: Continuing to talk about other figures, for example Giorgio Manganelli, as we were saying earlier, in reading Emigrazioni oniriche I noticed his writing was very radical, experimental, critical, but also ironic. There’s a very critical vision of the art world, especially of the system.

Cucchi: Of course, damn it—do you see how much inattention there has been over the last twenty, thirty, forty years? He was an exceptional, special human being; a legend, as far as I’m concerned.

The inattention of the world has been immense—endless, right? But that doesn’t mean that artists didn’t know this very well, especially those who wrote. He was the most important critic, the most feared, but also in a good way. He was the kindest person in the world—I don’t know how to say it—the most necessary, naturally.

Do you understand? The problem is just that. So how is it possible that something so necessary has been lacking for so long, right?

Rail: Is there something specific that connects you to his work, to his way of thinking?

Cucchi: No, absolutely not.

I’m just happy, I get emotional just thinking that such special creatures exist. And that’s very special to me, for my life, for my emotions, for my things, for my thoughts. It’s a form of nourishment.

Then, you know—you can imagine—he was so erudite, so capable. He knew everything, unlike me—I know almost nothing compared to him. I mean, you understand?

Rail: Certainly. We recommend everyone read it.

Cucchi: You’re absolutely right, but not just that! The thing that’s striking is that this shouldn’t just be something to recommend—it should be necessary, like the air we breathe.

Rail: I don’t think he’s studied in schools, Manganelli.

Cucchi: No, no, certainly not. The problem is that it’s not even translated. Ask yourself why.

Rail: That’s definitely true.

Cucchi: That’s even more serious, culturally speaking.

Rail: I wanted to ask you about today’s scene. What’s your opinion on contemporary art today, especially in Italy? Do you know and engage with the work of younger artists? Do you think living in Italy is challenging, especially with the burden of history and beauty that we carry? I think many young artists find it a bit heavy—

Cucchi: How cute. I only live with them, but that’s too bad for them.

Too bad for them if they see it as a burden, but it’s good that it weighs on them. It’s good that this history weighs on them—that it crushes everything, that it eliminates the problem of the expression of matter. It crushes it so much to the ground like a crushed meatball, and that’s fantastic. It’s exactly this kind of complexity that is amazing.

To avoid it, what does that mean? It means you’re doing something else. What are you doing, the fish that slips away? I don’t get it. An artist has to confront this, actually—the more blood there is, the more difficulty there is, the more interesting it becomes, right?

Now, if you ask me what my opinion is, I don’t waste time giving opinions. I just think it’s right to be behind their solitude, these young people. There’s a lot of literature too; maybe if there’s no art, there will be literature, something else. And even that’s interesting. Because to anyone interested in these things, they’ll go and search for whatever they find, and whatever they find, they’ll talk about it, they’ll write about it, which is what’s missing today. You ask me about young artists, contemporary art, but you see, this should be much more open, much broader.

The problem is not only about visual artists; contemporary art is made up of so many things. In fact, contemporary art is even more made up of people who are much older, like me, because we’re actually younger in a way. We have less time compared to those born today. Today’s generation carries more history with them, so they’re older than me, in a way. Do you understand what I mean?

Rail: Yes, and today, creative worlds are becoming very interconnected, right?

Cucchi: Exactly, but “creative worlds” don’t exist. We just said that disciplines and rules exist, which are the exact opposite of “creative worlds.” “Creative worlds” is just a label, a definition—there’s nothing wrong with it. Imagine someone who deals with costumes. You’d ask, “Which costumes?”Maybe fashion or sports. I don’t know.

But certainly not people who live in the woods, who look at trees, who engage with nature, with light. These people don’t waste time with these so-called “creative definitions.” Imagine someone who’s used to looking at or being in the company of trees, the wind, everything around them that they encounter daily, from the moment they wake up. They’ll look for that air, trying to observe things they’ve always seen and sense what the new day feels like.

Rail: This makes me think more about what’s happening today, especially in terms of the intervention of technology—the relationship between art and technology. I was watching the other day the video game you created, CUCCCHI.

Cucchi: That was done by my son Alessandro and other persons. I don’t know much about it, you know. I’m totally disconnected. I don’t play video games—never opened a computer in my life.

Rail: So you didn’t participate in creating it?

Cucchi: Of course, I participated. But if you’re asking if I was involved as a technological arm: no, I don’t know what that is. The idea fascinates me, though. It’s like the idea of a third arm. But even Paganini thought he had three arms because he was so good at playing the violin. But technology, to me, seems a bit dry—almost barren, right? It feels a bit sterile, doesn’t it? It lacks emotion, right? It just makes noise, and all the noises sound the same.

Rail: So you worked more on providing the visuals for the game—

Cucchi: They did everything regarding the video game. No, no—that was their expertise, not mine.

Rail: But despite not being tech-savvy, you enjoy it?

Cucchi: Of course I enjoy it! I’m always filled with wonder. Why not? It’s normal, right? To me, even the rooftops of houses amaze me. I don’t know about you, but they do amaze me.

Rail: Well not everyone feels that way. I’ve noticed that technology today is either loved or deeply disliked.

Cucchi: Of course, technology is like that because someone wants to mess with our eyes, to make us not look, not see, not feel, right? To make us deeply disconnected. Maybe that’s it. But that doesn’t mean there can’t still be something like literature in there, right?

The problem is that no one looks at the stars anymore, you know? Looking at stars isn’t like looking at the moon. You can’t just look at it through a screen. Looking at stars from a cell phone, that’s madness, right?