The phone call arrived at seven in the morning. “Congratulations, you have been selected from among thousands of artists.” A pause. “It only takes 680 euros to confirm.”
I left immediately.
I was driving a nicotine-colored Panda alongside Sergio Manganese, an art critic by profession and a collector of inaugural buffets by vocation. The destination was the Fondo Perduto Gallery, the moral capital of contemporary art on clearance.
Along the highway, we encountered promising signs: International Open Call, Guaranteed Visibility, Prestigious Catalog, Exclusive Networking. They looked like service stations. They were toll booths.
At the first stop, we entered the Spazio Cubo Vuoto. The director, Armando Brachetti, welcomed us with enthusiasm. “We believe deeply in young talents.” He pointed to the POS terminal like a priest pointing to the altar.
I paid for a coffee. It already felt like too much.
We resumed the journey. Sergio argued that talent was now nothing more than a registration fee. “The artwork is an administrative detail,” he said, while filling out a form to participate in an exhibition dedicated to the concept of the filled-out form.
In the afternoon, we arrived at the Museo dell’Io Contemporaneo. On display were curators reviewing catalogs of curators who had invited other curators to discuss the importance of curating. The audience consisted of those same curators, distributed in a circle like a tribe that had learned to quote itself.
One performance consisted of applauding the press release.
They called it research.
Further along, we stopped at the Fondazione Autoritratto Permanente. The exhibition was titled Beyond My Self, Towards My Me. Every room told the epic adventure of an artist who had finally discovered they were incredibly interesting. No one looked at the artworks. Everyone was photographing the introductory wall text.
Outside, a young guy was asking how to apply.
“It is simple,” they told him. “First you deposit the fee. Then the hope.”
The last stop was the Quota, Quota, Quota Gallery, where they offered us an extraordinary opportunity: an international group show featuring artists from twenty-two nations, three planets, and a WhatsApp group. It only took 950 euros—shipping excluded, insurance excluded, walls excluded, and, looking closely, the audience too.
I asked what they actually selected.
“The wire transfers.”
The sun was setting behind an industrial warehouse converted into an experiential cultural hub. I thought that the art market had become an amusement park where the prize consisted of being allowed to buy another ticket.
Sergio lit an imaginary cigarette.
“Perhaps the real contemporary masterpiece,” he said, “is convincing artists that paying to work is a privilege.”
We drove back without exhibiting anything.
For the first time, it felt like a truly successful exhibition.