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Project Daniele Rugo .Next Project...


“I remember that Dicky turned into Tricky. Do you like the names which I have given you?[…] Maybe I did not really love Dicky and suffer from Tricky’s unpredicatbly predictable behaviour, but Dicky and Tricky was all I had.”



Love changes name. Of this we are sure: we don’t know which name to give to love. This also means that it doesn’t really make sense to talk about love as such. Love as love, ‘in the name of love’: nonsense. One could as well start communicating by knocking on skulls. Two knocks: ‘I love you’, three knocks: ‘me neither’.  


It might be then that love starts in the utterance of its many names. Not exactly in uttering, more precisely in stammering: there where stammering stops to wrongly reproduce words, but makes from its continuous false stars, from the secrecy of its hesitations, a new code.


Secret code. Bearing in mind that this secret makes one tremble, a trembling that doesn’t last longer than a delay, never properly becoming a pause, so that one doesn’t really acknowledge the trembling (which is not a quivering, like that which announces the arrival of an orgasm).

The secret is what you can see in me, but that which in turn I myself cannot see at all. I am destined to remain deprived, stripped bare of the secret that secretly inhabits me.

You always, by secretly loving me, carry with you something utterly mine that I have never managed to even glimpse or envisage. As if it was one of my many names, names I have never been called by. I have forgot my name, now you, only you, know it.     


This is what is exhibited: precarious trajectories one has always trekked, though one hasn’t yet undertaken them. The logic the exhibition responds to would be this: to always name love as that which you cannot yet name, unless in what has been taken away from you.


- Name all its names and you will never have called it by its Proper Name, not even by substituting it with a proper name.

- You’re right. Always happening, but happening only as a not yet.      



Daniele Rugo lives and works in London. He has exhibited in London, Venice, Valencia, Melbourne, New York, Bologna, Istanbul. His next show will take place in Tangier (Morocco), March 2009.




I remember that Dicky turned into Tricky. Do you like the names which I have given you?


I remember it well. Why? Because I have gone over Dicky’s and Tricky’s double act often enough to have each detail framed in my mind, even the most insignificant and the most sordid one. My memory is your executioner.


I remember that you blushed frequently and that I took your blushing literally because I felt that blushing cannot be taken in any other way. It is not a technique. I was touched.


I remember that on the day you crossed the street and spoke to me for the first time I asked myself whether I found your expression attractive or not. Your posture was awkward. How could your stiff slim body accommodate your solicitous mouth? To be attracted to you, I had to notice an awkwardness, but would this awkwardness get me hooked? Awkwardness is the refuge of beauty when it flees both nature and culture in order to have a life of its own.


I remember asking you whether you had a name which we could share. While the earthly thickness of your first name kept me at a distance, the misery of its initial letter standing on its own left me famished. Now that I have decided to call you Dicky and Tricky I can play with you. Perhaps it all went wrong because you had already given your  playfulness a definite form: the form of camp.


I remember that Tricky had me spend a night in hell. Artificial light, filtered through the red curtains which I had drawn before going to bed, illuminated my shoe-box in Copenhagen. I was in a feverish state of excitement and despair. Each time invisible guests walked past my room, I heard their steps outside in the corridor and suspected that The Big Buffoon was taking you home with him. Although the scene filled me with disgust, masturbation was the only way of finding some relief. In the end my cock felt so worn out that I could no longer vomit by ejaculating.


I remember that you gave me a coy blow-job.


I remember that I was sitting in front of you in your office, probably in your revolving chair. It was dark outside and I had come to make up with you. How ugly your bulky black shoes were! I stretched my legs, lifted your left foot with the tip of my right shoe and placed its sole onto the sole of your shoe. Then I lied and said that I liked your shoes. I wanted you to love me. Whether your shoes were ugly or stylish didn’t matter. The important thing was that I was making a gesture. This was a sign of playful closeness clumsily captured by language. My words spoke a lie and turned things upside down. But in doing so they only betrayed their own impotence. They should have left our feet alone. I wanted to reinforce what didn’t need any reinforcement, or what could only be destroyed by it. Probably I had sensed that you were not responsive. So I ended up transforming myself into your shoes through my clumsiness. You could have loved me for such mimicry.


I remember that I liked the cheap wrinkled shirt which you had bought at Tesco’s.


I remember that Dicky was a sweet man. I wanted to feel your sweetness, touch, caress, lick your body. Silliness extends sweetness into the mind, or rather: it is the mind’s reaction to sweetness. I wanted to feel your sweetness in my mind, touch, caress, lick your mind. You should have measured my violence by my desire to preserve the sweetness which you had offered to me. I wasn’t turning into Tricky myself, as you might have thought. Or rather Tricky appeared only when you didn’t allow Dicky to see me any longer. Even his appearance was an attempt to get in touch with Dicky again. Dicky could not defend himself against Tricky’s effort to take over for good. His stupidity made him all the more sweet. Tricky had to dissociate everything, ask: “Where do we go from here?”


I remember thinking that you were a serious young man and that I was a serious middle-aged man who felt like a child among grown-ups. We would be very silly together in a good way. Would we not be an ideal mismatch? The mismatch would be visible to the world. Its ideality not so. It would be our secret. You: young and slim. Me: old and fat. You: sweet and dumb. Me: twisted and bright. You: plain and camp. Me: imaginative and elegant. You: full of surprises. Me: full of shit. Who would have thought?


I remember that we bought two slices of chocolate and banana chiffon cake at Gail’s.


I remember that we felt comfortable on my white sofa. We kissed. I licked and sucked your fingers. I placed my head in your lap. You undid my belt. I pulled down the zipper of your jeans and pressed my mouth against the hard bulge in your white underpants. My hand went up your stomach but couldn’t caress your nipples because they felt unusually flat. I found that you were circumcised. You leaned over towards my crotch. We touched each other under the aspect of eternity, as it were: the eternity of the commonplace. It allowed me to keep touching you without any further justification. Hence my blissful state of mind. Everything becomes a commonplace under the aspect of eternity. The distinction which needs to be made, then, is a distinction between the commonplace as a dissimulating display and the commonplace as a revealing display.


I remember that I said to you that you were a sweet man and that you replied: “It has been said before.” Your reply became a running gag between us. “You are too sweet,” I heard you saying repeatedly. Did Tricky hide in the adverb of excess, as if Dicky had not been able to resist an intimacy which he should have resisted, or as if an intimacy consisting of an excessive sweetness was doomed to turn into coldness?


I remember that you said: “We shouldn’t be doing this.” You made me suffer. “Suffer? If you did not really love Dicky – and you did not, otherwise you would not have doubted him – then you did not suffer either. Not really.” I still suffered. “Maybe I did not really love Dicky and suffer from Tricky’s unpredicatbly predictable behaviour, but Dicky and Tricky was all I had.”


Alexander García Düttmann





Daniele Rugo
curated by Serra Ozhan
25 Nov. - 4 Dec.
25 Kasım/Nov. 18:30
Açılış gün&saatleri/
Opening days&time:
Perş.-Cmts/Thurs.-Sat. 16:00-19:30