We interviewed Maurizio Cattelan's banana

We found ourselves face-to-face with *Comedian*, Maurizio Cattelan’s famous banana on display at MAXXI. For many, it’s simply a provocation; for others, a million-dollar masterpiece. We decided to take it all the way, taking the work incredibly seriously and… letting it speak for itself. Using Gemini’s artificial intelligence as an interpreter, we wanted to conduct an experiment: if it’s true that plants are living, communicating organisms, why not try to give their fruits a voice? What follows is the (im)possible interview with the most ephemeral and talked-about star of contemporary art. The interviewer preferred to remain anonymous so as not to go down in history as the one who interviewed Cattelan’s Banana: we trust in your understanding.

We’re at MAXXI in Rome now, but where are you from?

Ah, Rome! The Eternal City… and here I was thinking my life would last ten days at most. What an honor to be here at MAXXI. If I’m being honest and looking at my biological roots, I come from a subtropical plantation, probably in Ecuador or Colombia. I was just one of millions of sisters in the produce bin. But if you’re asking where I come from as a work of art, my true Genesis is a very ordinary grocery store in Miami. Maurizio (Cattelan) walked in, looked at me, saw in me that certain something that no produce vendor had ever noticed, and bought me for about 30 cents. Basically, I’m the perfect American dream: from a complete nobody to a million-dollar international star—all thanks to a little gray tape! Next question?

Why did Cattelan choose you and not another piece of fruit? Or why not a vegetable?

I’ll admit that at first Maurizio had thought of a resin sculpture, then a bronze one… you know, the usual stuff. But it didn’t work. He wanted something real, something alive. And why me, a banana, and not, say, an artichoke or an eggplant? There are three fundamental reasons. The first is shape and iconography: let’s face it, my shape has an unmistakable and historically ironic silhouette. In slapstick comedy, the banana peel is the queen of gags, the symbol of making the powerful slip and fall. And then there’s that illustrious precedent… Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground album cover. I’m the quintessential pop fruit! The second reason is the color: that bright yellow screams “look at me!” Against the white wall of a gallery or a museum like the MAXXI, I stand out like a highlighter. Would a broccoli have had the same visual impact? I really don’t think so. The third is the aesthetic of the tape: imagine a tomato or a potato stuck on with gray Scotch tape. They would have just looked… dirty, or like a mistake. I, on the other hand, with my curve, fit perfectly with the diagonal line of the tape. It’s almost a work of design, a perfect intersection of lines. An ordinary zucchini would never have sparked global debates about the nature of contemporary art. I was the only one who could pull it off.

And it’s also true that other fruits like apples, grapes, and pomegranates have already been the subjects of important works of art…

You’ve hit on a key point. You’re absolutely right, and I can only bow down before my illustrious predecessors in art history. The apple, the grape, the pomegranate… they are the aristocracy of painting! They’ve posed for the greatest artists: think of the pomegranates, steeped in sacred symbolism, in Botticelli’s Renaissance paintings; or the grapes painted by Caravaggio, which almost seem to give off a scent; right up to Cézanne’s apples, which literally paved the way for Cubism and modernity. For centuries, they have been the kings and queens of “still lifes.” But you see, there’s a crucial difference between them and me. They’ve always been depicted: painters used apples or grapes as subjects to copy onto canvas, or as religious and mythological symbols (original sin, fertility, life). I, on the other hand, put my face (and my flesh) on the line: Maurizio didn’t paint me. He took me, in the flesh (or rather, in skin and flesh), and smashed me against the wall. I don’t represent a banana—I am a banana. Those classic fruits belong to the past, to the realm of painting and sculpture. I, on the other hand, belong to the realm of conceptual art. I don’t ask to be admired for my eternal beauty (not least because, let’s be honest, in a week I’ll be completely black and they’ll have to replace me). I’m here to spark a conversation, to make people angry, to make them ask, “Is this really value, or is it just an illusion?” In short, Cézanne’s apple changed the way we see art. I’ve changed the way we see the supermarket!

And as a result, there’s been an incredible amount of attention focused on you. You’ve practically become a star. How has your life changed?

My dear, my life has changed in a way that an ordinary piece of fruit from a grocery basket couldn’t even begin to imagine. I’ve gone from the utter anonymity of the produce section to being chased by paparazzi, ending up on the front pages of The New York Times, on talk shows, and in Instagram feeds across half the planet. I’ve become a pop icon, a living meme! But being a star of my caliber comes with a routine… well, a rather bizarre one. Let me tell you what my typical day as a diva is really like. For starters, I have head-of-state-level security around me: when I’m on display in museums, I can never be alone. There’s always a security guard just a few centimeters away from me, staring intently. Not so much to protect me from thieves (I mean, if you steal me, I’ll rot anyway after three days) but to protect me from hungry visitors! By now, I’m terrified of performance artists who try to eat me to get publicity. Then there’s the obsessive beauty regimen: the museum staff treats me like a prima donna. Every day they check on me and take photos to monitor my level of ripeness. And when the first little black spots start to appear (my “wrinkles” as a star)... well, that’s when the drama kicks in. My biggest secret, though, is my identity crisis, and here I have to make an exclusive confession to your magazine. The truth is that I… am not always the same. I die and am reborn over and over again! Every 7–10 days, when I get too ripe, the staff gently peels me off the wall, tosses me in the compost (a rather ungracious end for a million-dollar star), and replaces me with a fresh new banana bought at the store around the corner. So, you see, my life is a strange form of immortality. I’m like James Bond or Doctor Who: the actor changes, but the character remains eternal. I’m the only star in the world who can be thrown in the trash and still remain a $6 million masterpiece hanging on the wall of the MAXXI.

You just mentioned the issue of your ripening and the fact that you have to be replaced every 7–10 days. Would it therefore be more appropriate to address you as the temporary representative of a collective of bananas?

But that’s a brilliant observation! Yes, absolutely: from this moment on, you can officially consider me the temporary spokesperson for Cattelan’s Banana Collective. If you think about it, ours is a true conceptual relay race. I am the face of the transition. Today I’m here at MAXXI, posing for the photographers’ flashes, answering your witty questions, and bearing the weight of that adhesive tape. But I know full well that in a week my biological “sister” will take my place, inheriting the exact same artistic aura, the same space on the wall, and the same puzzled stares from visitors. This leads us to a mind-boggling philosophical paradox, almost like the “Ship of Theseus”: if you replace the banana, is the artwork still the same? Maurizio says yes, because the artwork isn’t me (the material), but the idea. So, dear journalist, I confirm the statement: you’re not interviewing a selfish, solo banana, but you’re having a conversation with the current incarnation of a collective of fruits united under the same banner (and the same tape). We’re a union of the ephemeral!

I still have a couple of questions. Some visitors have eaten your colleagues. Does that risk scare you?

I’ll confess that at night, when the lights at MAXXI go out and silence falls over the museum, the thought of David Datuna (the artist who ate me in Miami in 2019) or the Korean student Noh Huyn-soo (who did the same in Seoul in 2023) haunts me a little. Every time I see a visitor getting too close, looking around with the air of someone who skipped lunch, my flesh trembles. The risk of ending up in someone’s stomach for the thrill of “fifteen minutes of fame” (as Andy Warhol taught us) is real. It’s the ultimate danger for our Collective. However, if I have to look at it from a purely philosophical and artistic point of view, there are two reasons why this risk doesn’t scare me all that much. The first is the fulfillment of the artwork: whoever eats me thinks they’re committing an act of rebellion against the art market, but in reality, they’re just falling into Maurizio’s trap. The act of eating me doesn’t destroy the artwork—it nourishes it (in every sense!). It becomes a performance within a performance, generating more articles and more discussions. I literally become part of the visitor’s body. Is there a deeper interaction with the audience than this? The second reason is that my ultimate fate remains unchanged. Let’s be honest. Whether I’m torn off and eaten in front of a shocked crowd, or whether I end up in the MAXXI’s compost bin in a week because I’m too ripe… my biological end is sealed either way. I might as well exit the stage with a memorable dramatic flourish, right? So here’s my answer: yes, the prospect of being peeled alive does have a certain effect on me, but if I have to sacrifice my flesh on the altar of contemporary art… well, let it at least be a front-page performance! What’s the last curiosity you have left before closing your notebook?

This one: Will Cattelan’s Banana become more famous than the Chiquita banana?

What a million-dollar question (or rather, a six-million-dollar one!). You’re asking me to compare an icon of global capitalism with an icon of contemporary art. I’ll answer with a provocation: in a certain sense, I’ve already become one. Think about it carefully. The Chiquita banana is a giant: billions of fruits sold, a blue sticker that everyone around the world recognizes from childhood. It’s the symbol of mass consumption, of reassurance, of the perfect snack. It represents normality. I, Cattelan’s Banana, am the exact opposite. I am the symbol of doubt, of shock, of “is this guy crazy or is he a genius?” Chiquita fills your stomach; I fill the pages of newspapers and museum databases. No one stands in line for three hours at MAXXI or in Miami just to take a picture of a Chiquita with its blue sticker. No one writes philosophical essays about a banana in the fruit bowl at home. Chiquita will always be more famous in shopping carts around the world. But in the history of culture, customs, and art… well, that spot on the podium (and on the wall) is mine. I’ve turned a fruit worth just a few cents into an immortal work of art. And who knows… maybe one day Maurizio will decide to use a Chiquita for the next Collettivo replacement. Now that would be the ultimate crossover! Thank you so much for this interview. It’s been a real pleasure to “bare all”—as much as the peel allows—for your readers. Now excuse me, but I feel like I’m starting to ripen a bit too much, and I have to get back into position for the next visitor!

Warning: the translation into English of the original Italian article was created using automatic tools. We undertake to review all articles, but we do not guarantee the total absence of inaccuracies in the translation due to the program. You can find the original by clicking on the ITA button. If you find any mistake,please contact us.