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Accetto Chudi

June 4th

by Matteo F.M. Sommaruga



I cannot believe that I do not understand the most recent developments of the Revolution. The concept, I must admit, has always been related to some long established political equilibrium that is not tenable anymore. The younger generation is not happy with what was provided by the previous one and begins to subvert the institutions. However they also need some more experienced leaders to highlight the road to be followed. Some mature head who could take profit from his leadership and at the same time enjoy the advantages of the status quo. It is due to these wise heads that some of the most dangerous viruses have never infected the mob at such a level to destroy our civilization. Only the power of mass production and technology has enabled the red and the brown front to take over the power more than one hundred years ago. Even if just temporarily. The Revolution as intended nowadays somehow puzzles me. It is clear that it affects more women than men and it is a must for the gay community. Even if I am not so sure that sexual orientation can influence the political thoughts of individuals, nor the masses. There could also be some racial component, but much more due to the greedy and snobbish attitude of Franchmen and Britons. Perhaps it is the French component of the Britons, the blood of those landed from Normandy, that made British colonialism hatred as much as the French one. But even in this case, the cause and effects of colonialism are just transient for the sake of the Revolution. As soon as Africa will have a well established middle-class, or African immigrants will thrive with their own businesses, the Revolution will not be able to rely on them anymore. The middle class is however like the cholesterol, there is a bad and a good one. I need to rely on the bad one, the one that is ambitious enough to be unsatisfied of its own condition, to be envious of the upper class and at the same time disdains the common workers and poor, the ones that easily gets bored as spoiled children and wants to dream about an epic fight for good ideals. These people shall be mine.



The art dealer


You recognise a valuable piece when it is a well and accurate representation of the time. For instance a blue human skull with some black ink to define the eyes, accompanied by an optimistic slogan. During the last epidemic, it was fashionable to assert that everything would have gone well thanks to the state effort. It was a time when the market abruptly stopped, red brick galleries were on the verge to fail, but after a while the complete show suddenly recovered. It was the moment when I tried to go online with my posters collection and I got contacted by the major aggregator, the one I am currently working for. It is sad to have given up the idea to become an independent player, but under such circumstances I cannot do better. My niche is not so different from many others and, if even the sean of the greatest families have to fight to score a successful career path by McKinsey or Boston Consulting, I doubt that independent art galleries should satisfy themselves with unsustainable reduced margins. That means, by being independent the earnings are so small that the business can be justified only for bored persons in retirement. Those kinds of former successful managers or art lovers who are actually the lovers of someone affluent. Since I need to live on my earnings, and accumulate enough to do some meaningful investment on my own, I have got no other choice than to accept a low profile employment for one of the biggest players. More or less, we are making only forty millions a year of total revenues and actual big players are others than my company. We have however reached some public recognition and, beside the Hockneys I failed to place, most of our sales do not average more than three thousand pounds. That is anyway a good salary, especially outside London, for anybody living on the British Islands. A commuter to the City perhaps cannot afford to spend such an amount on art, but people living far away from the capital should have no problems to book for a distinguished trophy to be exhibited at home.



The consultant


My date went well, up in the jazz bar. He is a kind man. I thought he was a colleague, but he is not. He has not revealed to me his job yet, I did not ask. For a while I do not want to judge people by ranking, tenure and revenues. It was a genuine, happy evening in the middle of Dresden. I would have preferred to find my ideal date in Zurich, perhaps an affluent local doctor, member of a Zunft and co-owner of a profitable clinic. With a subscription at the Spa of the Dolder and his main apartment in Stäfa, where he could have some advantage on taxation. No, my date looks to be a lovely yet unusual man, dressed without following the fashion, but of kind manners. He did not tell me too much about him, if not that he loves to write and collect art. He has not specified whether he is living on that or any other kind of activity. I decided to trust him and let him speak about his job during the next meeting. On the project I am still quite busy, and sometimes even enthusiastic. On the contrary, I like life in Zurich less and less. The colleagues in Switzerland look to have just come out from the most renowned international business schools, thus expecting a good return of investment on their own careers. If only they had some actual need of money, as I do. Being their families definitely rich, having grown up in a cultural environment that tried to be as polite as possible, they seem to have lost any attachment to the real world. Most of them are simple creatures terrorized by climate change or racism. The latter is by the way, in Switzerland,  much more directed at the German freelancers from Freiburg than third world immigrants. This last generation of hippies spends the whole week complaining and asking for help, while waiting for their velo-demo or lgbt parties beginning on Fridays evenings and ending on Sunday mornings. Perhaps Dresden is a safer place.

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In Frankfurt like Heidi, in Zuerich like Lenin

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