But not just two either. Dominantly in black-and-white and with some works coming in diptychs, the show does more than exploit the logic of binaries. It explodes it as it does its body's organs, as if to show a desire to detonate the dichotomy present in the description the artist has been labeled with, in a gesture of deterritorialization: “Fil-Italian artist.” Whether disparate images are juxtaposed together in an act of semiotic violence [a still-life painting of innocent-looking china on a table paired with the stilled lives of Mussolini and Hitler together in “Still/life (improvising on the level of sarcasm)”] or a single image is violently halved (as in the landscape of '09.15.1935/84”), the explosion creates shards of interminable meaning—a surplus of signification that comes with the subjective excess present in the artist's private mythology.

Small wonder that in previous shows, Zicarelli has bordered on the obsessive in delving into the life of a certain Pedro Ubaldo—possibly a fictitious doppelganger—if only to demonstrate that identities are manufactured and false, even constricting. Normative. The Ubaldo-machine as reinscription, the Ubaldo-machine as reterritorialization: these are attempts at (re)interpreting the endless connexions of the Zicarelli-machine attached to the history-machine attached to the art-machine attached to the fiction-machine attached to you.

After all, is not Zicarelli himself—the artist, the pretty-boy matinee idol, the subject—also fictitious? Is he not you too? To think of him as such, as him, as a unified Costantino, is itself a process of social construction—a practice borne of the humanist impulse towards gestalt. It is all bullshit: an organic unity cannot be achieved. There is only machinery. While organs are not the Costantino-machine's enemy (these help connect him to other machines such as you), the organism is.

In "It was always the devil's turn, because we are here together and forever, until the day the world will be on the verge of sorrow," there are thus no still lives as we know them to be. Zicarelli exposes these to be stilted lives, where the uncontainable dynamism of living is made to wear the straitjacket of identity. Welcome to the Zicarelli-machine's thousand plateaus. You won't be able to digest them, but they'll pass thru and out your anus anyway. Or even your mouth. Might as well enjoy the taste.