Fakewhale in Dialogue with Jacopo Benassi: The Visceral Tension of an Uncompromising Vision
Fakewhale had the pleasure of speaking with Jacopo Benassi, a multifaceted artist who moves fluidly between photography, performance, publishing, and contemporary art, constantly challenging the boundaries between these disciplines. His work is a radical act: from his exclusive use of flash, which gives his shots a raw, unfiltered aesthetic, to his reflections on photography in the digital age, his vision is always pushed to the edge. In this interview, we explored his relationship with imperfection, his thoughts on nihilism, and the visceral tension that defines his artistic research.
Fakewhale: Your photography is characterized by a relentless use of flashlight. What led you to develop this aesthetic, and what does this stylistic choice represent for you?
Jacopo Benassi: In 1995, I had a revelation: I realized that flash was my light. At the time, I was still working with a rather classic photographic approach, but when I observed how the flash illuminated objects and subjects, I felt as if I could grasp it, almost touch it. I was shooting on film, so this perception was even more tangible. The way the light hit surfaces gave me the impression that I was physically capturing it. From that moment on, I decided that flash would be my light, and I have never stopped using it since.
Of course, this choice comes with sacrifices. Using flash means excluding many photographic possibilities. You can’t shoot certain landscapes, you can’t capture scenes with deep depth of field, and you can’t create certain types of portraits. It’s a limitation that has forced me to forgo many projects and opportunities, but at the same time, it has allowed me to refine my visual language in a unique way. I believe very few have used flash as extensively as I have. Perhaps some photographers like Weegee have experimented a lot with this technique, but they often alternated it with other approaches. I, on the other hand, have never done that. Flash has always been my only source of light.
Even today, despite my work having shifted more towards the world of contemporary art rather than photography in its strictest sense, I still cannot separate myself from the flash. It is like a security blanket, an essential element of my creative process.
One of the photographers who has most influenced the way I see images is Sergio Fregoso, whom I met in the 1980s in La Spezia. He was the one who taught me how to truly observe images, especially those created by others, and to reflect on the meaning of light in photography. He always used to say that mine was not a light that adds, but a light that erases. And in fact, flash does not just illuminate. It cancels out natural light and replaces it with a new luminous dimension, reinventing the scene. This idea of erasure has always fascinated me and remains a key principle in my work.
I always compare my photography to birthday parties from the seventies and eighties, the ones organized by mothers back then. My images have that same raw, direct, unembellished aesthetic. They are like the photos from those parties, shot with flash, immediate, unconstructed, yet capable of capturing all the authenticity of the moment.
Your artistic practice extends beyond photography, touching the worlds of performance, music, and independent publishing. How do these different languages influence each other in your work?
I often say that I arrived at contemporary art through photography. It was a natural, unforced progression because photography has always allowed me to do everything. My camera is always with me, no matter what I am doing. I am not a musician, a performer, a dancer, or an actor, but I see myself as a contemporary artist, and photography is the tool that enables me to be one.
At a certain point, I grew tired of the rigidity of photographic language and felt the need to enter the world of contemporary art. It was not a conscious or calculated decision. It was fate that led me there. I believe an artist should never force things. If you are a photographer, it is because your nature pulls you in that direction. But if your path evolves, you have to follow it without resistance. Today, I no longer consider myself a photographer in the traditional sense but rather a contemporary artist who uses photography.
Paradoxically, my performances are the most photographed part of my work. My approach is to create an action that is visually compelling from a photographic perspective, as if I were staging a reportage. Instead of documenting external events, I create the situation myself. It is a reversal of the traditional role of a photojournalist. I do not go out looking for a story to tell. I build it. That is why I often hand the camera to the audience, but I set the rules. They use my tools, my flashes, my timing. In this way, I control what happens in the image, turning the process into a kind of orchestrated reportage.
Even when I paint, I maintain this photographic approach. I am not a painter in the traditional sense, but I use painting in my works on wooden panels. I paint with the same urgency as taking a photograph. I cannot spend hours, days, or months on a canvas because, for me, painting must have the same immediacy as photography. In a way, I could say that when I paint, I feel more like a photographer than when I actually take photos.
Your connection to physical space is deeply rooted, as seen in your experience with Btomic in La Spezia and other site-specific projects. How important is the context in which you work, and how does it influence the images you create?
I cannot plan my work in a rigid or predefined way because, for me, the process is entirely intuitive. When I arrive at an exhibition space, everything often changes. I may have an initial idea, but it is only when I step into the space, touch it, and experience it that I understand what I truly want to do. I cannot predict the outcome in advance.
For example, in November, I will be going to Taipei for a project. Instead of shipping a finished piece from Italy, I prefer to visit in April first, immerse myself in the space, and understand what to create. I cannot place a pre-designed work into a context I have not experienced. The work must be born there, shaped by the space and the people who inhabit it—like gallery owners, who have an intimate understanding of the place and its dynamics.
A perfect example of this approach was my exhibition at Francesca Minini. It was absolute chaos. Initially, I wanted to build a barricade of artworks, erect fake walls, spray-paint everything, and write over it all. But once I arrived, I felt like I was working on a Cinecittà film set—something too staged, too artificial. So, I erased everything. In the end, the most authentic act was precisely that erasure. I realized that I had made a mistake in trying to construct something fake when the real essence of my work lay in imperfection, in the refusal of that gesture.
This experience made me understand who I am today as an artist. I do not perfect my work. I make it imperfect. I have found my identity in error, in working without controlling every aspect. If I try to plan too much, the result feels foreign to me, something artificial. But when I let things drift, the work becomes real.
My performances follow the same logic. They are a series of failures. If a performance goes too smoothly, I get worried. When something goes wrong, that is when I feel it is truly authentic. This is not some calculated artistic stance, it is just my nature. I cannot precisely replicate an action because every time, it shifts depending on the space, the situation, and the people involved. In a way, I always manage to ruin it because I am not an actor. I do not know how to fake things or prepare them in advance. My work is uncontrolled, and that is its deepest essence.
You often work with the concept of limits, both physical and technical, using analog tools, avoiding retouching, embracing mistakes. Is this approach driven by expressive necessity or a critical stance toward contemporary photography?
I work interchangeably with analog and digital photography. I like to recall a quote by the American choreographer Trisha Brown: “Falling is also dancing.” That idea is essential to me. Mistakes, loss of control, and spontaneous movement are all part of my artistic process.
When it comes to post-production, I don’t rely heavily on Photoshop. I prefer to work directly with the shot itself, cropping portions of the image when necessary, especially in photos taken by the audience. When I hand the camera over to others, I let them interpret freely. If I intervene later, it’s only to edit and select images, but I don’t go beyond that.
For me, the audience is the most vital, authentic element of what I do.
Your portraits seem to delve into the personality of your subjects, revealing deeper, sometimes unflattering aspects. How do you build relationships with the people you photograph? And how do you capture that visceral tension in your images?
Portraiture is an intriguing aspect of my work. When I incorporate it into a performance, it becomes something entirely different from a traditional portrait. It’s as if a state of suspension takes over the subject’s gaze, a sort of numbness. They are not simply posing for a photo; they are confronted with something unsettling, something unexpected, as if facing death or an image that overturns their perception of reality. Even when the impact is positive, that tension, that unique intensity, remains.
Criminal photography has deeply influenced my visual language. There’s something both captivating and disturbing about it, its merciless objectivity flattens all differences, placing everyone on the same level. That stark, documentary brutality makes these images hypnotic. In many ways, that aesthetic of tension and direct confrontation with the image is still present in my work.
You’ve often worked within the underground scene, documenting marginal and non-institutional realities. What is your connection to these subcultures, and what draws you to their aesthetics and philosophy?
I come from underground culture, if it hadn’t existed, I wouldn’t be here today. I strongly claim my belonging to a world that is disappearing because true underground, as it once was, barely exists anymore.
In the 1980s, I spent time in social centers, worked as a mechanic, and it was through those spaces that I discovered contemporary art. That’s where I encountered counterculture, radical literature, experimental poetry, writers like William S. Burroughs, but also lesser-known artists operating on the fringes of the system. These were things you wouldn’t easily come across unless you had a certain drive for discovery. I was profoundly influenced by figures like Mark Pauline and Survival Research Laboratories.
Today, this scene is fading. Sure, some pockets still exist, like Agenzia X in Milan, which keeps independent publishing culture alive, or artists like Marco Philopat, who continue pushing artistic resistance. But they are becoming increasingly rare.
People sometimes say to me, “But you’re in galleries now, you’re part of the system.” And I understand that criticism. But my goal is to bring that same countercultural spirit into the galleries, into the art market itself. Yes, it’s a contradiction. But I want to live as an artist, and to do that, I need to engage with the system. I don’t reject it, I just try not to betray my identity. Underground culture shaped me, and even though it’s fading, its imprint is still deeply embedded in my work.
Your 2008 book, The Ecology of Image, explores the materiality of photography and its ability to endure over time and space. How do you see photography today, in an era where images are increasingly immaterial and fleeting? How would you define the condition of photography in the age of social media and fast content?
Today, images are excessive, overwhelming, almost impossible to truly look at. I feel inundated. And yet, despite this visual saturation, I still find myself drawn to certain images, especially intimate, personal ones taken at home. I’m fascinated by photographs that capture unfiltered moments of everyday life: someone stepping out in slippers to move their car, the mess in a half-open room. There’s a subtle discomfort in seeing something so private.
That tension is what led to Brutal Casual, a series that embodies that unease, the moment of exposure, when intimacy is involuntarily revealed. For me, photography has always been about that: witnessing something intimate and unrepeatable, something that exists only in a fleeting instant, making it all the more powerful.
I’ve never liked polished, staged images. Even on Instagram, I don’t look at beautiful or perfectly composed photographs. I’m more interested in images that feel wrong, those that capture the imperfections of reality. In fact, my work is rooted in an aesthetic of the non-image, in the idea of absence. Lately, I’ve even stopped exhibiting my portraits. I turn them around, hide them, because part of their power lies in their refusal to be seen. I’m not trying to create something new with this approach, it’s simply my current state of mind toward images today.
In some ways, I believe photography is over. Or rather, it has transformed. Today, it can only survive within contemporary art or publishing, but even there, I see an obsession, a race to create the most innovative book, to find the most original way to present images. That mentality has made me distance myself from publishing, too. I used to produce many books; now, I make very few, even though my work has always been deeply tied to the editorial format. I love paper, but I find certain photography and publishing festivals unbearable, too self-referential, too caught up in forced novelty, often lacking real substance.
How present is nihilism in your work?
When it comes to my relationship with nihilism, I often find myself in a limbo. I don’t look back, but I don’t look forward either, and this suspension constantly pushes me to question the meaning of my work. I ask myself whether what I do is truly disruptive, whether it generates a moment of thought, even for myself. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.
However, when I work in the studio, the process becomes something far more radical. It’s a moment of pure rupture, of opposition, almost primal. In those moments, I feel locked in a constant confrontation with myself, an inner struggle that is both liberating and destructive.
At the same time, I also experience frustration. Sometimes I hate myself for the choices I make, for how difficult it is for me to say no. I should learn to let go more, to filter opportunities better, because I often find myself in situations where I feel uncomfortable with the people I engage with. It’s a difficult balance to manage.
Maybe I haven’t answered the question directly, but the point is that my relationship with nihilism is in constant flux. It’s not a fixed stance but something that shifts between rejection and the necessity to create, between breaking things apart and recognizing the limits of destruction.
Looking ahead, is there a medium or language you’d like to explore further? Are you interested in pushing the boundary between photography and performance even more?
Maybe I’d like to make a film. I think about it sometimes, but I’m not sure I’d be capable of doing it. My way of working is instinctive, impulsive, almost abstract. I experience things as they happen, without planning. My approach is closer to action painting or performance art than to the structured construction of a cinematic narrative. I can’t organize things rationally, and in my work, that lack of structure is an essential part of the process.
Making a film, on the other hand, means planning, calculating, managing an entire system of people and roles. That feels far removed from how I operate. And yet, if I had to imagine a film that represents me, it would be an improbable mix between Buster Keaton and Dario Argento, the precision of silent cinema, the body in action, the absurd, combined with color, tension, and a disturbing atmosphere.
Perhaps one day it will happen. Or maybe it won’t.
Finally, can you share what you’re working on right now? Are there any new projects or collaborations we can expect in the near future?
The new project I’m working on stems from a reflection on what I’ve done over the past few years. Together with Francesco Zanot, we’re preparing a major exhibition at Palazzo Ducale in Genoa, a show that layers and brings together my work from 2022 to today. It’s a way to pause for a moment and look at what I’ve produced during this period, because I’ve never really given myself the time to observe these works with distance.
To prepare for the exhibition, I’ve been traveling between collectors and museums to gather the most significant pieces. But I also want to create something new. That’s why in June, I’ll be doing a residency in Genoa, where I’ll produce an unpublished work, more intimate, smaller in scale. Then, in July, I’ll open the exhibition Benassi libero at Palazzo Ducale.
Today, I feel free. I’ve freed myself from a certain kind of photography, but without resentment, without rejecting it, with respect. I’ve realized that I no longer need to define myself through a medium or a technique.
Maybe just free. Yes, free.
“Benassi libero.”
fakewhale
Founded in 2021, Fakewhale advocates the digital art market's evolution. Viewing NFT technology as a container for art, and leveraging the expansive scope of digital culture, Fakewhale strives to shape a new ecosystem in which art and technology become the starting point, rather than the final destination.
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