CAUSA E EFFETTO
Ruben Montini Catalogue text

A few years ago I came across a meme that might not apply universally, but I just couldn’t unsee, unthink, or for that matter eradicate from my mind, heart, soul or innards. It was ESPO’s "It's not art unless it has the potential to be a disaster” which was created in 2015 for Banksy’s theme-park/art installation “Dismaland”. 

Fast forward to ten years later, to Bologna Art Fair, a yearly event I particularly appreciate for its realistic portrayal of the Italian and international art and art market status quo, for its matter of fact professional approach and for the almost guaranteed thrills without too many distracting frills. 

Ruben Montini was there, exhausted. He was also sad and angry, espresso eyes smiling despite the extreme fatigue - many artists prefer being in their studio, rather than at a booth - and with no intention of standing down or giving up. I picked up on his energy immediately, on the incessant battle with himself as much as with the world. His work “L’abbecedario della Nostra Passione” (which roughly translates as The ABC of Our Passion), soft sculptures nestled in large transparent display cases on the walls, echoed his indomitable spirit and vigour. Like many visitors, I looked, gazed, wide-eyed; I stared. I couldn’t believe my eyes that by now were glued on his plush sculptures; Ruben’s message had hit me full force. 

Ruben’s own body is a collection of messages, a map that one would never imagine to see or read. It unfolds as a Via Crucis of roughly tattooed names - his given names, feminised and warped, a constant reminder of the ruthless jeering he endured as a queer child - and shapes, most recently that of a foetus, the child the current Italian lawmakers are denying him and so many other queer people. The largest organ humans have, the skin, becomes in Ruben’s intention a document explicitly revealing a few of several extremely intense moments in his personal and artistic journey. This might seem a crude comment to Ruben’s life and practice but I feel it is necessary for his art to make visceral sense, if not meaning and impact. When I first saw Ruben’s work in person, I was delighted and elated. I felt as if a Unicorn Prince had finally landed in Italy and was sprinkling a much craved for magical stardust and joy as much as artful awareness. The swift and closer scrutiny that ensued confirmed the first thaumaturgic impression, but also gently invited me to peel the infinite layers of vulnerability, anguish, rejection, violence and trauma caused by experiencing first hand, heart, mind, limbs and body the horrors of homophobia and transphobia. 

Disclaimer. The truths Ruben offers and proffers are his and his own only. Truths I actually find myself in seamlessly, effortlessly, and wholeheartedly espouse. Being Queer in 2025 is still a battle on a global battleground, with politics to negotiate and renegotiate almost daily and with constantly evolving language and terminology. What I find deeply fascinating and enticing is the ways he has found to express queerdom, the pain, frustration, disbelief and disappointment that come with it as well as its joyous, fundamental beauty. Once again, “The ABC of Our Passion” is an exquisite example, one so powerful I fell in love with it completely. Not for rushed or superficial consumption, it’s a relief sculpture, a series of compressed, crowded three dimensional snapshots of what queer life can be and is to many. A hectic and tormented expression of some of Ruben’s most traumatic experiences, the queer people he materialises and sculpts are however fashioned in soft, delicate pastel colours, silky fabrics and ribbons, a refined reminder of the tender skin and heart humans share. Closer scrutiny reveals in varying degrees and shades the violent language and discrimination inflicted on queer people and the heinous homotransphobia that afflicts the world. The stark contrast between the brutal, vicious language unleashed on the queer body and the same body’s soft, gentle and benevolent expression despite this violence overwhelms. 

One of Ruben’s greatest gifts is the grace with which he tackles sensitive topics. As a queer person born and raised in a devout Catholic family, how do you incorporate religious or spiritual themes in your work without incurring in your loved ones’ disappointment or wrath? There is no unassailable answer, obviously, but once again Ruben surprises by offering alternative languages that articulate his contemplative critique of organised religious belief systems. His quilted “Altarpieces” (2021), whose shapes and sizes are directly inspired by existing Christian polyptychs around the world, tell gripping stories of a universally understood queer pain while crucially preserving queer history. The queerphobic insults stitched on them are the result of Ruben’s invitation to fellow artists and friends to reopen painful scars of personal trauma in a series of choral and cathartic gatherings.

“Altarpieces” can be seen as Ruben’s love children. They were born without sin (sic) and inspired by several heavenly forebears, of which the most eminent and significant might be the “AIDS Memorial Quilts” initiated by American activist Cleve Jones with the “NAMES Project” in 1985. Established as an ongoing project in 2021, Ruben’s reredos are effectively a mesmeric commemoration of the global queer community’s “contemporary martyrs”, people insulted, attacked, harmed, excluded, violated in any way, anywhere. Numerous artists, old friends and recent acquaintances, as well as precious collaborators at Royal School of Needlework (Hampton Court Palace, London) and Kingston School of Art  (Altarpiece UK) have already contributed inexorable experiences and knifing abuse borne on their own skin. Each altarpiece is a living, breathing archive despite the constant attempts to silence the queer community. Ultimately, what isn’t documented disappears. Ruben is fully aware of this and keeps track of every detail mindfully, meaningfully, masterfully; life may invite us to forgive, but we are equally strongly advised not to forget.

Every puncture of a needle, every stitch in Ruben’s artistic journey is more than just the sum of its parts. It opens a world of threading, soft textiles and sensitive skin alike, of writing permanently visible stories and visual reminders, of suturing trauma and of feeling e-ve-ry-thing. Deeply. Ruben the cartographer who preserves queer and trans history; Ruben the channeller, intertwining queer and artistic identity; Ruben the lighthouse keeper during tumultuous times.

It is in this spirit that Ruben’s work embodies the potential to be a “disaster”. It has the uncanny vocation to inform, caution and inspire. I will venture to say, to open hearts and even encourage a revolution. The metaphorical disaster I refer to is akin to Rose Finn-Kelcey’s 1971 message sewn on a flag and made visible to the public atop Alexandra Palace in London. Her Cassandra-like words read, “Here is a Gale Warning” and are only visible when strong winds are already blowing. When ‘disaster’ is already on its way. Ruben’s own ‘flag’ is showing hic et nunc its truth, power and potential. The time for a queer revolution is ripe. 

Francesca de’ Medici, June 2025