A Dialogue on Creative Expression Between Duchamp and Sturtevant Goes on View in Milan

Last September, Thaddaeus Ropac opened a gallery in Palazzo Belgiojoso—a beautiful historic space in the beating heart of Milan’s Quadrilatero—with a three-day-long celebration. Ropac is the first major international contemporary art gallery to seek out a presence in Italy’s boom town. It’s a good match: Ropac represents more than 70 artists and estates that speak to all nationalities and tastes, and the ultra-rich have been flocking to Milan to take advantage of the generous tax deal the government is currently offering.

The latest exhibition, which opened this past week, is titled “Marcel Duchamp & Sturtevant: Dialogues are mostly fried snowballs.” The thought-provoking installation pairs the work of Marcel Duchamp, the father of conceptual art, and Elaine Sturtevant, the mother of appropriation art, in such a persuasive way that it feels impossible to escape its curation. It is Sturtevant who initiates the conversation.

The video installation Duchamp Ciné (1992) immerses the visitor in a kinetic video projection that evokes Duchamp’s Rotorelief (1965). Embedded into the wall is a small vitrine that showcases miniature versions of Duchamp’s iconic readymades, including the urinal. Appropriation artist Sturtevant, who built a career copying the work of her male counterparts, chose Duchamp as one of her victims, or honorees.

More than 70 years later, Sturtevant produced an identical replica of Duchamp’s Fresh Window (1920), both of which are on view. On the bottom of the mint green window frames a caption reads: “Copyright Rose Selavy 1920.” This was one of Duchamp’s many pseudonyms—his female alter ego. The reference to copyright is an overall irony targeting the copyright laws that, at the time, mandated the signing and dating of an original creation. By signing a readymade object with someone else’s name, Duchamp defies such criteria, and Sturtevant’s iteration further challenges the boundaries between creativity and originality.

Sturtevant’s approach to copying is not always so literal. Her interpretation of Nude Descending a Staircase No. 2 (1912), Duchamp’s work that shocked the American public at the Armory Show in 1913, consists of a black and white photograph decomposing the movement of a woman stepping down a staircase. Her point could not be more explicit—she utilizes Duchamp’s most disruptive work as mold of her own work—my art can only exist within the canon that HE established, which is male—she appears to scream. Duchamp was said to be amused by it. By adding another layer on top of his concept, Sturtevant endorses his fundamental innovation: the elevation of everyday objects to art—a practice known as readymade.

One hangs from the ceiling by a fine cord, Bottle Rack, 1914/64. This is one of nine editions of the very first readymade. Duchamp picked it up in a department store in Paris, and uniquely through his selection it became art—a magic trick that revolutionized how we think about art today. The present bottle rack is signed Marcel Duchamp 1964, exempl. Arturo. Arturo Schwarz was Milan’s most influential contemporary art dealer of the 20th century. A stellar piece with an equally stellar provenance. It’s the last one left that is not in a museum collection. 

Ropac’s strategy in Milan focuses on developing conversations between artists and so far, such dialogues have been extremely productive—Baselitz and Fontana as well as Valie Export and Ketty La Rocca preceded the current selection. These pairings have spurred powerful new narratives, enriching the already thriving cultural fabric of this vibrant city.

“Marcel Duchamp & Sturtevant: Dialogues are mostly fried snowballs” is on view through July 23, 2026