"I had already met Mario three times before that summer in San Gimignano. The first time was in Bologna—I had seen him, observed him, and in the end, after dinner, I approached him and told him he looked exactly like my father. He kissed my hand and left. After that encounter, I pestered the museum’s official photographer to get a picture of him; she promised she would send it, but never did. I wanted to place the images of the two men side by side to document the resemblance, to prove my objectivity. I saw him again in Paris—I ran into him and Marisa having breakfast in Place des Vosges. And then again at the Venice Biennale, where I shamelessly tried to photograph him with a borrowed camera before the battery died and the rightful owner took it back. That’s why in San Gimignano, when I walked into that garden and saw Mario at the head of the table having lunch under the trees, I felt an uncontrollable urge to resume watching him. When I came back the next time, I brought my video camera. For a week, people accompanied me around looking for a subject for my project, but I couldn’t find anything. And every evening we all had dinner together around the table, under the trees, and I could observe my true—and seemingly unreachable—object of desire. On the last day, I had no choice, I had to try. After a chocolate and berry gelato, I said: 'Mario, can I film?' 'Alright,' he replied, 'But no talking.' So that afternoon in the garden, at the table under the trees, we shot the film. Mario picked up a large pine cone and placed it in his lap. While Mario chatted, the sun flickered on and off with spontaneous and clumsy effects of light and shadow, the funereal tolling of bells drifted in from the main square, cicadas chirped, stopping and resuming at will, and crows flew back and forth from the roof. He changed various chairs and spots in the garden, and I managed to shoot four reels before the sun was obscured by threatening clouds and a storm broke out. But something else happened. Suddenly I no longer recognized my father’s features in Mario’s face, nor in the movement of his hands or the way he walked in small steps. It seemed as though the very origin of my desire had self-destructed and that by making the film I had purified myself of my subjectivity. In the end, Mario Merz had become Mario Merz to me. It was as if the deceptive resemblance to my father had been nothing more than the means to make me shoot a film of Mario in the garden that afternoon in San Gimignano. And the striking and unsettling resemblance to my father—I could now barely see it."
— Tacita Dean, “Arte all’Arte VII”, 2002