I was born and raised in Naples, in a cityscape where nature simply didn’t exist. Since childhood I carried a restless unease, sharpened by the street noise that echoed through the windows at night, carrying with it the smell of asphalt, iron, and dust.
Only the scent of the sea, when the wind shifted, could cover that constant hum. In August it would vanish completely, when my father gathered us up and carried us away for a month to the villa my grandfather—whom I never knew—had built in the hills above Fiuggi, deep in the countryside of Frosinone.
The house stood among red brick paths lined with hydrangeas, silver cedars, and fragrant thujas. There was a rose garden, though I never saw it bloom, a weeping willow, and other trees. Beyond the gates, gravel roads stretched out to endless brambles. The wind carried the scent of cut grass, mint, and sheep, while late-summer storms filled my heart with a joy I can’t describe.
Those magical months where I could finally be myself were what saved me—body and soul. When the villa was sold, we all lost something. The fragile balance tied to that place shattered. My life scattered into a million pieces, most of them frantic, senseless, blind, too fast and unruly to ever hold in my hands.
Then came Rome and design school. The Alto Adige and seasonal work. Back to Rome again, working as a graphic designer. Only near forty did I finally understand what made me feel at home, serene, happy, at peace with it all: the sea, the mountains, the hills, the wind, the seasons, beaches and meadows, rain—and above all, an unreasonable abundance of trees.
That’s why so many of my embroideries tell the same story: the seemingly chaotic rhythm of nature—sometimes slow, sometimes overwhelming, often cruel, always surprising. I’ve learned that the wisest way to live is to drop the oars and let the river take you, carried in a childlike state of wonder. As far as possible from fear and the fearful, with their need for control, their aggressions, envies, and petty critiques.
I choose the company of a few steady souls, with deep roots, who love themselves, who are strong and calm like the beloved trees. I searched for a long time for the right tree to portray—hard to capture, since the most beautiful ones are immense, impossible to fit in a single frame with roots, trunk, branches, and leaves.
In the end I remembered a wonderful children’s book illustrated by the Polish artist Piotr Socha. It was filled with trees, but the one closest to what I wanted was a South African baobab, centuries old, survivor of six fires, with a circumference of nearly forty meters.
At first I had planned to embroider an oak, but I like to let myself be carried where the energy leads. So what emerged is a hybrid—oak/baobab/white oak trunk with leaves like a ficus robusta, or maybe even a lemon tree. Countless leaves, which I’m now stitching over a second time, soon to be traced again in white.
Sometimes, in the stillness of this work, I feel the need to grab a canvas instead. To cover it in oil paint, in oil and wax pastels, with whatever tool is at hand. A piece done in one or two hours—finished. The lion and the virgin inside me are in constant battle for command. Precision against fury, humility against megalomania. Earth and fire, especially now, in summer. Back to work.
Leave A Comment