Parallel worlds

I believe in magic, in whatever form it chooses to appear. Those who distance themselves from it cut themselves off from a world that, once embraced, spills into reality, expanding it and lighting it up. And when gateways like art exist—available to anyone, in its countless forms—they become passports to a parallel reality. For those who know and frequent it, that world often feels more real, vivid, and rich than the one we were taught to live in.

Take music, for example. It’s different for everyone, but it instantly intensifies the present, even without the benefit of formal training. Add a little study, combined with innate sensitivity, and a sculpture, an oil painting, an installation, or a performance can tear open the veil of the everyday. They open the eyes to one’s own private Narnia—if only one dares to look.

Now I can finally say I am an artist. A title I had never allowed myself before, because I wasn’t letting who I was manifest fully. Art had always been a side pursuit. It took courage to give space and life to what I was—and still am. And to burn away the infamous, paternal, disillusioned, merciless, and cruel refrain: “Study for a real job—you can always do art as a hobby.”

A friend of mine who help Roman artists get their names out, suggested I create something small. Something that even those unable to invest in a larger piece could still treasure at home—or carry with them, in a pocket, inside a jacket, anywhere.

So between February and March I set aside a few days for small embroideries stitched together, encrusted with objects I had been collecting over time in my “things to make things with” box. Mother-of-pearl buttons, steel pins, twigs, scraps of metal (old graters, watering can pieces, elevator plates), glass vials, bits of wood, and little gifts from the sea gathered over the years.

I embroidered my signature onto business cards made from fabric scraps, rolled them up, and tied them with string. I also reimagined an object that has always fascinated me—the scapular. I had fun creating these fabric talismans. They beg to be touched, lifted, handled, unrolled—and in return, they answer back with a faint jingling or rattling sound.

I love the idea of a multisensory art—something that can be smelled, touched, maybe even heard. Capturing the voices of nature: the wind, the rain, the sea. Below you can see some of these playful, joyful objects—made to carry around, keep in a drawer, tie to your wrist, or rest on a nightstand just to look at or play with.

I also thought that some of them, the smaller and simpler ones, could be pinned onto a coat or sewn inside a jacket, over the heart—hidden from everyone but oneself. Or sewn onto other beloved objects. We all have treasures that matter only to us, and it’s beautiful to see how each person cares for their own. Personally, I usually end up destroying or losing mine. 😀

I even tried to upload the videos I made for Instagram, thanks to a dear helper who lent me her hands. But I couldn’t get them onto this blog so here’s the one with the safety pins, here the tinkling droppers, here the mother-of-pearl buttons, and finally the saffron piece that of saffron, which was still a work in progress in the video.

For these small objects I also created containers. Some are simple cardboard boxes decorated with collages: odd little things like an elevator tag, scraps of photos I took with my beloved Voigtländer, or quick, idle sketches.

It was a wonderful interlude—one I’ll definitely return to. In April and May I focused on a couple of larger, more complex embroidery pieces. They absorbed a lot of my time, and I’ll try to share them here on the blog soon.