During this time of forced isolation — which honestly doesn’t bother me at all, since I love keeping to myself (and in my next life I’ll definitely come back as a librarian, a cloistered nun, or a hermit)—I’ve been working on a new piece.

contemporary embroidery

Compared to other fabrics, especially the one I used for Scivola, made from a thick, rustic cotton trousseau sheet, this one is completely different. It comes from an old linen sheet, worn thin and almost weightless. No matter how delicate I try to be, the needle still makes holes that look like craters. Yet the tangle of threads seems to hold it together, barely, reinforcing and piercing it all at once.

I love the feeling of this sheer fabric under my fingers—fragile yet stubborn, airy yet strong. Whenever the pencil lines get too invasive and keep me from following the drawing properly, I have to wash them away. And every time, I’m afraid the washing machine will shred it completely, since the edges are already so frayed.

All fabrics, after being washed and left to dry in the sun on my terrace—hung strictly with hemp rope and wooden clothespins—become stiffer. They almost take on the consistency of paper, which of course I adore as a graphic designer. But the more I handle them, the softer and more pliable they get, and also harder to embroider.

The looser and more fragile they become, the harder it is to follow the pencil’s trace. Once I stretch them on the hoop, they feel like they might tear in my hands at any moment. If I pull too tight, the drawing warps, and when I release it the embroidery looks crooked. If I don’t pull tight enough, ripples form. But honestly, who really wants to deal with simple, straightforward situations? Definitely not me. Everything twisted, flawed, or difficult pulls me in like a magnet.

One thing I love about smaller embroideries is that I can take them with me. Or rather, I could back when leaving the house was still possible :-D. For instance, I took this one to the MAXXI at the end of February—maybe the last time I went out, almost a month ago now. I have this odd belief that the energy of the places I visit seeps into the embroidery, weaving itself in, making it richer and wiser.

Lately I’ve been thinking I’d like my embroideries, once exhibited, to be touched as well as seen. Maybe even smelled. I could use a hint of natural essential oil that somehow recalls the feeling I had while creating it. For Scivola I thought of helichrysum oil. I love the idea of creating something multisensory. My only fear is that it might guide people in one direction instead of letting each person see their own reflection in the work, which is how I always envision art.

I also have another piece in progress. It’s more abstract and linear than my usual work, stitched onto a cloth full of small tears. When the threads span the holes, they look like tiny colored bridges suspended in nothingness. They remind me of people desperately trying to hold everything together while their world crumbles. They pull out an unexpected strength that feels both inspiring and moving. These are the people I live for—the ones who give meaning to their lives. Who fight, if needed, for what they believe in. And who, because of that, end up standing apart from the vast crowd of fragile souls who prefer ready-made paths or directives handed down from above.

My heart is with the men and women for whom honor, consistency, courage, keeping one’s word, trust, sincerity, generosity, and loyalty come before everything else. That’s what I want my embroidered illustrations to transmit—to those who touch them, breathe them in, or simply look at them.