Valepainthings
I dreamed that sprouts were pushing their way out of my legs, just below the knees, growing where
my hair should have been. I could feel it vividly—something shifting beneath my skin, eager to break
free. It felt strange, yet I don’t remember being afraid.
I added big solid brown roots that spread upward from my feet.
I often find myself wondering where I truly belong, where I’m headed, and what home really means.
The feeling to belonging nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
I felt a connection between the dream and these thoughts—like a reminder that my roots can grow
anywhere even i fit is scaring to start everyrhing again.
New York in the background— the city I love, my new crush, were i feel free, where i feel a new
version of myself, where i can be someone new for others and fo me.
There was a period when I experienced an immense need for contact — for touch, for an embrace. I
had never felt anything like it before. The absence of it caused almost physical pain; I felt a solid
loneliness. A primal need.
I thought about the intensity of a hug, the kind I desperately needed at that moment. But four arms
were not enough, so I imagined adding more. I called it the urgency because it was something
immediately necessary.
How many times have I heard this? Many.
Sometimes I become fixated on situations that didn’t go as I hoped, at work, in friendships, or in love.
I hold on and refuse to let go, keeping my fist clenched until it hurts.
Then, one day, unexpectedly, I manage to open my hand and release. I remind myself that nothing
can be forced; things unfold as they must, and sometimes the only choice is to accept.
When I finally let go, it brings immense relief, and I realize that what I was holding onto mattered
only while it remained trapped in my palm.
My head feels heavy. I think too much. I worry too much.
It’s like a private cinema up there, playing the worst possible scenarios on repeat.
Sometimes, when everything’s fine, I invent problems that don’t exist — and the more I dwell on
them, the bigger they grow.
Torture has become my comfort zone.
I’ve probably been drinking too much coffee since I was 17, and I inherited a nervous system that
can’t hold onto calm for more than an hour. (Thanks, Mom.)
I once had a training plan for lightness... didn’t exactly stick to it.
You have to practice consistently, or it feels like starting over from scratch every time.
So I make myself stop, look at the sky, and remember: it’s all okay.
We are just tiny grains of sand in the vastness of the universe.
And really, most of life can be taken a lot less seriously.
Symbols. Symbols and more symbols. A Door. Portal to the uncertain. Do they close or open?
Perhaps both. An airplane to fly away.
Music, volume. The city of my dream.
A snake shedding its skin.
Stairs. A clock, time passing. More Tears.
Mirrors, reflecting what ? A waxing moon.
An endless whirlwind of symbols and magical codes.
When I was painting, I listened to the album Climb Man by Flying Object.
I collect crushes — but unilateral crushes only, otherwise it’s not fun.
They change every two weeks, like my mood.
They are never planned.
My crushes often reflect a part of myself I want to grow.
I read that somewhere, and it resonated.
My crushes don’t know they are crushes.
They would need the ability to read my mind... or they will never know.
Ah, that feeling!
It’s been a while, friends.
DO I miss it? Yes, of course.
Does it scare me? YES, OF COURSE.
To be completely honest, I’ve involuntarily associated this sensation with an inevitably catastrophic
chain of events... that, at first, feels like a fairy tale.
Too much emotional tension = too many expectations = a huge dopamine rush = a massive crash = an
emotional tsunami.
Again, very dramatic, my apologies.
But I’m sure you know what I mean!
I felt shattered into pieces.
I thought of the famous Japanese technique, kintsugi — repairing broken porcelain or ceramics with
gold powder.
Philosophically, it’s about acknowledging the break and the repair as part of the object’s story, rather
than hiding them — and in doing so, making it even more beautiful than before.
I saw my body like that, for different reasons.
Physical wounds, and wounds of the soul.
Thank you to my body for carrying me this far,
for taking the time to heal your wounds, which are mine,
thank you for turning them into precious lessons.
I continue learning to love every crack.
Because they tell the story of my reconstruction.
I was reflecting on sexuality — a huge taboo in the construction of who I am.
In my family we didn’t talk about it.
There was a silent prohibition: shame, modesty, embarrassment, deep unease.
I unconsciously associated sex with something almost bad, forbidden, a sin.
I realize how much growing up in a Catholic, rural society shaped me.
I thought about a woman’s right to seek pleasure, whenever and however she wants.
But also about how society continues to define her through it.
I find it deeply unfair. And awful.
I remember phrases like:
“Good girls don’t do that.”
“She’s an easy girl.”
So many lies, so much manipulation.
We tried so hard to follow the rules of “proper conduct” that sometimes, in intimacy, we never really
learned to know ourselves with honesty, curiosity, and care.
We can change this. We must.
It’s slow, intimate, collective work.
Unlearning shame, deconstructing the stories imposed on us, making peace with our bodies.
...
At that time, I was reading Van Gogh’s biography and I felt a strong empathy for this lost and
unfortunate soul. I wanted to put something of him into the painting.
Ups and downs.
An endless emotional rollercoaster.
Sometimes I feel like there’s a fairground in my skull —
fireworks bursting,
and me,
stuck on the rollercoaster.
I think, in the end, it’s me chasing this feeling, now familiar and oddly comforting.
I spent days by the sea, in the beautiful village of Cetara, in the south of Italy. The sea had been
calling me for a while; it wanted me close.
With me women with brilliant minds, sharp words, and sacred movements. Dancers — part sirens,
part witches. Our conversations, held in a white-and-blue house, felt like ancient rituals.
We listened to the album Bar Mediterraneo by Nu Genea.
The sun was still shy. The sky cried sudden downpours, tears blending into the waves, impossible to
find again. Nostalgia for my sun-filled days from ten years ago, for a lightness I have slowly crumbled
along the way. Time passing. There was wind.
A still frame from a Korean movie I had watched a few weeks earlier stayed with me.
Everything mixed together on the canvas, just as it was in my mind.
The scream.
Chaos follows me.
From the outside, you might not see it... I think.
I don’t like shouting, but sometimes I wish I could, just to set myself free.
I wish I had a switch on my skull to turn myself off when things get too much, to pause, and turn back
on when I feel better.
I listened to Yusef Lateef a lot while making this painting. It calmed me.
I had taken up smoking again at the time, that helped too.
I tried acupuncture. That helped.
Sometimes I light palo santo, convincing myself of its magic.
A bee had stung me months before, in a car, and later I felt it was a warning — a small flash telling
me: wake up.
It was Christmas 2023. I was exhausted — completely drained, body and mind.
My heart was in rough shape.
One day, a sharp whistling entered my life — or maybe my head.
It’s been with me ever since.
Sounds suddenly got louder, but only for me.
People’s voices on the street and in the subway became unbearable.
Ambulance sirens — impossible.
My friends’ laughter? Like a knife in my skull.
“That’s hyperacusis,” the ENT doctors said.
“And the whistling? Tinnitus. It’s permanent, so you’ll have to get used to it.”
Sometimes I invent stories to make it bearable.
It’s a magical power. It’s my body’s voice.
A friend said: “It’s a special connection to the earth.”
I try to forget it, to not think about it, and let it live alongside me — a new companion who will never
leave.
Much more loyal than many people, apparently.
We say: “My heart is broken.”
But we rarely talk about what comes next.
It broke... and stopped working.
For me, after that came the “petrification of the heart.”
Yes, you know — when you close off, you become cold, cynical.
You put your heart on pause.
You are so afraid of feeling that pain again that sometimes, unconsciously, you stop activating it
altogether.
And it’s hard to step out of that no-sentiment zone.
It’s our protection zone: we build steel barriers and create an insane guest list.
You cannot enter.
And it can last a very long time.
Will we ever be brave enough to let tiny sprouts of trust crack the stone?
I hope so. I hope it for myself, and for us.
I saw a photo of a model on social media — Maryam Desarre, shot by Yohann Guerini.
It moved me deeply.
I started thinking about beauty: what does it really mean to be beautiful? Who decides that? Why is
it so hard to feel okay in our own bodies?
I’m one of those who, at a certain point in the awkward journey called adolescence, met someone —
or several — who made me believe I wasn’t beautiful.
And once that belief sticks, it sticks.
So many things in life depend on it: how you see yourself in the mirror, and how you assume others
see you.
Too dramatic? Don’t judge me — I’m Italian, I have a higher quota of drama than most.
Even now, I struggle with this false belief.
But I know changing it is my responsibility.
(applause.)
This was my beginning, in 2023, with canvases.
Switching to this kind of support, instead of paper, meant accepting that this practice could take a
real place in my life — emotionally, physically, in my apartment.
It meant embracing this new path, giving it space and time.
I wanted to honor the beauty of women, and while searching for inspiration, I came across this
incredible photo of Mwen, by photographer Pow Roussely.
The posture, the angles, the delicacy — it moved me deeply.