CURA.

Giulia Cenci: When I arrived, the place didn’t reveal itself all at once. It unfolded in layers, each one showing a different side of the landscape and its history. The first thing I came across was the village of Rittana, which was small, quiet, with just a few residents and a strong sense of community. From there, we reached Chiot Rosa, the setting shifted into a clearing surrounded by trees, with a fountain and a simple shelter. Not far is Borgata Paraloup, a mountain hamlet with a significant past. During the war, it became a headquarters for Italian partisans and its history is preserved in the site thanks to a cultural center that creates artistic and educational events. What struck me most in the area where I was invited to work (Chiot Rosa) were the birch trees, and the way this place felt like a meeting point created by natural elements. There was something about them that felt significant, not just part of the scenery, but quiet witnesses to what had happened in that place. Their silent presence made me think about how collective trauma can leave a kind of imprint on the land itself, how the ground might absorb what took place and over time, regenerate it, blooming into something else. I imagined trees, meadows, flowers, mountains to be like inhabitants, capable of transmitting this experience to me and to everyone who walked there. The project emerges from the idea that memory and place are deeply connected, and that the landscape holds these layers like sediment accumulating over time. I’ve always been interested in how certain sites use monuments or plaques to tell their history. They can offer information, but they don’t always create a real emotional connection. The challenge here was to create something that wouldn’t dominate or disrupt the space, but instead blend naturally into the landscape. A monument that could become part of the environment and a place to inhabit for anyone passing through.

GCe: Yes, absolutely. That is precisely what fascinated me about the masche and the stories surrounding them. What was interpreted as diabolical was, in fact, neither to be feared nor avoided. That fear, often arising from not knowing or understanding, was frequently instrumentalised as a means of repression. I found it interesting how the idea of magic arose from a misunderstanding of the unknown, as if the unknown itself opened spaces for imagination. In the peasant tradition of Piedmont, as also recounted by Nuto Revelli in Il mondo dei vinti and L’anello forte, the figure of the masca often appeared during the long winter nights, when people gathered to exchange stories that blended superstition and religion. These tales spoke of women “who could read,” who “worked with physics and distributed the evil eye,” who could even turn into animals. The masche were women who, because of their difference or their knowledge, found themselves on the margins of society. Their difficulty in integrating made them the target of persecution and suspicion, yet they also became a way for the community to give form to fear and to the inexplicable. The work I realised for the clearing of Chiot Rosa has to deal with those figures and, more broadly, to all those who have been marginalised for their diversity, by imagining a place where different stories and layers of meaning might shape a future of possibilities. This is why it was moving and surprising when women from the local community came to see the work and shared their own childhood memories: “My grandmother told me there was a masca that was a very tall woman who wandered with two wolves.” While looking at the sculptures they recognised the figures of the masche as they had imagined them. I’m drawn to the way something ordinary yet unfamiliar can provoke fear. These sculptures echo the forms of trees without truly being trees, drawn from sketches of flowers with synthesised leaves, and seem to morph into shelters or hideouts from which gestures of revolt might emerge. A tree is never just a tree. A figure is never merely a figure. And perhaps a witch has never been simply a witch.

GCe: Yes, somehow that sense of metamorphosis got my attention concerning le masche. The term masca didn’t refer only to witches. It was also used to describe certain phenomena.

GCe: Exactly, or even to indicate a misfortune. The word was so closely linked to the idea of the incomprehensible that it came to describe many different things. That ambiguity is important to me, and I think it’s perceptible in my work as well. At times, however, I feel that words fail to convey this ambiguity, perhaps because language is less pliable than visual possibilities. There is always a tendency to reduce things to categories, to box them in. I simply cannot do that.

GCe: Yes, probably. I think I make my work to pursue what I cannot grasp in the present world, to chase what eludes me, yet it remains a very spontaneous process, and I have never consciously thought in terms of “hybridity.” For me it’s hard to feel separate from the grey zones around me; instead, I feel like a fluid part of them, which makes it difficult to think of figure and space as if they were separate entities. Perhaps the first works, dated around 2017, in which this tension became visible were those where abstract forms began to turn into figures, yet remained connected by a kind of filament that drew you into the space. There is, I think, a desire to give shape to this sense of belonging to a world that is far less clear-cut than we are often led to believe.

GCe: The work was conceived almost immediately. The moment I saw the site, I instantly imagined a kind of blossoming, something halfway between a flower, a fungus, and a tree. I was drawn to the idea of leaves as elements that could become shelters. At the same time, I thought about the everyday dimension of the place, imagining hikers pausing, resting their jackets on the sculpture, as I wanted that sense of informal use to be part of the work. Initially, the five figures were meant to stand close together, like a cluster of mushrooms gathered in the main clearing, forming a compact little forest. But as I spent more time on site, I realised that scattering them across the space would be far more convincing. This arrangement allows the work to blend quietly with the forest. When you arrive, you don’t immediately feel like you are facing an artwork. Only gradually do subtle anomalies reveal themselves, such as a tree that bends and transforms into a figure, another from which strange branches sprout, resembling a hand. Everything remains quietly camouflaged within the landscape, inviting the viewer to notice these details over time and space.

GCe: Yes, I do. I have never thought of sculpture as a pure or unitary entity; hybridity and impurity, for me, are not theoretical notions but the result of a particular way of looking at things. I am drawn to the ways in which different elements (vegetal, animal, human, industrial materials) contaminate and coexist within the same body. I believe it is precisely in this impurity that the sculptures find their strength, never fully belonging to a single realm or function but retaining traces of multiple origins. This approach also mirrors how I perceive the world as a layered, unstable field, impossible to divide into clear categories. I have never been interested in that form of radicalism tied to the idea of purity of material in sculpture. I see impurity as a generative force, something that allows materials and meanings to remain in flux, much like the living systems that surround us.

GCe: Exactly, there is no longer a pure environment (perhaps there never was). That’s why an approach giving absolute centrality to the material feels, to me, like a constraint. I have no attachment to that idea of purity. I could never work with bronze; if I did, I would probably end up painting it or altering its surface, transforming it into something else. I couldn’t simply allow it to remain “bronze.” At the moment, I’m working with aluminium, but only because I wanted to melt down car parts and give them a new shape. To be honest, I’m already a little tired of aluminium…will probably take shape through a completely different kind of material assemblage.

GCe: I began working with aluminium specifically for outdoor projects. At first, I used it in a rough, almost raw state, and only later did I start experimenting with casting. That experience made me realise that, for instance, I could never have followed the same process with bronze. When I was invited to create that permanent work, aluminium felt like an immediate choice, not because I assign any special value to it, but simply because it was a material I was already exploring and knew how to handle. I don’t think it has more or less to offer than a work destined to disappear within a day. For me, what matters is not the material itself, but the way it is used.

GCe: The work was conceived to be deeply open to its surroundings, almost like an ephemeral piece made of ice. It doesn’t have the heaviness of much public sculpture, which to me often feels like an alien presence and that’s exactly why I’ve always struggled with it. I was also determined not to create work that would require constant maintenance. Metal is stable, it doesn’t demand particular attention and, at the same time, allows you to work with lightness and respect for the context. I thought a lot about two things while working on this project. First, that place is deeply cherished by many people. I thought about my own relationship with places I hold dear and asked myself how to create a work that could speak to certain ideas without making those who visit feel uncomfortable or alienated. I wanted the work to integrate without disrupting the emotional bond people have with the place. The second thing I considered was how to build on what was already there, to let the place itself guide the work, rather than imposing something on it. For example, Secondary Forest was created for a sculpture park in a city like New York, where the contrast with the environment was deliberate and temporary; there, the work could afford to be more assertive, more urban. At Chiot Rosa, however, I didn’t want to bring an industrial or agricultural object into such a landscape. I wanted the work to integrate attentively, without imposing itself.

GCe: Certainly. It was my first permanent work, and this forced me to face new challenges, not only in conceiving the piece, but in placing it within a specific site and in the lives of the people who inhabit it. Working in public space means creating something for everyone, not just for an audience already inclined toward contemporary art. I believe this approach is more necessary than ever. We live in a time when many feel weary and I felt a responsibility not to impose further fracture or estrangement in a place that holds deep emotional meaning for many, like Chiot Rosa. There was, in this sense, an intimacy I wanted to preserve. This is not a secondary concern, especially today, after the long and often painful history of misguided public interventions. I thought of all the monuments and large public sculptures I had never liked and told myself: I don’t want to fall into that trap.

GCe: Exactly. Working on this project helped me focus on how to imagine a work that could truly be welcomed by the locals. And I must say the response from the local community was unexpected. I had been worried that the people of the place might not see themselves reflected in what I had created for them, that the work might feel distant or unfamiliar. Yet, from the very first moments, I was met with genuine warmth. It was also the first time I created a work entirely outside my studio. Of course, that was necessary. It was a different kind of experience that made me appreciate the dynamics of my studio but also realise there are other ways of working. Looking back, the most significant aspect for my personal growth was the relationship with the people. After all, as the Radis project is conceived, this is also its most authentic aim.

GCe: Yes, absolutely. As much as I wanted to honour the place, I would never have introduced anything invasive into the landscape. I’m glad that this care was reflected not only in the sculpture itself but also in the process and in the dialogue with the people.