CURA.

Marta Papini: The first time I visited Rittana, for the first edition of Radis, the mayor and some members of his team offered us an overview of the area. The very first reference they mentioned was Il mondo dei vinti by Nuto Revelli, a book collecting oral testimonies from a disappearing rural world after the Second World War. Those voices still resonate today, because that territory has never really been repopulated and depopulation remains a pressing issue in the province of Cuneo. During that first visit, we reached Chiot Rosa, and I immediately sensed it was the right place. It’s a public space that remains active throughout the year, connected to several valleys. It is a point of passage but also of encounter. What caught my attention most, however, was the birch grove. The birches aren’t native to this part of the Alps. They were planted in the decades following the abandonment of the pastures, when many families left the mountains and the land ceased to be cultivated. Over time, these trees became pioneering species, reclaiming the slopes once kept open by human labour. In that sense, they embody the passage from human presence to ecological succession. From that moment, thinking of Giulia Cenci felt almost instinctive. At the time, she was presenting Secondary Forest at the High Line in New York, a work exploring the notion of “secondary nature,” meaning a landscape that emerges after human intervention. Inviting her to Rittana seemed the obvious choice, precisely because her practice already revolved around such reflections on the afterlife of human activity. With le masche, she captured both the condition of depopulation and the notion of a landscape that is only apparently natural. Those hybrid figures seem to have sprung from the ground itself and, at the same time, reveal the ways in which we abandon and reinvent places. I too was coming from a similar experience in Val Gardena, where I co-curated the Biennale Gherdëina. Julius von Bismarck’s project was about the spruce bark beetle, a small forest insect that has always existed but has now become problematic due to the monoculture of spruce. As in Rittana, the landscape we imagine as “natural” is, in fact, the outcome of very specific economic and cultural choices. Giulia Cenci’s work integrated seamlessly because it was already part of a broader trajectory of research. In the end, le masche became a public artwork that speaks both to those who live there and to those who arrive from elsewhere. It addresses depopulation, of course, but also our illusion of untouched nature. Because, ultimately, no landscape is ever truly natural. Everything, in one way or another, bears the trace of human passage.

MP: The first thing is always the collaboration with the artist. It’s a responsibility I feel deeply towards. What matters is the ability to recognise which artistic language is right for that place. Giulia Cenci was already exploring those themes, and I felt her practice could truly resonate with that context. Responsibility lies not only with the territory but also with the artist. It makes no sense to involve someone in a context that neither belongs to them nor inspires them, and this was equally true for Petrit Halilaj. When we found the school, I knew immediately it was the right place for Petrit Halilaj. I saw the presentation he did at the MET for the Roof Commission in 2024 and I have had the Abetare series in mind since then. It’s an alignment that’s hard to explain. With Giulia Cenci, it was similar. Responsibility, therefore, extends to everyone involved, demanding the same level of commitment from all sides. Once the work is defined, I accompany the artist through the production phase, ensuring that the proposal doesn’t overwhelm the context but rather speaks the right language to be embraced by those who inhabit it. With Giulia Cenci, we spent several days on site during the installation. Technically, the work could have been assembled in a day or two, but the key was understanding how. Any 3D simulation was pointless. It was about sensing the spatial rhythm and its dialogue with the surroundings. The area offered multiple paths and vantage points, and we wanted to avoid the impression of an alien body, making it feel instead as though it had emerged organically. We studied the relationship between trees and clearings until we found the right position for each sculpture. To prevent the work from imposing itself visually, we placed it along a path that reveals it gradually within the grove. Since the sculptures were distinct, we debated whether to start with the more figurative or the more abstract one. The latter became the culmination of the journey yet, for those entering from the forest, abstraction was the first encounter, leading back towards form. Another crucial aspect was that locals were already familiar with contemporary art, thanks in part to the mayor. Working with administrations that are open to a genuine dialogue between art and community remains a key principle of Radis.

MP: That’s a good question, I’m not sure I can fully contain it. I’ve never really thought of Radis as a format. Though, inevitably, it has become one, in the sense that it follows a certain structure. It moves and shifts, but each time it changes profoundly. More than a format, I think of it as a method. A method shaped by the places and the people I meet. It’s situational, and therefore constantly evolving. It is never something I can fully plan, but something that adapts continuously. Perhaps that’s what keeps it alive. Of course, that also makes it harder to manage, because you have to start over each time but that’s precisely what I find stimulating, there’s never a fixed formula.

MP: Very much from dialogue. I don’t think I could curate without building a relationship both with the artist and with the context in which the project unfolds. At the same time, there’s always an element of personal vision. In the end, you’re the one who brings things together, giving them an inner coherence: it’s a balance between giving space and guiding it.

MP: Yes, I think so. Having worked in very different contexts has taught me that each has its own rules, and you can’t impose a single way of working. This capacity to adapt certainly comes from there. It also stems from my interest in turning given conditions into opportunities rather than constraints.

MP: Exactly. I like that word very much. It is a choreography, though not in the sense of something imposed, but rather something you suggest and that each person interprets in their own way. I always think about how people will move through space, what they’ll see first, what they’ll discover later, how the light will change perception over the course of the day. So yes, it’s a kind of spatial writing, almost choreographic, yet it still leaves room to take a wrong turn and stumble upon something unexpected.

MP: Very much so. I don’t believe in separating the poetic from the political. Every poetic gesture is also political, if enacted consciously. And conversely, every political gesture can carry poetic force when it isn’t merely instrumental. So yes, I think Radis has this double soul and that’s also why it works. It’s neither only an aesthetic question nor only a social one. It’s a way of being in the world. Taking a position, but also welcoming and imagining. For me, that’s the most compelling dimension of public art.

MP: I think the time of monuments is over or at least it should be. We no longer need things that commemorate in a celebratory way. We need presences that accompany us and change with us. I believe that when public art works, it isn’t the kind that strikes you straight away, but the kind that returns to you afterwards. It needn’t be a coup de théâtre. It should be a presence that grows over time. That’s why I’m more interested in duration than in impact. In that sense, public art can be a living presence, not a fixation of the past. Petrit Halilaj, for example, is designing a sculpture that you can touch and interact with, and so did Giulia Cenci.

MP: I’m interested in working with a living community, even if small or fragmented, with a sense of belonging. I couldn’t imagine Radis in a completely uninhabited place, or somewhere with no one to care for it. And there must be an open-minded administration, as I mentioned, that sees art as an opportunity. I’d say the two essential conditions are a willingness to listen and a care for the territory. Without those, it wouldn’t make sense.

MP: It’s radical, and also very fragile. Trust is built slowly but can be lost in an instant. It needs cultivating…like a field. Perhaps that’s the most invisible, yet most important, part of my work as a curator.

MP: Yes. Petrit Halilaj’s research has long revolved around places of learning and transmission, both institutional and informal. When we found the school, it naturally became the starting point. It wasn’t about adapting to the context, but about genuine mutual recognition. It was as if the place had called to him, and he had responded. For me, that dynamic is fundamental. Not imposing a theme from outside, but allowing what already exists, perhaps in latent form, to surface. In this sense, Radis works through those silent dialogues that emerge between artists and places.

MP: I believe that, today more than ever, the curator must be a mediator. Of course, you also need a vision. Otherwise, everything risks dispersing. But it’s a vision that must be cultivated in dialogue. And that, in turn, requires patience and trust…elements the art system often overlooks, yet which, for me, remain essential. Without them, neither authentic relationships nor genuine transformation can take place.

MP: I like thinking of projects as ecologies because it forces you to consider every element at play, not only works and people, but also climate, light, sound, and time. Everything exerts an influence. That’s why I try to work holistically rather than hierarchically. I never place the artwork at the centre, but the relationships that form around it. The work, for me, is a catalyst rather than an endpoint. It is what sets a process in motion. And the process is the liveliest part that keeps changing.

MP: This is the least poetic yet most decisive part. I try to approach it with the same care I bring to the artistic aspects. I don’t experience it as a nuisance, but as an essential part of the process. For me, the admin side is a natural extension of curating. It means caring for the invisible infrastructures that sustain the project. And then there’s the budget (always limited) which requires a great deal of creativity. Often this leads to smarter, more rooted solutions. Done with sensitivity, it doesn’t impoverish the work. On the contrary, it anchors it more deeply in its context.

MP: I see it as an accumulation of experiences and learnings. Each edition leaves a trace, sometimes visible, sometimes subtler, almost impalpable. Over time, these sediments intertwine and contaminate one another, generating new possibilities. With Petrit Halilaj, for instance, we found ourselves touching on issues that, differently, we had already explored with Giulia Cenci. Although the projects are far apart, a thread holds everything together. It’s as if Radis were a living archive in constant transformation. And that, to me, is what gives a true sense of duration. Not the permanence of a monument, but the persistence of an active memory that continues to generate relationships.

MP: It’s a delicate balance. I’m very emotional and I often get deeply involved in what I do. But I’ve learnt that if you don’t govern emotion, you can lose sight of the whole. I try to use it as a compass, not as the sole engine. Emotion helps me understand whether something truly works, whether it touches something real. But you also need cool-headedness to make practical decisions or handle conflict without being overwhelmed. It’s a constant back-and-forth between heart and head.