Anthropomorphism is the tendency to attribute human characteristics to imaginary figures, animals, and objects.
Transplanting, pruning, planting, leaving an indelible mark on the landscape. The incomplete and unnatural silhouettes of the plants resemble cartoonish figures, the city itself feels like a suspicious backdrop. Plants and trees are stage props. Space is partitioned.
While spontaneous vegetation spreads disillusioned into the crevices, slowly and infinitely expandable, human matter moves swiftly, covered in layers of filaments. Protective armors that further delimit space.The human form is closed, like the garments that contain it. The costume is a protective device.
The act of wearing a garment is a metaphor for inhabiting the city. To occupy the space of the clothing is like occupying a subdivided plot of land.
The costumes are designed by following the forms of vegetation. The subjects are sought in urban centers, geographically diverse. The drawing is partially interpreted and adapted to the material and the device. The antropomorphism of the figures depicted inspired the idea for the costume. The works have been created with the aim of dedicating to vegetation a new, inviolable symbolic space.
Anthropomorphism is a form of representation capable of masking the history and essence of the subject represented.
Anthropomorphism is a form of appropriation of the subject being represented, capable of altering its very essence.
It was November and the pumpkin was floating in a small canal that runs through the center of Milan, known locally as the Naviglio, one of many that crisscross the city. It didn’t seem to have been stuck there for long, although a good deal of vegetation had gathered around it. Acquatic plants had wrapped around its round shape, giving it the appearance of a head nestled in fur, while long green strands extended with the current, transforming the vegetable into an anthropomorphic body.
The anthropomorphic pumpkin seemed to be in a state of temporary rest, as if waiting to rise. My mind began to imagine its movement: how its steps would look and where it would go. But after imagining it standing up, I realized it would never begin to move, and that it didn’t need me.
I had no story to tell about this character, because it was already telling its own. Its presence was its story.
There it was, in the center of Milan, wrapped in thick, spontaneous vegetation. The space it occupied was unstable and temporary. Its stay in that small canal was unpredictable. The only thing I could do was to fix its image in that moment, and invent a space where it could remain.
The fact that its appearance resembled a fantastical creature led me to imagine it as a disguise, identifying the space within the costume as a place of permanence. I thought about how a garment can serve as a container for bodies and how it allows us to define portions of space. I designed a custom-made costume for the anthropomorphic pumpkin and looked for fabrics that matched its colors and texture.
Parco Sempione is a much-frequented place in Milan, people walk through it and occupy it by lying on the grass. The only untouched areas are the aquatic ones, small streams and artificial ponds scattered throughout the park, inhabited only by a few insects, fish and birds.
From one of these emerged a trunk, partially submerged and softened by moisture, with five broken roots or branches that resembled the fingers of a hand. The water reflected the protruding part, distorting its shape. I imagined it as a large hand, gripping the edge of the pond to pull itself out of the water.
I looked for a dark and shiny fabric to create a large glove. I chose a velvet with the texture of astrakan, the fur obtained from Karakul lambs, killed for their skin within the first or second day of life.
It was 2021 and near the Soviet War Memorial, the Sowjetisches Ehrenmal, there was a broken trunk that seemed framed by the landscape. In Treptower Park, orange trees stood around it, watching over it like a group protecting a newborn. The trunk had no leaves and was less than half the height of a full-grown tree.It had a single thin twig that gave it a startled expression, like a gesture, and its broken top resembled a tuft of hair. I took a photograph.
Two years later, in November 2023, when I began working on the Costumes series, the image of that Berlin trunk came back to me. The figure I had glimpsed in that tree was perfect for a new costume.
I drew its silhouette and recreated it using needle, thread and upholstery velvet.
It was November and the pumpkin was floating in a small canal that runs through the center of Milan, known locally as the Naviglio, one of many that crisscross the city. It didn’t seem to have been stuck there for long, although a good deal of vegetation had gathered around it. Acquatic plants had wrapped around its round shape, giving it the appearance of a head nestled in warm fur, while long green strands extended with the current, transforming the vegetable into an anthropomorphic body.
The anthropomorphic pumpkin seemed to be in a state of temporary rest, as if waiting to rise. My mind began to imagine its movement: how its steps would look and where it might go. But after imagining it standing up, I realized it would never begin to move, and that it didn’t need me.
I had no story to tell about this character, because it was already telling its own. Its presence was its story.
There it was, in the center of Milan, wrapped in thick, spontaneous vegetation. The space it occupied was unstable and temporary. Its stay in that small canal was fleeting and unpredictable. The only thing I could do was to fix its image in that moment, and imagine a space to dedicate to it.
Its appearance recalled a fantastical creature, which led me to think of disguise, of how a garment can act as a container for bodies, and how it allows us to define portions of space. I designed a custom-made costume for the anthropomorphic pumpkin and searched for fabrics that echoed its colors and textures. I crafted the disguise and closed it with a zipper.
It was November and the pumpkin was floating in a small canal that runs through the center of Milan, known locally as the Naviglio, one of many that crisscross the city. It didn’t seem to have been stuck there for long, although a good deal of vegetation had gathered around it. Acquatic plants had wrapped around its round shape, giving it the appearance of a head nestled in warm fur, while long green strands extended with the current, transforming the vegetable into an anthropomorphic body.
The anthropomorphic pumpkin seemed to be in a state of temporary rest, as if waiting to rise. My mind began to imagine its movement: how its steps would look and where it might go. But after imagining it standing up, I realized it would never begin to move, and that it didn’t need me.
I had no story to tell about this character, because it was already telling its own. Its presence was its story.
There it was, in the center of Milan, wrapped in thick, spontaneous vegetation. The space it occupied was unstable and temporary. Its stay in that small canal was fleeting and unpredictable. The only thing I could do was to fix its image in that moment, and imagine a space to dedicate to it.
Its appearance recalled a fantastical creature, which led me to think of disguise, of how a garment can act as a container for bodies, and how it allows us to define portions of space. I designed a custom-made costume for the anthropomorphic pumpkin and searched for fabrics that echoed its colors and textures. I crafted the disguise and closed it with a zipper.
