shaped by expectations—of modesty, of value, of how a woman should be seen
and by whom. These expectations were not abstract ideas; they were part of
everyday life.
Over time, I found myself moving along a different path, not in a straight line,
but through many tensions and contradictions. Part of that process was learning
to relate to my body differently—not as something to hide or preserve for
others, but as something that could carry experience.
I began drawing while I was in Ecuador.
It did not start as a project or a plan. It felt necessary—almost like a duty to
myself. The drawings were a way to process what I was living through at the time,
in a situation that was unstable and difficult to navigate. In that sense, they were a
kind of visual scream.
These early works often take the form of what I call “selfie,” but not in the usual
sense. They are not images of how I look, but attempts to show that I was there
—that I did not simply observe these situations from a distance, but lived through
them. The body appears in these images not as an object, but as a point of view.
Later, when I began sharing these drawings in small gatherings in Italy, I started to
speak alongside them. I realized that the images alone were not enough to carry
what I meant. People often interpreted them in ways that reflected their
own frameworks and assumptions.
This gap between experience, expression, and interpretation became a turning
point in my work. It led me from drawing alone toward storytelling as a way of
creating a more shared ground of understanding.
What began as a personal necessity gradually opened into a broader inquiry:
how we see, how we misunderstand, and how meaning is shaped between people.
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