It seems I am obsessed with smallness

A year after writing an article about 'small things', I was asked to write another article for Publisher's Weekly. The article was given the title 'Becoming Small'. Or maybe I gave it that title, I don't remember. 

In any case it's something I think about often, as I feel that part of growing older is not, as we think, the distancing ourselves from our childhood (only in terms of time), but in fact the very opposite. The older we grow, the closer we get to what we were as children. At least that is my hope. 

Here is the article on PW. I reproduce it here for my records, as I do not often write articles.

The piece came out in time for the publication of my book 'If You Run out of Words', published by Abrams Books in April 2024. 

Me and my sister Emanuela, circa 1987, somewhere in Italy.

Becoming Small

It was a day like the day before it, and like the day after it. We had been in lockdown for a few weeks and it felt like this was life now, that it would go on like this forever. I had the feeling we were on top of an ark, and outside it, the virus, the forbidden streets and parks. Other people, far away in their own ships, waiting for a white dove to bring news of land. In that strange time, I observed my 6 year old daughter as she entertained herself with the most fascinating imaginative play. I was worried about her loneliness, but she seemed ok, in the cozy ark, with us. She dressed up, celebrated birthday parties of stuffed toys with great fanfare, created weird sculptures out of mismatched toys, learned to read, ‘played’ with her friends on skype, watched a lot of movies, cooked, made messes, wanted books to be read constantly. We shielded her from the news and told her what was happening using our own language. We tried to protect her from our own anxieties. We did what we could, like everyone in the world, to make it ok. 

some images of my daughter's activities in lockdown, Rome 2020

On that day like every other day, my husband, my daughter Nina and I were getting some air on the communal rooftop of our apartment in Rome. I had been on a phone call with my agent Kirsten Hall for at least an hour, chatting about work and life and the absurdity of it all. Nina was starting to get annoyed. She pulled at my shirt, asking me to get off the phone. And then she looked at me with big worried eyes and said: “Mum, what if you talk so much that you run out of words, and then there won’t be any left for me?”

And I laughed and I said, of course I won’t. And I told Kirsten what Nina had said, and she laughed, and then said quite seriously, you NEED to write a book about that. 

I immediately felt a sense of anxiety myself. Because I knew that she was right. There was a seed for a great story there, but I did not believe for one second that I was capable of cultivating that seed. I had illustrated many books, but had only written one at that stage, and it was more a collection of people cooking, not quite a story. In fact, I believed quite firmly that I could not write stories, that I was destined to be just an illustrator, and that good writing was rare and done by only the best writers, the qualified ones. 

In the following months I thought a lot about that question, what if you run out of words? The unintended brilliance of it. I thought a lot about the way children present us with the funniest ideas that are to them entirely normal and serious. How, in those questions, they sometimes hide their fears and worries about not being loved, not being seen, about being small in a big world. Who will protect them, how can they be sure? 

It’s no use to say to a child, don’t worry, you’re being silly, there’s no such thing. We must enter the fear with them, follow that ‘what if’ wherever it wants to go. We must get down on their level, crouching in a makeshift den or hopping over a floor that is made of lava. Let’s see then, together, where this ‘what if’ goes. And then, by seeing that we are not afraid to enter the maze of imagination, they become less so. 

My strict ideas about good story writing held me hostage for the following two years, until finally, I gave myself permission to try. I asked myself: What if? I went back to Nina’s question and followed it, like a white rabbit, jumping to a possible answer. If I run out of words, I will go and get an infinity bottle in an underground elf factory. From there, onto a new question and a new answer, until the book somehow took shape. I realized that I had to make myself small (not become a bigger or better author) to go through that elusive door that led to creation. The key to writing was to become one with the child. 

Coincidentally, the type of picture books I consider great are the ones that do what is often really hard for us to do as parents and caretakers: they get down to the child’s level, enter their fears and hopes and worries and even absurd ideas, and engage with them with the greatest seriousness (which can be very funny), without condescension, or preaching, or pats on the back. They are not afraid. 

Cover for my book, see it here. 

Un articolo per Robinson, 19 Agosto 2023

Riporto qui un articolo che mi è stato chiesto per l'inserto Robinson di La Repubblica, del 19 Agosto 2023. L'articolo qui sotto è nella forma originale, non edita. 

Le Piccole Cose sono un Tesoro

'Ode a una cipolla' di Alexandria Giardino è un inno alla bellezza di ciò a cui di solito non diamo valore. Eppure la scoperta dei dettagli può regalarci nuova consapevolezza di noi stessi. Come ci spiega l'illustratrice del libro.

Da quando ci svegliamo a quando andiamo a dormire, la giornata è fatta di piccole cose, non tutte piacevoli. il caffè che brucia perché lo hai dimenticato, un vetro appannato, uno spicchio di luce che illumina un braccio, un libro lasciato a testa in giù sotto a un divano, un limone un po’ ammuffito, lo sguardo della signora che aspetta l’autobus sola. Un’ infinita’ di momenti, che con lo sguardo giusto può sembrare qualcosa di molto grande, una composizione perfetta, l’inizio di una storia, o una poesia, o un quadro. Non so se, quando siamo bambini, siamo più vicini a questo stato di grazia per cui le piccole cose ci sembrano belle o importanti, o se è una qualità bambinesca in alcuni adulti di saperle osservare. In ogni caso credo che ogni persona ha in se l’abilità di vedere o addirittura commuoversi per le piccole cose. Ma spesso è proprio l’arte che ci aiuta ad aprire gli occhi. Spesso siamo assorti nelle cose grandi, i problemi della vita che consumano, che annebbiano la vista. Poi però qualcuno te le fa notare, e per un momento ti distoglie da quella nube grigia. Una coccinella sulla mano, una nuvola con la forma di un piede, le stelle. Quel qualcuno può essere un bambino, o un amico che ti dice ‘guarda’, o un artista che non c’è più, ma che ha scritto qualcosa, un elogio a un oggetto semplice, e tu quell’oggetto di tutti i giorni è come se non lo avessi mai visto prima. 

Ricordo di avere avuto una sensibilità quasi eccessiva già da bambina. Mi commovevo facilmente se, per esempio, a una lucertola veniva tagliata la coda. Mi soffermavo a lungo a osservare insetti indaffarati, la luce arcobaleno riflessa dai cristalli della lampada a soffitto a casa di mia nonna, i pasticcini in fila. Mi perdevo nei dettagli dei libri di Richard Scarry e ascoltavo le favole a ripetizione con il mio mangianastri blu. Amavo cercare pinoli incastrati nelle pigne che cadevano nei parchi a Roma, come piccoli tesori da schiacciare coi sassi e mangiare.  Cose che molti bambini fanno, perché hanno il tempo e il bisogno di dedicarsi a questo. Il gioco dei bambini è fatto principalmente di questo: percepire le piccole cose come elementi magici o con potenziale che ci porta oltre la realtà quotidiana. 

Mi piace osservare come i bambini interagiscono con il mondo, con gli oggetti, con il tempo. È difficile per noi adulti rapportarci alla realtà allo stesso modo. Tornare ad emozionarci perché abbiamo trovato un sasso perfetto tra tanti sassi, i tesori nascosti nella spazzatura portata dal mare in un angolo di spiaggia (ricordo la collezione di pezzi di rete da pescatori di mia figlia, messa in ordine di colore su un muretto). Accumulare piccoli tesori, rimanere a bocca aperta davanti a un doppio arcobaleno ma anche davanti alla carcassa di un animale trovato morto, con i vermetti dentro. La meraviglia e il disgusto. Ci sono adulti che riescono a farlo, ma sono pochi. Spesso sono i bambini che ci invitano ad osservare, ci tirano la mano, dicono guarda, ascolta. Personalmente, forse per il lavoro che faccio, mi trovo spesso in questo stato di osservazione, ma lo sono più facilmente quando non sono ostacolata da pensieri ansiosi.

Molte persone sembrano non vedere oltre i loro impegni quotidiani, sono assorti e sembrano sempre preoccupati, dicono aspetta non ho tempo. Spesso quelle persone siamo noi. Come facciamo a ritrovare quello stato di grazia che avevamo da bambini? Per me due cose ci vengono in aiuto: l’arte e il tempo vuoto. L’arte (in tutte le sue forme: letteratura, musica, arti visive, teatro, cinema) è qualcosa di magico che allo stesso tempo ci toglie da noi stessi e ci riporta a noi stessi. Mi ricordo quando lessi la prima volta le Odi elementari di Neruda, ero un’ adolescente. Ricordo l’elogio al limone, alla sedia, al carciofo, alla cipolla. Ero commossa e divertita dal fatto che qualcuno vedesse le cose così, e cambiasse per sempre il modo in cui vedevo un limone (giallo calice di miracoli, minuscolo fuoco di un pianeta!). Si potrebbero scrivere volumi su questo tema ma mi soffermo solo su questo piccolo esempio. L’arte ci apre alla meraviglia, predispone il nostro animo a vedere il bello anche dove non pensavamo, in quello che magari prima sembrava brutto. Un frutto marcio dipinto in un certo modo sembra qualcosa di nuovo, di inaspettato.

Il secondo elemento, Il tempo vuoto, inteso come tempo libero da attività che consideriamo necessarie, e da distrazioni e impegni che ci tolgono da noi stessi: il lavoro, il cellulare, la tv. Cosa notiamo se restiamo semplicemente a osservare mentre siamo in fila alle poste o aspettando un autobus? Quand’e’ l’ultima volta che abbiamo veramente osservato qualcosa senza giudicarla? Bastano cinque minuti. Ovviamente la cosa ci riesce meglio negli spazi aperti, nella natura che ci chiama e che riconosciamo quando la rincontriamo, di cui abbiamo bisogno, e da cui siamo così lontani se viviamo in città. Spesso riscopriamo la capacità di vedere e sentire quando siamo nella natura. Nel bosco diciamo guarda quel ciclamino, guarda quella roccia che bella (mi viene in mente la storia di Rodari, il filobus 75, dove un bus pieno di impiegati dirotta tutto solo e li porta nel bosco). 

Ma anche in città è importante fermarsi a guardare. A volte, camminando tra i palazzi e il traffico con mia figlia che mi tiene per mano, penso che vorrei portarla via di lì, nel bosco. Allora penso a una frase che una cara amica mi diceva sempre quando vivevo in Australia: look up, guarda in su. E allora lo dico a mia figlia e insieme guardiamo in alto. E li tra i palazzi c’è sempre un cielo grande e luminoso. A volte vedere il cielo, e le tante ‘piccole cose’ che ci circondano, ha qualcosa di sorprendente. Come un tesoro nascosto che avevi sempre davanti agli occhi. 

some news on Ode to an Onion

I've been a long time fan of the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, especially of his Odas Elementales, or Odes to Common things. When Cameron Books proposed this text to me, written by Alexandria Giardino, I couldn't believe my luck! 

You can read more about the process of making this book in an interview on Let's Talk Picture Books. Some more interior spreads are on my website.

Ode to an Onion is also a Junior Library Guild selection. read more here.

Last but not least: a review of Ode to an Onion (and other biographies) on the New York Times.

And finally, this illustration from the book is part of the Society of Illustrators Exhibition in New York this year.

a cookbook as picture book

Here it is, my first solo picture book: Au 10, Rue des Jardins, published by Editions Cambourakis earlier this year.

This project was born when I contacted this wonderful french publisher at the Bologna book fair in 2017. I'd been working on a lot of picture book biographies in the US and was curious to work on something for a completely different market, and with complete freedom. I asked him if he was interested in doing a book together. He was, and suggested I make my own book of recipes.

It has been the most difficult, laborious and ambitious project I've worked on so far. I didn't want to make a simple recipe book. I'm not a chef, barely a home cook. But I do love food, and I do love picture books about food. So I came up with the idea (perhaps not very original, but relevant, to me anyway), about exploring the kitchens of various people from different backgrounds, who happen to live in the same building, and who come together to celebrate at the end.

This is precisely what food and eating means to me, the act of feeding others, of being fed, of sharing what made us from the places that made us. the recipes are mostly old classics, not my own, that I adapted slightly. these are the things I cook for my family, or that are simple and comforting to make and eat with children.

But beware, this is not a 'kid's food' book. I believe in kids eating what we eat, and learning about food in the same way they learn about the world, with curiosity and wonder.

The book is available in online bookstores, in French, and an English and Italian coedition will make its way out in the coming months.

an interview for dpi magazine

I recently had the pleasure of being featured in taiwan's DPI magazine, in what ended up being a 4 page interview/spread (!!) and where one of my illustrations even made the front cover.

here is the interview in english. I hope my experience can encourage young illustrators, struggling in what is an overwhelming world of images.

Dpi: You studied philosophy at university. How did you start your artistic journey and become an illustrator? When did you become interested in art? 
F: I have always been interested in art. My father had a natural talent in drawing which he never really explored, but he encouraged us to do so. My Honours thesis was in Aesthetics. I planned to move back to Italy after University and start another course of study at the academy of fine arts of Rome, but life took me elsewhere. I travelled for a few years and in that time I realized I didn't want to continue with academia, but I didn't know how it was possible to make art for a living. So I taught English for many years after moving back to Italy. It was here in Europe that I discovered picture book illustration was an art form, and it could also be a job. So I tried hard to get my work seen by publishers, for years, with little result. My style was immature and I needed to work harder to reach an identity that had meaning. I think it was thanks to my documenting those efforts on my blog over the years, that eventually publishers started to notice the work, and then my agent (Kirsten Hall of Catbird), thanks to whom I now work as an illustrator full time. It was an unplanned surprise in life, for me to be able to do this.

Dpi: What's your drawing philosophy? 
F: I don't think I have a philosophy when it comes to drawing. It's very much an instinctive process. Perhaps the question means what makes a successful image for me. I think art is very much about coherence and beauty and that's what I try to obtain in the finished image. And by beauty I don't mean perfect and pretty pictures, but a balance of opposing forces: the dark, the crooked, the harmonious, the joyful. It's like the yin and yang I suppose, in Chinese culture. If one is absent, the whole is lacking somewhat.

Dpi: You have been living in different countries. Can you share with us about your journeys? Did those journeys inspire your work? How? 
F: I think the main thing that translates to my work is the constant search for identity which comes from having grown up in two different cultures. We are composites of our lived experience and everything contributes to forming us as people, the good and the bad and the contradictory. For me the real journey was the artistic one: finding coherence between all those fragments. From Italy there is the element of my childhood, of origins and family and land. From Australia there is the element of adapting to a new identity, of language, of fitting in, of openness and wide natural spaces. From Europe in general there is the element of history, of the layers of old and new that coexist here: of folk art, of music, of faith, of a long tradition of art which permeates children's book illustration all across the continent, which has had a tremendous influence on me.

Dpi: Among all of your works, which part is the most challenging ever to you? 
F: The most challenging part of my work as an illustrator is the white page. The very beginning of the creation of an image is like a birth, and no birth is without sweat and tears. Some images are born more easily than others, but some require a more arduous process of trial and error and must be reflected upon and destroyed various times before they feel right.

Dpi: I feel very intimate and a little bit melancholy (in a good way) when looking at your work. Can you describe your illustrative approach and style? 
F: Many people have said this about my work, that it is melancholic or nostalgic. I think it relates to the question of identity from before. We bring our identity in the work, which is our life fragments, and there is always in my identity as an illustrator a nostalgia for the past.

Dpi: I am curious about your creative process. Can you talk about it? How do you start the process of making work? 
F: My work today is mainly making picture books, which is different from the work of a painter or an artist, who creates for the sake of creating, as a pure expression of self. Illustration is closer to a craft. The heart of the work is to tell a story which is instrinsically linked to a written story, but which must also enrich it and go beyond it. This is the hardest part of making a picture book: speaking beyond the written text. I start by reading the story many times and reflecting on each part until I get a mental image of how to best illustrate the concept in a way that is not didactic or banal. Then there are a series of sketches which are created, and once both illustrator and publisher are happy, I proceed to the finished image. This is the most fun, where texture and light and playfulness will emerge with the use of colour.

Dpi: What are some major influences on your work? Who inspired you? 
F: byzantine iconography, modern artists such as Picasso, Klee, Schiele, then Twombly, Chagall, Hundertwasser. But aslo music: Yiddish songs and flamenco and folk from all around the world. I have a huge debt with 1960s illustration, particularly the work of Miroslav Sasek, Alice and Martin Provensen, and with the Czech painter Štěpán Zavřel who made magical worlds for children. I am also constantly inspired by writers for children who are perfectly in tune with the inner workings of the child: Gianni Rodari and Astrid Lindgren to name a few.

Dpi: What would you like to do next? 
F: I would like to write my own stories one day, but my standards are very high and I have not yet matured as a children's writer, which is one of the hardest jobs to do. perhaps it will happen when I am 80, perhaps never! I certainly hope to be able to do this job for a long time, and to do it better and with honesty.

character studies

I don't draw, a book.

My latest book came out last week, written by Adam Lehrhaupt, published by Simon & Shuster. I'd like to tell you a little bit about the making of this book!

The whole project came about when my wonderful agent Kirsten Hall saw something in one of my sketchbooks from a few years ago.

She said, let's do a book about colours! It was after much brainstorming and experimenting that a story was created by Adam Lehrhaupt through the publisher. I was really excited about working on this book. the abstract representation of colour and emotion and the conceptual side of the book really fascinated me.

Here are some of the spreads. I had pictured some of them as a continuous image, possibly a fold out page. There was a huge amount of experimenting with how the colour spreads eventually turned out. I had to convey a powerful emotion through one colour, and at the same time I needed to 'unlearn' how to draw.

the most difficult part about making this book was, believe it or not, drawing as a kid would draw.

here are some more spreads from inside the book:

and here are some character development sketches and some of the ideas for the cover. The title of the book was originally going to be simply 'I don't draw'.

finally, I want to post this image from the second last spread of the book. I had imagined the boy, who is represented in black and white from the beginning of the story, to undergo a transformation, an explosion of colour, a cathartic moment where he becomes all-colourful.

this image was thought to be too conceptual, and potentially too 'explosive' for the US market, and so was substituted with this one:

which is less powerful, but still works. The image of the exploding boy is important for me. I fought for it to be kept in the book, because I believe children are the first ones who can teach us an (unspoken) lesson about conceptual understanding. I believe children should be surprised, and stimulated to wonder. The publisher was very understanding, but in the end had to make a different choice. In the making of this book I found myself struggling to understand the dynamics of the US picture book market, compared to the European one, where it seems that everything is allowed.

It was a lesson in making compromises and learning to trust the publisher. There are things that I would have done differently, but in the end, a book is always the result of a group effort, and I am grateful to have been part of this group and to have produced this wonderful picture book.

Overall this is a great story that I think many children will identify with (including my own!), and a great way to talk to little ones about emotions. 

grandpa's white hair, a book.

the wait is over! finally, my book with Mauro Scarpa published by Zoolibri is out. It's my first Italian picture book. When the publisher sent me this story i knew immediately that i wanted to illustrate it. It's pure poetry, pure simplicity. It was a pleasure to make.

Here are some of the spreads from the book.

recherche

walk in the woods

back from two months spent in australia seeing family, basking in the sun and wind, not wanting to leave.

back to my desk in rome, planning the next two books or maybe three, thankful for the cold weather to clear the mind a little.

I am not here often, but you can follow along on instagram.