Hi Zoe, tell us who you are.
I'm 19 and a student. I'm a very curious person with a certain tendency towards abstraction. As a good Reggiana, I almost always get around by bicycle and eat a lot of erbazzone (a local savory pie).
What is beauty to you nowadays?
I think beauty has much more to do with morality than we realize. While many aspects in contemporary society are linked to aesthetic factors, I rarely hear beauty discussed as a value from a theoretical perspective. In fact, the idea of beauty is often prejudicially linked to superficiality.
As for me, I've always believed there was some truth in the Greek kalòs kagathòs, καλὸς κἀγαθός, which denotes the ideal of physical and moral perfection in man. Moreover, I believe that beauty has not only a moral but also a therapeutic value. I think breathing in beauty makes you feel better and, consequently, makes people better. For this reason, as far as possible, it's right to tirelessly seek beauty, first externally: in places, in objects, in the people we meet. I believe that, little by little, we will also want to seek – and create – beauty internally, in our thoughts and actions.
Tell us about the city where you live now and your relationship with the metropolis.
I haven't been living in Milan for long, which, in itself, to put it euphemistically, doesn't ooze beauty in the canonical sense. It's an unfiltered city: the many, many beautiful things are mixed with the ordinariness of the asphalt: you have to discipline and direct your eye in the right direction. Beyond its main soul, I get the impression that Milan has many souls jostling for a little spot. I believe there's a lot you can absorb, a lot you can learn.
On the other hand, I don't like the fact that sometimes it's a bit dull and forces you to find colors within yourself and in the things you do.
Another formidable thing – in the ambivalent etymological sense of "wonderful" and "terrible" – is how it brings together people from extremely varied backgrounds. This fact fascinates me greatly, but its terrible and somewhat grotesque side lies in the fact that, in the evening, after the customers have left, under Cracco, in the Galleria, you can see various homeless people who, with extreme precision, as if taking their place in an office, settle down for the night.
Your house is full of books and objects; it speaks of an intimate and very personal space. Whose are they? Who took care of the furnishing?
The books belong to my father, who at a certain point in his life started reading, essays specifically, and never stopped. I also love to read: the rare times we stumble upon the same book, we discuss it a bit together.
My father furnished the house, with the help of a friend who does it professionally. Before, he lived in many other places, so he had the advantage of having a hand in it knowing what he liked.
The objects are there because they were chosen, and as chosen, they become imbued with meaning and make a home.
Tell us some anecdotes about your house.
As far as I know, there aren't any big anecdotes, but perhaps you should ask the house itself.
Which place in the house feels most like yours.
I've always loved the armchair in this apartment because it's in a slightly hidden niche, out of sight from almost all angles. Also, I get very cold, and the radiator is behind it. In winter, I often put my feet up there with a book in hand.
What does the word "home" mean to you?
Beyond the rhetoric of "home is wherever your heart is," there are places that make me feel more at home than others.
For one reason or another, I've always been a bit tossed around between various dwellings, so I've learned to be comfortable almost anywhere, without too many demands, but in a polycentric, not uprooted way. I mean that, however flexible I may be, wherever I stay for more than a few days, I need to carve out a little corner for myself, like cats do. If there's a door that can be closed, even better.
Credits:
Photographer: Martina Bertacchi
Model: Zoe Ferrari