Category: Uncategorised

Seeing your work through someone else’s eyes is always… something. At best, it’s humbling. At worst, it’s awkward. But when Sonia Borrell writes about you? It’s magic.

Sonia—author of Art In Real Time (you’ve heard of it, right?)—just wrote an article about me for Disruptors magazine. It’s called “Fulvio Gonella: Where Human Essence Finds Form.” Sounds grand, doesn’t it? But she gets it. She really does.

The piece is based on a lot of conversations we’ve had. About art. About life. About why I do what I do. It’s not just a quick overview. It’s thoughtful. Insightful. Personal. Sonia dives into the ideas that drive my work—how I try to capture the messy, imperfect, very human side of things.

She talks about the balance in my work. Clarity and ambiguity. Simplicity and complexity. That constant push and pull. She even touches on imperfection—something I’ve always loved. Perfection can feel cold. Distant. But imperfection? That’s where the story lives.

Reading it felt strange. In a good way. Sonia put things into words I didn’t even know I was trying to say. It’s like she took all the thoughts swirling in my head and gave them structure. (This is why she’s the writer, not me.)

The article is about me—my work, my process, my why. But through Sonia’s words, it also feels bigger. Like she’s mapped out the threads that connect what I create to the people who experience it.

If you want to read it—and trust me, you should—you can find it here. Take a look. Let me know what you think.

Because at the end of the day, that’s what this is all about. The work. The connection. And the conversation that follows.

Reality is a funny thing. One person’s truth can look like a totally alien world to someone else. (Think about pineapple on pizza—it’s practically a philosophical debate at this point.)

In my recent interview with PAC Magazine, I shared a story that changed the way I think about, well, everything. It began with a child experiencing autism. Our realities couldn’t have been more different, yet we were standing in the same room, looking at the same objects. That moment made me question: what does “seeing” even mean?

It’s a question that’s stuck with me ever since and has shaped the way I approach my work. I’m obsessed with perspectives—the hidden ones, the clashing ones, the ones that make you pause and go, “Wait, what?” (The pineapple on pizza kind, but deeper.)

From Chaos to Málaga

We also talked about my move to Málaga, a place where the sun and the sea seem to conspire to slow you down. Here, life isn’t rushed, and art feels like it has room to breathe. It’s a far cry from the frenzied pace of other cities, and honestly, it suits me.

But let’s not get too romantic about it. Sure, Málaga is inspiring, but the real work? That happens in the mind (and occasionally in a frenzy of spilled paint and late-night coffee). I said in the interview that I start every painting by writing. Sometimes it feels like I’ve written a novel before I even touch the canvas. (Spoiler alert: no publishers have called yet.)

Painting Reality with Words—and People

Another part of the conversation I loved was about the people I’ve painted with over the years—kids who are blind, people without homes. These moments aren’t just collaborations; they’re lessons. Each person brings a perspective I couldn’t have imagined, and together, we create something neither of us could have done alone.

When I think back to those moments, I’m reminded why I do what I do: to explore, to connect, and maybe, just maybe, to nudge someone into seeing the world differently.

If you’re curious about these stories (or if you just want to know what I said when PAC asked me about reality), you can read the full interview here.

And if you do, drop me a line. Tell me what you see when you look at the world.

Until next time,

Fulvio

When I was in my first year of university (let’s not count how many years ago), there was this terrifying professor. We called him Professor Fear. Not his real name, obviously, but it fit. He was the kind of teacher who made you double-check your work and your life choices before walking into his class.

His favorite thing to say—usually while staring directly into your soul—was:

“The only real question in a student’s career is: Have I fully understood what I studied yesterday?”

At the time, I hated that phrase. It haunted me. And, to be honest, I completely forgot about it for ages.

Until this year.

As you probably know, I started a new university adventure in 2024. And on my very first day, out of nowhere, Professor Fear’s words came back to me. (Thanks for the unsolicited advice, past trauma.)

A few weeks later, I was scrolling through our class WhatsApp group—truly one of humanity’s greatest inventions—when I saw an older student explaining a tricky part of the textbook to someone. In the middle of their explanation, they said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“Don’t move on until you understand this part. You can’t go anywhere if you don’t know where you are right now.”

It was like a lightbulb went off in my head.

Where am I right now?

That question followed me everywhere. Not just in my studies, but in my art. Over the next few days, I started thinking about the conversations I’ve had with people in the art world—friends (like my daily art buddy, Emanuele Tozzoli), curators, collectors, gallery owners, and even people who’ve been to my exhibitions.

And then, suddenly, it all started to make sense.

I began noticing things in my work I’d never really seen before. Patterns. Recurring ideas. Things I’d done on instinct that turned out to have deeper meaning. Even choices I thought were random had something to say—something everyone else seemed to have already picked up on, except me.

For the first time, I started to understand my own art.

It was a strange (and kind of emotional) feeling. Like finding out that a tiny, random detail in your work is actually the main character. Or that a shadow you almost ignored holds the whole story. Suddenly, everything I’d made felt…different.

People keep asking me: “Has your style changed?”

Nope. My style hasn’t changed at all. I’ve just started getting it.

2024 will always be the year I stopped just making art and started understanding it. The year I realized that so much of what I’ve been searching for has been right there in front of me the whole time.

Now, as 2025 begins, I’m curious to see what else I’ve been missing. Probably a lot. (Spoiler: I’m okay with that.)

Happy 2025 to you all!

When I was a little kid, Christmas and I didn’t get along. It wasn’t the snow (which blanketed my region so thoroughly that it turned everything into a white, frosted wonderland). It wasn’t the gifts, either, or even the endless carols playing on repeat. It was the sheer irrationality of the whole thing. Nothing about it made sense to me.

In my land, it’s not Santa Claus who delivers gifts—it’s the child Jesus. Yes, baby Jesus. The same one lying peacefully in a manger in nativity scenes worldwide. That, my friends, was the starting point of my doubts.

Why, I wondered, was Santa plastered everywhere in the world while we had Jesus handling logistics in my region? And more importantly, why was a newborn God running himself ragged delivering gifts to millions of kids? Shouldn’t he be resting or, I don’t know, doing baby things like teething?

The questions only multiplied:

• Since the child Jesus was born at midnight, and shops were already closed by then, who bought all the gifts? (Was it some divine Amazon service? Did Mary and Joseph have a secret stockpile?)

• My dad, with all his energy and a functioning car, needed half a day to deliver a single package to someone across the province. How were Santa and the child Jesus visiting every house in the world in one night? Did they have some kind of time-space loophole I wasn’t privy to?

• Why did every street corner feature a Santa—and it was never the same person? (Did they hold auditions? Was this a franchise?)

• And, the most disturbing of all: why did the child Jesus bring so many gifts to wealthy kids while children in Africa were starving to death? What kind of divine priorities were those?

At five years old, I decided to go straight to the source. If the child Jesus was going to pop into my house with gifts, I was determined to meet him.

I stayed awake that Christmas Eve, fighting off the pull of sleep with all my might. My parents, of course, gave me the classic warnings: “If you’re awake, he won’t come!” But I wasn’t buying it. I had too many unanswered questions to let this moment slip by.

You probably know how this story ends.

I didn’t meet the child Jesus. Instead, I met my parents—sneaking in with gifts like a pair of underwhelming magicians caught in the act. They were disappointed. I was triumphant.

“There’s no magic,” I declared to myself, feeling oddly liberated. “It’s just a day like any other.” (Although I did love the red bike they brought me.)

Christmas was officially demystified for me at the tender age of five. And honestly? I wasn’t upset. Life isn’t perfect. Neither, apparently, was Christmas.

Even after my early epiphany, I have to admit there’s something about the Christmas season that I like. It’s not the gifts or the consumerist frenzy (though I won’t say no to a good sale). It’s the atmosphere. For a few days, people seem lighter, kinder, and more patient.

And then they don’t.

By January, the smiles are gone. The kindness is packed away with the tinsel. People go back to honking their car horns and ignoring their neighbors. It’s like a spell that wears off, leaving us all as grumpy as before. Why? I mean, why can’t we keep the weird niceness going all year long? Would it kill us?

Maybe it’s the twinkling lights. Or the cookies. Something sugary in the air makes us softer. But the second it’s over, we’re done. Back to normal.

Anyway, as an adult, Christmas hasn’t exactly been my best friend. I’ve spent most of my life as an expat, so family is far away. I’ve had no big feasts. No massive gatherings. No dramatic fights over who forgot to bring the dessert (not that I’m missing that part). Just me. (Well, me and my partner—who used to love Christmas but slowly gave up after realizing he’s living with the Grinch). Usually with some instant coffee and a random snack I pretend is festive.

This year, though, I decided to do something different. Revolutionary, really. I went to work.

Yup. On Christmas Day.

The streets were empty. Completely. You know that eerie movie scene where the city feels abandoned? It was like that. Except there were no zombies. Just a lot of snow and a silence so loud it felt strange.

I walked to my studio. It’s five minutes away. Normally, it’s a short, boring walk. But on Christmas, it felt… special. The silence. The emptiness. It was like I had the whole town to myself.

When I got there, my studio felt like it was waiting for me. The walls covered in half-finished ideas. The brushes lying around, begging to be used. My canvases sitting there, looking hopeful. (Yes, I talk to my paintings. Don’t judge.)

I could almost hear them: “Finally! You’re here! Let’s get started!”

So I did.

I worked. I painted. I mixed colors. I made a mess. My poor brushes didn’t stand a chance. (I wasn’t gentle.) But it felt good.

My paintings became my family for the day. Each one has a personality, you know. The bold ones. The shy ones. The weird ones that don’t quite know what they’re supposed to be. They all kept me company.

And honestly? It was nice.

As I worked, I started thinking. Christmas, for most people, is about family. Connection. Togetherness. The big stuff. But what about people like me? People far from home. People who don’t have the big gatherings or the noisy traditions?

At first, that thought felt a little sad. Like I was missing out on something. But then I looked around. My studio. My work. My colors. My chaos. It hit me: this was my version of Christmas.

Not the loud, glittery kind. The quiet, messy kind.

Every brushstroke felt like a little gift to myself. Every color I mixed felt like a small celebration. The imperfections in my work? They felt just right.

Because here’s the thing. Christmas doesn’t have to look a certain way. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to involve people, really. (Though I hear they’re nice sometimes.)

I don’t think the magic of Christmas is what we think it is. It’s not Santa. Or baby Jesus. Or even that red bike I got when I was five.

It’s simpler than that.

The magic is in the pause. That rare moment when the world slows down. When we stop rushing. When we look around and actually see something beautiful—even if it’s just an empty street or a messy studio.

So while everyone else was singing carols and exchanging gifts, I painted. I worked. I celebrated in my own way.

And you know what? It felt good.

Not in the way sitting by a fire with family might feel. But in a way that felt honest. Real.

Because sometimes, the best traditions are the ones you make up as you go.

Post Scriptum: Although I don’t like Christmas, I do eat panettone. Italian roots… what can I say? Some traditions are worth keeping.

Sometimes the moon breathes stories she longs to see painted.

She leans close, her silver breath pooling in the shadows of my room. Her voice is soft—like the tide brushing against stones—but urgent, like she’s running out of time. Paint me a forest, she says, but not the kind that grows from soil. Make it out of memories—gnarled roots of loss, leaves of laughter, and branches reaching for what might have been.

I hesitate, brush in hand, because her requests are heavy, almost sacred. But she doesn’t stop. She never stops. And in that forest, let there be a path. Not straight, not easy, but winding and wild, the kind where you get lost on purpose. Let it carry someone to a clearing where they’ll meet themselves for the first time.

Her light spills across my canvas, not with warmth, but with clarity—she shows me what I’ve hidden even from myself. I see the outlines of faces I’ve loved and forgotten, the shapes of dreams I’ve abandoned. I see the me I used to be, staring back from a distance.

Paint me something real, she urges. Not perfect. Real.

So I dip my brush into colors I rarely touch. The deep blues of longing. The muted greys of waiting. The bright gold of fleeting joy. Each stroke feels like a confession, like I’m giving away parts of myself I didn’t know I still carried. And as the forest begins to grow beneath my hands, I hear her sigh in satisfaction.

Good, she murmurs. Now, let it rest in the light of my shadow. Let it hold its secrets. Let it speak to those who need it most, even if they don’t understand why.

When she leaves, the room feels darker. Quieter. But her stories remain—etched not just in the painting, but in me. The moon, I’ve learned, doesn’t just tell stories. She plants them. And if you listen closely, she might just show you how to grow them into something beautiful.