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!