1. Your artistic journey has developed through decades of research. Looking back, was there a precise moment when you realised that art would not simply be something you practised, but a way of understanding the world?
Looking back, the moment when this necessity became clear was through an in-depth engagement with the work and practice of certain Masters who illuminated the path towards an art that was not merely the aesthetic narration of an idea, but an expression of a profound relationship with reality.
Alongside the work of artists such as Alberto Burri, Giuseppe Penone, Fausto Melotti, Jannis Kounellis and Luigi Mainolfi, and, even earlier, Max Ernst and Jean Dubuffet, there emerged a need to express visually a world of perceptions and interpretations of reality that is still an integral part of my work as an artist today.
My first experiments during my academic years were naturally followed by further investigations that gradually made me aware that, for me, artistic practice was not simply an aesthetic pursuit.
- Selfportrait Alessandro Antonucci
2. Nature is not simply a subject in your work; it seems to become a true interlocutor in the creative process. What does it mean to you to observe nature without necessarily trying to impose a form upon it?
There are no hierarchies in my artistic practice. Every element is valued for what it is potentially capable of expressing. My process aims to provoke reactions within matter, and I find that this kind of question and answer relationship lies at the heart of my deep interest in the chemistry and physics of materials, which can ultimately become art.
3. In your work, you often allow physical processes such as fracture, drying, erosion or reactions within matter to become part of the artwork. At what point does the artist stop controlling the work and begin to listen to it?
- Trittico delle foglie, gesso alabastrino, ferro, cm 23x80x7, 2026
My role in art is to activate processes, to provoke the magic of transformation. I see myself as an observer, and I believe that marginalising authorship is essential to the artistic purpose. To me, the artist is someone who enters into dialogue with matter and, together with it, constructs visions.
4. There is something almost archaeological about your research: traces, layers, surfaces and fragments seem to preserve events that have already taken place. Are you interested in what matter is capable of “remembering”?
Yes, there is a powerful evocative quality in the image. I like the artwork to remain open or rather, to leave its doors open. One can enter the artwork, imagine, mirror oneself in it, interpret it. The value of art lies precisely in this ability to establish relationships.
5. In some of your works, you seek to make visible structures that are normally invisible to the human eye. Where does this attraction to what we cannot immediately see come from?
I believe in the self-educating power of visual art. I learn from processes and, by observing their results, I perceive how materials communicate with one another. As a consequence, a vocabulary develops through which I interpret the hidden dynamics and languages of things.
For me, searching for what cannot be seen is one of the principal purposes of art.
- Epidermis, gesso alabastrino, 25cmx83cmx5cm, 2026
6. Earth, plaster, wood, leaves, photographs and other natural elements enter your work as tangible presences. Are you the one who chooses the material, or does the material itself sometimes lead you towards the artwork?
I place myself on the same level as the materials, allowing them space for autonomy and interaction. I try not to interfere excessively as the maker, because I believe that art is an experience, a communication of a relationship that is not self-referential.
In this sense, the artwork represents a synthesis between different spheres working in harmony.
7. When you move through a landscape, what are you really looking for? What has to happen for a detail in nature to make you stop, observe and transform that experience into an artistic gesture?
What a beautiful question! One could write at length about it, but one would also have to be capable of doing so and I am not. But I will try. I believe that art is a necessity, not merely an aesthetic path. It depends on a combination of factors related to a person’s will, curiosity and desire for knowledge, even before becoming an artist.
Among the interests that concern me, I can mention geology, which for me is a chamber of wonders, a window onto the structure and phenomena of the Earth. I often find myself imagining what an encounter or collision between masses of different chemical compositions might be like. And I conclude that the physical world surrounding us, with its landscapes, plains, mountains, ravines and valleys, is the place where our lives unfold a fabulous synthesis of a series of random factors.
How can one not be struck, for example, by the fact that human beings are present on Earth through circumstances that are essentially linked to chemistry? Our feelings are chemistry; our thoughts are a combination of electrochemical impulses.
We ARE matter, even in its most transcendent form. Botany, for me, is a spring that projects me into the phloem of plants. I often BECOME the sap circulating through their trunks, and sometimes I have no defence against this absence of boundaries.An artwork is a journey into these dimensions. It is the residual account of a vision, of an experience and, as such, it cannot be made beforehand, but only in the process of living it.
8. Living and working in Abruzzo means engaging every day with a particular landscape, with its rhythms and transformations. How much can a place change the way an artist sees the world?
I would say: enormously. I was born in central Abruzzo, in a village among the mountains, where as children we played in the trees and went looking for cherries and apricots to eat right there on the spot. In the height of summer, we would go down to the river, chasing lizards and running away whenever a snake suddenly appeared. I believe those experiences were the first pages of that wonderful book about nature that I still observe with admiration today.
Even now, certain scenes from my childhood in the countryside return to me. Encountering the seed capsules of Nigella damascena, which grows wild in my region, for example, is an icon of my youth.
9. Your research seems to move along the boundary between art and the observation of life. How would you define the role of the artist today: author, observer, researcher, witness, or simply someone who creates the conditions for something to happen?
I do not like assigning artists exalted or particularly prestigious roles. An artist is distinguished, rather, by the nature of their research. If their work inspires admiration, reflection or emotion, then they have succeeded.
Otherwise, they are simply a surface decorator.
10. Time in your works seems to have a dimension different from human time. A natural process that may take days, years or even centuries becomes visible within an artwork. What has your encounter with this different perception of time taught you?
My works are often testimony to a physical evolution that can be defined as time. Allowing wet earth to crack as it is exposed to the sun is, indirectly, a way of speaking about time. What ultimately remains from these substantial stages in the making of the works is rather a suspended time a crystallisation of the passage of time. There are two distinct phases: experience contains time; the concluding act is the end of time.
Thus, time is relative to the becoming of the artwork.
11. There is a tension in your work between beauty and something more fragile and unsettling: transformation, loss, decomposition, fracture. Do you think true beauty can exist without vulnerability?
You have noticed an essential component of my work. For me, beauty lies in the delicacy of things that can disappear from one moment to the next. It is an instant, a kind of breath, containing immense power, yet capable of losing it in a moment. This also applies to a kind of structural fragility, since many of my works contain something resembling the insubstantial nature of Silene flowers.
It is no coincidence that I make extensive use of alabaster plaster, a delicate and fragile material, the opposite of the eternal hardness of stone.
12. You have moved through different forms of expression, from sculpture to photography, from installation to environmental interventions. What determines the language an idea should take? And when do you know that an idea has finally found its right form?
There is a fundamental component in the work of artists: doubt. It never leaves you, and I consider doubt to be a vital part of making art. What allows you to overcome doubt, as far as possible, is the work itself.
Working, working and working again is the best formula for moving through all the stages of development. A project or an idea alone is not enough to immediately identify the best formal solution. And when you have finished, the artwork itself tells you.
Here, you have to listen carefully. If you hear nothing, it is not finished yet!
13. In an era dominated by speed, screens and artificial intelligence, your work seems to ask us to slow down, observe and return to matter. Do you think art also has a responsibility today to restore our capacity for attention?
Oh yes, absolutely! For me, art is also silence, slowness, calm, reflection, understanding, emotion and communication.
14. How important is it in your work to accept the unexpected? And can a mistake become a form of knowledge?
I have always been fascinated by Dubuffet’s teachings. A deviation along the way should be accepted for its potential to help us discover new paths. In some respects, the unexpected can be liberating. It is an event that opens the way to new solutions, potentially full of emotion.
In Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, the scene of the sudden rain on the beach, with everyone running around, represents a sudden change of rhythm that revitalises the story.It is the introduction of an unpredictable event that makes everything more interesting, more vibrant. I like setting off on a day trip and ending up at the cinema. Long live the unexpected detour!
15. Looking back on your long experience, what has changed most profoundly in your idea of art, and what, on the other hand, has remained exactly the same?
Well… today I would say that everything has remained unchanged, at least in terms of intensity. Perhaps what has changed is a more direct approach to emotions and visions, which allows me to reach the core of things more quickly. But this is also the training that comes from practising the work of an artist.
Indeed, it is a profession that must be practised; it cannot simply be thought about.
16. If your works could speak without you having to explain them, what would you want them to say about our relationship with nature and the world we inhabit?
In our contemporary world, we are witnessing transformations, both anthropological and climatic, that in fact represent an epochal turning point for life on the planet. I am not speaking only of human life, but also of animals and plants, all subjected to considerable stress as a result of deteriorating geoclimatic conditions.
The greatest reflection concerns the irresponsible behaviour of human beings, who have brought about the Anthropocene, the epoch characterised by the greatest impact of human activity on the environment.
These issues have also entered the world of art with considerable force, to the extent that many artists have become activists on environmental questions. For my part, through my works, I would like to convince everyone that being in close contact with the wonder of nature, experiencing it and respecting it, can be a form of salvation for ourselves and for the entire world.
I like to imagine that I might open a small door in someone’s soul and consciousness, enough to make them reflect on the fact that there truly is no other way of living than one based on respect for nature and for all the beings that inhabit the world.
In this, I see a great power of art perhaps somewhat utopian, but real.
17. Today, many young artists feel pressured to build a career quickly, maintain a presence on social media and produce continuously. What would you say to a young artist who fears that following their own path means being overlooked or arriving too late?
To young artists who work with dedication, I would always suggest following their own path, respecting its timing and nurturing its development. Research is the most important aspect of making art, and it should be pursued through exchange and dialogue with other artists, as well as by seeing and reflecting upon important exhibitions.
I suggest taking part in workshops, attending seminars and showing your work in environments that are close to your own inclinations. Once you have acquired a certain mastery and awareness of your work, try to disseminate it by approaching galleries that are open to emerging research and young artists.
It is a long journey, and social media can certainly play its part. But be careful not to live through anxiety!
18. What advice would you give to a young artist who has not yet found their own language? Is it more important to find an audience immediately, or to remain faithful to a question that may take years to answer?
I believe in the quality of artistic research, which must correspond to work carried out with seriousness and sincerity. So the answer is: remain faithful to a question that may take years to find an answer.
19. After so many years of research, is there still something about art that you have not understood and continue trying to discover?
Who can say? Every day is a new day!
20. And finally, the simplest question of all: wine or beer?
Absolutely red wine in winter, and Cerasuolo in summer!
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Original Interview in Italian
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