[Прочетете на български]
Claudia Di Francesco in conversation with curator Joanna Bradshaw, 22 June 2026
1. Claudia, what drew you to Bulgaria, and in particular to Kazanlak and our valley?
In Bulgaria, and especially in Kazanlak, I felt as if I had entered a place where time had stood still. The red and orange light blending with the violet tones of lavender creates an atmosphere that holds a timeless truth something ancient, stable, and wild, yet deeply alive. There is a history that accompanies everything, a profound respect and an embrace for all that surrounds it.
One image I will never forget is Joanna standing before the valley, her eyes half closed and a gentle smile on her face, ready to welcome the sun and the wind, becoming for a moment part of that landscape. I tried to do the same. I think I succeeded partly at first, and even more the following day.
I also vividly remember the day we gathered flowers for the Enyovden festival. I often call the women I met there “witches” when I speak about them in Italy not in a literal sense, but because of the quiet confidence and wisdom in their movements. They collected plants as if they were part of a language they had always known, something intimate and deeply rooted. I remember a young girl with fair skin, dark eyes, and straight black hair contrasting beautifully with her white dress. She approached to listen as if she were being entrusted with the secret of a spell. I, too, could not help but be captivated by the musicality of the words. Even though they were spoken in Bulgarian and later translated by Joanna, they carried the sound of history and whispered secrets.
2. What was your most enduring impression of your residency here last year?
I learned to listen more deeply. I listen to the wind and to the sunlight. I observe plants as guides and quiet advisors, learning from their forms, their light, and their secrets, always through my own way of seeing. I continue to learn or perhaps, more accurately, I continue to try to learn.
3. Was there anything that surprised you?
I was deeply moved by the sense of community and by the way it takes shape through listening and through a close relationship with nature. I was surprised by the simplicity with which this happens, by the warmth with which it embraces you, and by the extraordinary generosity with which I was offered the soul of the place.
4. Can you give me three words (in any language) to describe the emotional landscape of the work that you’ve produced for your solo exhibition with us?
Ethereal. Presence. Union.
If I could add a few more, I would say: birth, secret, magic.
5. What drives you?
That is a beautiful question. I believe it all begins with faith or perhaps with believing. Believing in who you are. Without art, I would not truly know who I am. I follow it, and I try to understand its suggestions, which often intertwine with thoughts still unknown to me and with every kind of experience. They weave together, transform, and become something new.
Another driving force is the freedom to be oneself and to devote oneself to what one truly loves. It is a demanding path, but one that brings an immense sense of fulfillment. A deep breath of satisfaction that is beyond measure.
6. What kind of child were you? Did you see yourself as connected to the earth and its creatures?
I was a curious child, and curiosity is something I still try to hold on to today. I was an explorer, and even when that part of me slips away, I always try to find it again sometimes it still throws little tantrums.
I remember going with my grandfather to the countryside to gather blackberries and figs. We visited that house only a few times a year. I was careful about the thorns and about where I placed my feet. At first, I was afraid, but little by little it felt as though nature itself, and the process of getting to know it, was showing me the best paths and guiding me toward a richer harvest. We would return home with baskets full of fruit, and my grandfather, smiling beneath his green cap, would weave a small daisy crown for me. It is one of the most precious memories I carry with me.
7. The surrealist artist Leonora Carrington represented her “inner bestiary” over eight decades of painting and writing. Your work, too, is imbued with an animistic, alchemic quality. Even the materials you work with seem alive. Can you tell me about this aspect of your work?
When I paint, I feel that there is no clear separation between the human, the animal and the spiritual. Everything is interconnected and constantly transforming. Renaissance, medieval, or Flemish figures may become spirits of gardens, stars may turn into the breath of angels, while dreams, fire, flowers and constellations merge into a single dance.
I try to convey this sense of unity and, above all, its movement a kind of vibration, an aura that can be felt through colour, brushstrokes, and the act of adding and removing matter. When I paint, I try to enter that vortex and allow myself to be carried by it.
In sculpture, this dynamism emerges through the continuous discovery of materials and their possibilities. I enter these inner landscapes and attempt to preserve fragments of them: rocks, remains, memories, traces of something that seems to belong to an ancient time and yet still feels alive.
8. There’s a tension in your work between folklore and feminism. Historically, women have been in turn objects of veneration and suspicion, their power considered either healing or threatening. Your paintings seem to invite us to occupy a third space as a viewer; a nonbinary gaze, to dream above or below the actual images we see. Is that something you are conscious of?
Thank you, those are beautiful words. I don’t know if I am fully conscious of it. What I do know is that, for me, a painting works when it is able to hold a breath, a sound, a presence. Sometimes, when I return to a painting, I can no longer hear it; at other times, its voice becomes stronger, almost as if it were reminding me of its roots.
I paint as someone who feels, trying to communicate not only what I observe but, above all, how I experience it. I think it is important to be conscious of that – to recognise what moves us, what touches us, what urges us to create. I have always believed that one of the secrets of making art is being able, at least for a moment, to set aside gender, place, and definitions, and reach the deeper reason behind things.
Perhaps this is what allows us to connect with a more hidden dimension and, at the same time, to achieve a freedom of thought that becomes essential in the creative process. It is within this suspended space between image, memory, and intuition that a more open gaze can emerge, one that moves beyond categories and embraces the complexity of feeling.
9. You’ve described how your paintings and sculptures come about almost as if from opposite poles of the creative process. Painting seems to emerge slowly, through observation, memory and layers, while sculpture appears to arise from a more immediate and instinctive impulse. Is this something you consciously cultivate and value?
At the moment, I feel that I could not be an artist without both painting and sculpture. They are two languages that accompany one another and touch different yet complementary parts of my inner world. I believe I am aware of this, and perhaps that awareness comes simply from believing in them deeply.
There is a form of love in both, and like any love, it requires dedication and trust, even during difficult moments which inevitably exist. There are days when the work seems not to answer back, but I think it is important to continue listening, to be patient, and eventually to find that dialogue again. Painting and sculpture allow me to connect with different aspects of feeling, and this duality is something I cherish and embrace.
10. Tell me more about your seraphim and what inspired them.
One evening, while driving back from Joanna’s house through the countryside, I looked up at the sky and almost pressed myself against the car window. The stars were so close and so intense that a tear came to my eye. I remember thinking, ‘I will never be able to paint this – it is too much.’
I imagined angels watching over those stars. Below them, the fields were faintly illuminated, and I had the feeling that they were sleeping under the protection of the sky. My seraphim were born from that image. I believe that this is one of the most precious gifts your land gave me: the ability to perceive a silent and powerful presence within these landscapes.
11. Tell me more about what ritual means to you.
My work is deeply rooted in ritual. Every process begins with preparation: I arrange my tools, stretch the paper, wet it, pass a sponge over its surface, and observe it. After long periods of studying images, archiving, and simply listening, I begin to paint.
Something similar happens with sculpture. I model the clay, observe it, make moulds, and slowly build a composition. This, too, is a ritual – a ritual of imagination.
For me, ritual is a form of attention and listening. It is a gesture that belongs to something older than ourselves, yet continues to accompany us. It is a dance of invocation and gratitude, a way of creating a space in which something may arrive. A gesture of hope, nourished by memories, stories, energies, and desires that precede us and somehow continue to live through us.
12. Tell me a secret.
I live in Florence, and from my home I have a small balcony that overlooks the garden across the street. I feel deeply attached to that garden. I often dream about it; its plants, the animals that pass through it, the changing light of the seasons.
Sometimes, in the evening, I light a candle on the balcony. It is a simple and almost silent gesture. I like to think of it as a way of thanking that garden for its presence and for everything it continues to give me, without ever speaking.
To the exhibition.