• photography Marian Alonso

    Between Girlhood and Apocalypse: An Interview with Hanna Nordenhöök

    Written by Ulrika Lindqvist

    With a voice both poetic and political, Swedish writer Hanna Nordenhöök crafts novels that explore power, language, and the dark undercurrents of human systems. In this conversation, she reflects on translation as a form of haunting, the aesthetic of surfaces, and why fiction may be the last refuge for truth in a post-post-truth world.

    Ulrika Lindqvist: Caesaria was originally published in Swedish in 2020 and only last year released in English translation. How did it feel to see your work reach a new audience, four years later and in a different language?

    Hanna Nordenhöök: The mesmerizing experience of travelling with one’s words – that of which being translated consists – is a rare gift not given to all authors, and I am deeply grateful for the translations of Caesaria that’s been made so far: the English and the Spanish one’s as well as the upcoming Portuguese and French. That a novel like Caesaria, with its peculiar universe and very Nordic setting and rural landscape, would reach Mexican, Chilean, Canadian, British, Brazilian and French readers was a surprise. And another thing about being translated is of course that it gives you the sometimes wonderful, sometimes horrific, opportunity or obligation to revisit your earlier writing. With her translations Caesaria keeps travelling with me even though I created her more than six years ago, which means I cannot avoid her: I need to face the reasons why I wrote her and felt the necessity of creating her world exactly like that, and not in another shape or expression.

    UL: Were you involved in selecting Saskia Vogel as the translator for Caesaria? If so, what drew you to her as a collaborator, and how would you describe your relationship to the translation process?

    HN: Actually it was the other way around: it was Saskia Vogel that found her way to Caesaria. Which means it was partly thanks to her that the book was published in the UK and Canada. And to have Saskia as a partner in crime and literary creation is pure joy, a wonderful human being and a brilliant translator – I consider myself very lucky. The fact that Saskia, much like myself, also possess the interesting, ambivalent and deeply enriching artistic position of being both author and translator, is another dimension to it that I really cherish being in dialogue with. With her I have an ongoing meandering conversation on writing and translating, but also on Birgitta Trotzig, kids, life, the experience and memory of girlhood as a never-ceasing source of knowledge about this dark and surreal world… As I said: pure joy.

    UL: What initially sparked the idea for Caesaria? Were there particular events, images, or questions that guided you during the writing process?

    HN: The spark for Caesaria was a foot-note I found in a dissertation in history of ideas, that I was reading as part of my research for another novel, Asparna from 2017, where I explored 19thCentury reformatory detention centers and institutional violence against “savage children”, that is, criminal or anti-social low-class children that were subjected to the disciplinary system of that very emblematic epoch. This dissertation, though, dug into the history of Swedish gynecology, obstetrics and medical science on woman diseases, also during late 19th Century. And in that little foot-note I found the story of a girl born in 1862 through the first Caesarian section made in the city hospital of Uppsala by one of the pioneers in the field, a well-known doctor that operated on a poor, single woman who died after a couple of days: the orphaned girl was then named Caesaria by this very doctor, after the cut that brought her to life. I found this story so compelling and macabre, full of interesting aspects of power and powerlessness that had to do with class society as well as the male scientific gaze at the time that has shaped notions and fantasies on woman and women bodies prevailing up until our days. Around the real case Caesaria my own fictitious Ceasaria started to take shape in my head, she awoke so many thoughts on girlhood in patriarchy that I needed to explore. The fact that my work with the novel also took place while the first waves of the #metoomovement started to burst out was, of course, another contributingfactor, that in writing it formed a necessary bridge between history and present.

    UL: In your latest novel, Underlandet (Wonderland), you shift from the historical settings of your earlier works to a contemporary environment. How did that change affect your writing? Did you experience the creative process differently?

    HN: I find that I, in all of my novels to some extent, have been exploring zeitgeists, that is, certain epochs fashion of thoughts, political agendas, ideology productions and dominant ideas on what it means to be human or not – and how life takes shape inside different systems of selection and de-humanization. Who is cared for and who is abandoned or exploited in such systems?, has been a recurring question for me in my writing. In that sense, I feel there is little or none difference between my historical fiction and Wonderland, a novel that also, to me, very much consists in an exploration on the spirit of our times – or maybe more correctly the spirit of post-truth society that has led up to the moment we’re living right now: a post-post-truth world where all masks have fallen and what we see is pure violence, the shameless and non-disguised rise of fascism all over the planet. Which will be interesting to dwell upon when the Polish and Spanish translations of Wonderland will be published this fall. But maybe I’d rather describe the shift between historical fiction and contemporary fiction in my writing as a shift, or even connection, between past and apocalypse. For me it has been the same desire or compulsion to understand our existence that’s led me intohistorical settings and more contemporary ones. The bridge, I would say, is this sense of apocalypse – both as a revelation of a disastrous future or of those hidden undercurrents that rule our strange human world, and as a sense of destruction, our destruction, of that same world, this human world as we know it. Maybe that is why I am also currently more and more drawn to science-fiction and post-apocalyptic writings.

    UL: Do any of your characters draw inspiration from real people, or are they entirely imagined? How do you approach the balance between reality and fiction in your character development?

    HN: A novel often begins in my head with some kind of obsession with something that I have read or seen, and there are many real cases, historical or more contemporary ones, that’s been the spark of inspiration for my characters. As I said before, the fictitious Caesaria was born from a foot-note telling the story of a real Caesaria, that later became a completely different Caesaria in my novel. That is the case in the historical fiction that I have written before Caesaria, too, where different archival materials have been crucial. Also in Wonderland there are several real cases that I lived obsessed with for years before writing
    the novel. Such as the case of Claas Relotious, the famous and award-winning Der Spiegel journalist that was revealed as being a fraud some years ago, and his assistant Juan Moreno, that uncovered the bluff – in my novel there are two journalists in Barcelona loosely based on these real characters. Another real case that simply bewitched me was Treva Throneberry, a woman and con artist in the US that before being revealed and convicted duped several foster families, schools and institutions, pretending to be a minor – she inspired the fictitious character of the homeless woman in Wonderland. What I do feel isthat the documentary materials in my two latest novels, Caesaria and Wonderland, have begun to lose relevance in relation to the final result. In my earlier work I felt more
    “strapped by reality”, so to speak. What I am interested in now is pure fiction and the necessary freedom it can give, to tell the truth, also as a reader I am immensely tired of autofiction, documentary fiction, true crime and all of those reality-parasitic literary format that’ve been such dominants during the last decade. In a time of post-post-truth, perhaps the only real search for truth is the one provided by fiction…

    UL:Which authors or literary works have most influenced your writing? Are there particular books you return to while writing?

    HN: There are so many, too many… But, of course, there are authors that are indisputable and works I think have been very decisive for my writing, such as Agota Kristof, Birgitta Trotzig,Marguerite Duras, Per Olov Enquist, amongst others. As a strike of luck, I’ve had the opportunity to revisit Trotzig’s work since Saskia Vogel is translating two of her books right now, of which “Queen” soon will be published in the US and the UK (look out for it! It is an
    extraordinary book, brilliantly translated). But especially the next one, Trotzig’s “The Marsh King’s Daughter”, is a novel that had a huge impact on me when I, quite young, read it for the first time. It takes place in Skåne, my home region, and Trotzig’s ways of depicting that dark and – yes! – apocalyptic flatland enters me right to the bone.

    UL: Clothing often plays a significant role in how your characters are portrayed. What is it about clothes that makes them such a compelling narrative device for you?

    HN: Clothing and objects, I would say. And yes, I am obsessed with fabrics, textures, embroideries, handicraft, the tactilities of created things and textiles. It has to do with the senses, that of course play a very central role in fiction, and also with feeling, empathy, with the ability to live and imagine a certain surrounding or character. But perhaps this mania with textures in my writing also is related to what I mentioned before, my interest in zeitgeists: the ways we construct beauty also holds a truth on how we look upon ourselves and the world. This beauty can be compelling and spell-binding but at the same time it consists in a surface that to me always holds a certain darkness, a counter-side, an inner opposite. Beautiful clothing, beautiful homes, beautiful gardens, all of it is of course strongly
    connected to the distribution of means, to oppressive systems. Yet it also, simultaneously, touches upon the sublime and the human necessity of allure. This unsolved ambivalence towards beauty and beautiful surfaces, I think, has been a constant companion for me in all of my writing.

    UL: A recurring theme in both Caesaria and Underlandet is the portrayal of women who resist adulthood or seek to remain in a childlike state. What draws you to this idea, and what are you exploring through these characters?

    HN: I think that the notion of the female child forms a very prominent, half hidden, half unconscious, part of misogynistic fantasy, a kind of pedophile core to patriarchy itself. Of course it is interesting, very much so. And to some extent this unconscious pedophilia is shared by us women. We too desire that compelling child, since we’ve learned to desire ourselves as objects. So, yes, girlhood and the resistance of adulthood continue to be a well of insight on how this world is constructed.

    UL: Could you describe your creative process? When do you feel most inspired or productive, and are there specific routines or environments that help you write?

    HN: Writing is a very peculiar occupation. It is almost a kind of insanity, an anti-social behavior that takes possession of you. I often fear it, and I can’t be inside of a writing process all thetime, it takes to much hold of me – I would fail completely as a mother, friend, wife and daughter if I did. I write in short, intense periods of time, in fact all of my novels have been written in months (although they are always preceded by a long inner digestion process during several years, before I start writing). I sometimes envy those authors that live with their writing all the time, wake up every morning to sit at their working tables writing a piece as a daily routine. That sounds so beautiful, so complete. But I could never do it, maybe since I fear I would then neglect being a human being with the human beings that I care about. So, what I do is jump into the insanity, temporarily possessed, and then jump out into the world again, to escape it…

    UL: Looking ahead, what are you working on now? Are there any upcoming projects or ideas You’re especially excited about exploring next?

    HN: I mentioned that I am drawn to the post-apocalyptic right now. The novel that I am writing at the moment is a novel on grief and survival and lost worlds. If insanity agrees on collaborating with me in a satisfactory way, it will be published in Sweden in Fall 2026.

  • Feeling First: Sophie Carbonari Brings Her Skin-First Philosophy to Zalando’s New Insider’s Edit

    Written by Jahwanna Berglund

    I’ve long been fascinated by how beauty moves, how it shifts with culture, mood, and our relationship to the self. So when I heard that Sophie Carbonari, one of the most quietly influential facialists working today, would be launching a new collaboration with Zalando, I knew it was something worth paying attention to.


    Sophie’s approach has always been one of care before correction. Known for her intuitive, skin-first philosophy and her work with some of the world’s most recognisable faces, she brings a kind of grounded elegance to skincare, one that doesn’t shout, but resonates deeply. Now, she’s the first to feature in Zalando’s Insider’s Edit, a new expert-led beauty format that explores professional rituals and the real stories behind them.


    The edit is shoppable, but it’s also intimate. Sophie shares the products she trusts, the rhythm she follows, and the pared-down rituals she swears by. Her selections feel like a gentle nudge toward clarity in a world that often overwhelms with choice. And perhaps most importantly, it’s a reminder that beauty doesn’t have to be performative to be powerful.


    “Together with Zalando I’ve curated an Edit that feels both accessible and results-driven,” Sophie shares. “This is an extension of how I treat my clients—with intention, simplicity, and deep respect for the skin’s rhythm.”


    It’s a philosophy that echoes what many of us are craving right now. According to Zalando’s 2025 Beauty in Brief report, consumers are stepping away from unrealistic ideals and toward routines that feel grounding, effective, and kind. Sophie’s edit captures that shift perfectly, rooted in barrier health, emotional connection, and products that work in harmony with the skin.


    As someone who believes in beauty as a lived, evolving experience and not just an aesthetic one, this feels like a meaningful step forward. It’s not about chasing perfection, but about reconnecting with your own reflection in a more honest and considered way.


    With more Insider’s Edits planned throughout 2025, Zalando is setting the stage for a new kind of beauty storytelling, one led by the voices we trust, and shaped by the rituals that make us feel more at home in our own skin.

    www.zalando.se

     

  • images courtesy of Liselotte Watkins and CFHILL

    YOU'VE will come. GOT THE LOVE, An Interview with Liselotte Watkins

    Written by Natalia Muntean by Sandra Myhrberg

    “I am a kiosk,” says Liselotte Watkins. For Watkins, a kiosk is more than a nostalgic nod to the disappearing newsstands of Italy, it’s a metaphor for her art, a space where history, memory, and everyday objects collide to tell stories that bridge the past and present. Her need to see new things and experience new places has taken her from a small town in Sweden to Texas, New York, Paris, Rome and now Tuscany. “Moving around has shaped me,“ she says. “I’m like a treasure hunter. I collect experiences, and they come back to me years later.” Watkins says that challenging herself in new environments has done her good and that she enjoys diving into the culture wherever she finds herself. “When I came to Tuscany, I wanted to learn everything about the Renaissance, the Medici, Florence. I immerse myself in it, and that expands my world,” she says.

    In her latest exhibition, Edicola, at CFHILL Gallery in Stockholm, Watkins tells stories, of which she has many, all kept in “a bank of memories” she draws from. She weaves together fragments of art history, personal narratives, and pop culture into a tapestry that is as thought-provoking as it is visually stunning. In Edicola, stories both old and new are confronted, engaged in dialogue, creating a bridge between what has been, what is and what YOU'VE will come.

    Natalia Muntean: You started as an illustrator, working with big names like Vogue, Prada, and Marimekko. What led to your transition from illustration to becoming an artist?
    Liselotte Watkins: When I moved to New York, I was just surviving. Fashion was exciting in the ’90s, and I got my first job at Barneys. I didn’t know much about fashion, so I studied everything: designers, editors, history. Knowing my stuff helped me a lot. But over time, fashion became less about knowledge and more about being part of the “cool” crowd. I got bored. I’ve always drawn and painted, so the transition felt natural. I didn’t think, “Now I’m an artist.” It just happened. The discipline I learned as an illustrator still helps me - I get up in the morning and go to the studio. That’s what I’m used to.

    NM: What happens when you get to your studio and there’s no inspiration?
    LW:     Inspiration doesn’t just come. You have to work for it. If you’re constantly working, thinking, and immersed in it, it’s more about curiosity. If my curiosity ever faded, I’d be really upset. If I woke up and felt like, “Oh, I don’t want to know or see or think about anything today,” that would be sad. But inspiration… I don’t even know what that is. I can feel inspired to clean the he house, but inspiration to paint? That’s just what I do.

    NM: You don’t see it as something that randomly visits you. It’s more like a muscle that you train.
    LW:     Of course! I don’t think any artist would say it just comes and visits like a muse. It’s not like the old Greeks, where you’d pray to the Muses and hope they’d show up. You have to put that idea aside. If you start thinking like. that, you’ll just sit there and do nothing. Nothing’s going to come if you wait for it. No one’s going to knock on your door and say, “Hi, I’m your muse.” And I think that’s depressing for some people to hear because they think artists just sit around and wait for inspiration. I can’t speak for everyone, but I don’t think it works that way. By doing, you make things happen.

    NM: Do you have any rituals to get you in the mood to work?
    LW:     I drink coffee, and I need to have some quiet time. I take walks with my dogs and think about what I need to do that day: what’s a priority, what can wait. But when I’m in my studio, it’s my little bubble.

    NM: Do you usually have a plan for what to work on, or is it more intuitive?
    LW:     Everything is planned. Even if the plan doesn’t always go accordingly, I have an idea. I research, think, do more research, and have different projects going. I also try to have a project that involves other people so I don’t isolate myself completely. You have to include people in your work. It’s better to share and collaborate because if you keep everything to yourself, it can be hindering.

    NM: Are you comfortable with feedback?
    LW:     Yes, but that’s something I learned as a commercial illustrator. You get harsh feedback sometimes, and it taught me not to take it personally. Now I’m more stubborn because my work is more personal. I argue more. Now I think, “Why don’t they get it?” But you have to stop that. The people I work with now are young, and they know so much about today. You have to be open to that. I can’t sit here thinking I’m some kind of veteran.

    NM: What is your earliest memory of creating something, or painting?
    LW:     I didn’t grow up in a very creative home. My mother was a dog trainer and painted dogs for other people. She was quite good at it, but it wasn’t a creative environment. We didn’t have art books or go to exhibitions. But I was always drawing. In a very Swedish way, in the 70s, nobody acknowledged it. It was just something you did. I always had the highest grades in drawing, but no one said, “Oh, you’re really good at it.” It was like, “Everybody’s equal. Don’t make anyone feel special.” That’s kind of why I went to the States. I needed a break. I knew I was good at drawing, not a genius, but it made me feel good. It was a big part of finding out who I was. I explored myself through drawing. It was a place where I felt good about myself. I didn’t even know it was something you could do for a living. No one told me, “You could be an illustrator or a graphic designer.” I didn’t have a goal with it. I just drew, like kids do. I kept doing it. That’s the difference. Instead of stopping, I just kept going.

    NM: So there must have been a certainty within yourself that you knew you were good at it.
    LW:     I think I just felt very different. I felt different from my surroundings, my parents, and their choices. Drawing gave me something. It made me feel different. It was something I could do, something I trusted to carry me out of my circumstances. It wasn’t like, “Oh, I’m going to be famous.” It was more like, “This is what I’ve got to work with, and it makes me happy. I’ll just run with it.”

    NM: You mentioned feeling different from where you grew up, your surroundings, and your family. That must have been difficult. I can imagine
    painting gave you a safe space.
    LW:     It was. I thought, “This isn’t where I belong. This isn’t me. I have to find myself somewhere else.” It was invigorating. I felt there were places waiting where I’d be
    more me than I was. I thought, “I can create that. I don’t have to wait for it.” It was empowering - drawing was my little cape, my superpower.

    NM: But then you moved when you were 17 - that’s quite young, and across the ocean.
    LW:     It was wild. It didn’t work out well at first. I moved around, but eventually found a good place. It wasn’t traumatic because I felt it would work out. Going to New York, I didn’t have high expectations. I didn’t have money. I just trusted that feeling and kept going. It was tough sometimes, I was poor and sad, but it builds character. That’s what I tell my kids: “Don’t expect too much.”

    NM: But in those moments when it was really sad and you didn’t have money, what kept you going?
    LW:     You have to build where you stand. If you keep thinking, “It’s going to be fantastic,” you’ll be disappointed. That was never my thing. I just saw the next step. If you take small steps, it’s not overwhelming. You don’t get so sad or disappointed. Disappointment blocks you - it blocks creativity. If I thought, “I’m going to be the next Picasso,” I couldn’t paint. I just thought, “I’ll make a better painting than my last one.” You take small steps, and eventually, you get somewhere. Like, “Oh, I got here. That’s good.” It never brought me down because I wasn’t disappointed.

    NM: You seem like you’re a very hopeful person as well.
    LW:     Well, I try to be. It’s very difficult to feel hopeful sometimes. I study a lot of history: political history, geographical history, and any kind of history. I think you have to find things that comfort you, even when the political situation seems completely messed up. You think, “Okay, let’s go back. Let’s look at the past.” You have to find comfort even in the darkest times. The comfort is that it gets better, then worse, then better again. You just have to think this won’t last forever. But you have to stay hopeful. It helps. You can’t be naive, though. You can’t expect things to come easily. You have to be hopeful that things get better, that you get nicer, and smarter, and live in a place where you can think your own thoughts and say what you feel. That’s what everyone should have. I feel extremely lucky.

    NM: Edicola has a dual meaning: kiosks and smal chapels. Can you tell me what drew you to this and how the dual meaning plays into the exhibition?
    LW:     The Edicola sacra is like the little chapels you see sometimes on a street corner, sometimes on the road and my interest started with the tactile, analogue feeling of a kiosk: the nostalgic idea of people gathering in a small space to buy magazines or other things. When I lived in Rome, I noticed these kiosks disappearing because people don’t buy magazines like they used to. My first idea was to buy an old kiosk and turn it into my own project, but it was too difficult. I save everything I find. So I started putting things together, making paintings of my table with my things. I liked the idea of the old and the new meeting - no hierarchy between a sculpture from the 1400s and a book I’m reading now. It’s a complete democracy in how things are valued, like a kiosk. It could be something beautiful or a cheap plastic thing and you don’t feel like you can’t afford anything. I like the high and low, the ugly with the beautiful. I started juxtaposing things that communicated somehow, and it began to resemble an Edicola in my head. The shape is nostalgic for me because it looks like a little chapel but also a kiosk. The religious aspect, for me, is hopeful. I’m not religious, but I believe in history and traditions. I think it’s important to have that foundation before moving forward. I went back to everything I liked: the Greeks, Romans, Persia, Sweden, England, the knights, Joan of Arc. It’s like a game, but it becomes serious because I discover things that broaden my mind. It’s an adventure. Making Edicola was just too much fun.

    NM: You said that you feel like a kiosk yourself. What does this metaphor mean to you as an artist and also as a person?
    LW:     I do. I am a kiosk. I think it's what I always felt like. If you think about making one painting or having one idea, you're always challenging that idea. Am I representing the women just in this image? Is this really what I want to say? Can I stand behind it? When I realised that I could use juxtaposition, that things together say something. They communicate instead of me. I’m creating a language, and the language is these objects. The way they communicate with each other is me maybe getting something through. I have an idea when I put them together, but then it doesn’t really matter because they live on their own. It’s a difficult thing to explain, but I like the idea of putting them together. I like how they communicate with each other.

    NM: When I saw your paintings and the kiosk, I found it fascinating how you incorporated elements like the Supreme logo and the cover of Marguerite Duras’s book. What is your thought process when you mix these different elements together?
    LW:     For me, it’s like one thing leads to another. The Supreme stickers came because my son loves Supreme. He customised my old Fiat Panda with a sticker, so now it says “Panda Supreme.” It looks fabulous. Then I thought about this princess I’m always painting, who I first saw in Napoli at a museum. She’s so supreme. She’s a Supreme Being. She needs a Supreme sticker. It just came to me. She’s supreme, so I crowned her with a Supreme sticker. It has nothing to do with anything, but that’s how it works. For example, I’ll read Duras and think, “This is such a good book. She was so young when she wrote it.” I found a picture of her, maybe a passport photo, where she’s very young in a fur coat. She looks so strong, just sitting there, unafraid. But I had to read the book to understand. I can’t just do a portrait of her, I have to get into it. There are no random connections in my paintings. I can’t just put something there because it’s cute. That would be a lie. I have to know everything about everything that goes into the paintings.

    NM: it seems like you never wing it…
    LW:     No, no, no. That’s bullshit. You can’t. If somebody asks me, “What is this?” I have to know. That’s why I need to know everything about what I put in the kiosk. You just have to stand behind it. I found one painting in a book that I first put in there, and then I started reading about the artist. I realised I didn’t really like him, so I painted it over. It was a good painting, but I didn’t like the artist.

    NM: Can we talk about women and your interest in them? You’ve been painting them as an illustrator and it’s a recurring theme in your work.
    LW:     Being a woman, that interest comes naturally. If you study art history, the male gaze gets kind of boring. What made me a good fashion illustrator, if I can say it myself, was that I really liked the women I worked with. It wasn’t about me, it was about appreciating another woman. I liked playing with them, making them into a fantasy. It was like drawing when you were little and creating a fantasy world. I loved it. I didn’t enjoy doing top ten trends or just drawing whatever. But I liked drawing real people, meeting them, and collaborating with them.

    NM: In Edicola, it seems as if you give women space to show their power, in a way, as you did for Paloma Picasso.
    LW:     They attract me, I’m a fan and I want to show that. It’s like a fan page. I want other people to like them. I never felt that female competition or the need to compare. Even when I was working with these amazing, beautiful girls, I never thought, “Oh, I’m not so…” because that wasn’t my superpower. My superpower was to draw. They had other superpowers that eventually came out. By putting these women out there, I’m sharing them with the world. I don’t know if they would approve. I don’t know if Marguerite would approve. I don’t know if these women would like it, but that’s the advantage of them being dead. They don’t have anything to say. So I can worship them in my own way. That’s where the chapel comes in again. It’s a place of worship. I worship these women. And some men, too.

    NM: A couple of years ago you said “Pure beauty is so uninteresting.” Does that philosophy still shape your work? And how do you approach that?
    LW:     It’s funny because one of the first books I put out was called “Watkins’ Heroines”, way back, where we quoted Bob Colacello, who used to work with Andy Warhol. He said, “Beauty is the hardest drug.” And I think I agree in a way - there’s no high like beauty. But beauty can be in nature, in anything. It’s not just about conventional beauty. I always think everything is more interesting when it has a counterpart. Perfection is such a strange and not very sexy thing. When people try so hard to be beautiful or perfect, it feels like something’s always got to give. What I meant back then was that focusing too hard on beauty and perfection makes things uninteresting because you lose something in the process. It doesn’t give much away. If that’s your only focus, you become boring.

    NM: You think it’s superficial in a way.
    LW:     There’s nothing wrong with being vain or superficial, but if that’s your only objective, you lose my interest. That’s why I love Rome - it’s so beautiful and also so ugly. That contrast always interests me. It’s the same with fashion. Miuccia Prada is a genius at that. She combines weird colours, fabrics, and cuts, and you don’t understand it, but it’s attractive. When you don’t understand something, it becomes more intriguing. It’s the same with people: if you meet someone and don’t quite get them, it’s attractive. I don’t get excited by just beauty. I need an edge. I like to be challenged. I know so many beautiful people, but thankfully, they’re also extremely interesting and smart. They challenge me, and that’s what makes them beautiful. Everyone becomes beautiful when they challenge you.

    NM: You said Edicola is one chapter in a book, and the book is far from finished. What does the next chapter look like for you?
    LW:     Edicola felt like a gift. When I realised it was a gift, it was like, “Oh, you can do this.” It meant I had the freedom. I feel like that’s something I just started: feeling that freedom and trusting myself with the things I like. I can put that forward. I
    can trust my taste, my knowledge, and what I do. Trusting that is empowering. It’s like when I was a child and realised, “This is empowering me. I can just go with it, and I don’t have to be afraid.” That chapter, I think, is also about getting older. Getting older means you become a bit more secure in who you are and what you take. You take a bit more space. Edicola takes up a lot of space. I made something that takes up space, and that can be scary sometimes. Physically, it’s there in the room. It’s not just hanging on the wall. It’s there, and you have to deal with it. I think I couldn’t have done that 5, 6, 7 years ago. It took time to be able to take up that space. Maybe I’ll take up more space, or maybe less. It doesn’t really matter, but that was a eureka moment for me.

    NM: What do you hope viewers take away from Edicola?
    LW:     What I noticed is that it creates a conversation. I like that it’s very entertaining for me as an artist because topics come up. It sparks people’s imagination and gets them talking about memories, things they’ve read, or how they feel. It can be difficult to talk about your art or discuss how you felt when you made it, so in this case, I kind of push it onto other people and let them do the talking.

    NM: So you kind of let it live on its own?
    LW:     Yes, it takes its own form and shape. When you’re done with something, you’re done. It’s there, it has its own life now. And when people tell me things, it makes it even more interesting because I get more information. They give something back to me, new information. It’s the kiosk that keeps giving.

    NM: That’s actually a very good point. It’s like a kiosk where people gather and talk. Are you going to make more kiosks?
    LW    : Exactly. And I like the fact that it’s not done. I can make a hundred kiosks - I have so many stories.

    NM: If you look back at your journey, at your career, what has been the most transformative moment as an artist?
    LW:     Wow, I don’t know. I mean, we talked about how I take these mini steps, so there was never that moment where I was like, “Oh, wow, it just happened.” I still don’t feel like I’ve reached where I want to go or what I want to paint. I’m just trying as best as I can. I read somewhere, I don’t know who said it, but it was some artist who said, “I don’t paint what I want to paint. I paint what I can paint.” I would love to paint better, bigger, in maybe other ways. But when I’m standing and doing it, this is what I can do. So I don’t feel like there was that breakthrough moment. When you get that call or that chance to do something, the high goes over very quickly, and then it’s work. You have to focus on the work and do it well. Maybe I just haven’t experienced it yet. Maybe that moment hasn’t come yet.

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