I have been in love with Juliet of the Spirits for years, not for its story but for its interiors. The rooms, the colors, the way everything feels composed and yet about to betray itself. Nothing is ever stable. Everything is too beautiful to be trusted.
Giulietta Masina is not a character to me. She is a state. A kind of lucid innocence that understands more than it admits, but never insists. She moves with a strange clarity, as if she were the only one not entirely convinced by the world around her. She absorbs everything, and in doing so, quietly exposes it.
I chose these stills the way one chooses memories that feel more accurate than reality. This series of images gathers those moments. That Italian bourgeois world, so elegant, so controlled, so close to collapse. Everything arranged, everything refined, everything already slightly excessive.
Of course I intervened
Not to change the images, but to disturb them gently. I inserted my own elements, neons, gestures, fragments, soft structures. Not as statements, but as deviations. Small shifts that the image accepts almost too easily.
The curtains begin to behave like membranes. The bed stops being a place of rest and becomes a surface where something is negotiated. Under the bodies, I place other images. Quilts, diagrams, traces. They pretend to be decorative but they are not passive. They think. They wait. They hold something in suspension.
I am not interested in surrealism. I am interested in precision that goes too far. In taste that becomes unstable. In beauty that lingers long enough to reveal that it is constructed.
At some point, it becomes difficult to say where the image ends
and where something else quietly begins.
