Amid her poetic exploration of nature’s rhythms and the delicate balance of time, we had the privilege of engaging with Marta Luna Valpiana, a sensitive artist who weaves dreams and transformation into every creation
TOMMASO FALOCI in conversation with MARTA LUNA VALPIANA
image TOMMASO FALOCI
artworks MARTA LUNA VALPIANA
style GIULIA TANIT SANNA
make up & hair XAVIER PEREZ
Marta Luna Valpiana (she/her) (Verona,1991) graduated with a Bachelor of Visual Arts from IUAV in Venice in 2016. In Milan she continues the studies in Visual Arts for the Digital Age at IED. A sensibility about nature appears soon in her works. In 2021 she completes her second Master’s degree in Futuro Vegetale at the University of Florence, combining her interest in art with the plant world. As medium she uses mostly natural materials such as clay or textiles with printed plant traces. Marta Luna focus particular attention on issues related to the interconnection of species and the concept of fluidity as a dynamic, living relationship with another being, constantly evolving.
She has exhibited in several group shows, including recently: Uraura. Ci sono ancora semi da raccogliere e spazio nella sacca delle stelle, 100Orti, Vicenza (2023); Future Deserts, Oasis2027, Salbker Wasserturm, Germany (2022); Blusehouse, Blueshouse, Milan (2021). She has participated in international residencies such as: 2024, VIR Viafarini-in-residence, Milan; 2023, Savvala, Latvia; 2022, LIOS Lab, Poland.
Currently she lives and works in Milan, Italy.


She is like an alchemist of dreams, a weaver of visions and nature’s essence. In her artistic language, she fluidly moves between the realms of the real and the surreal, shaping works that seem suspended in the delicate balance of time. Her creations are not merely visual expressions but gateways, inviting the viewer to journey into the hidden landscapes of the soul and the ever-changing rhythms of the natural world.
If I deeply think about it, i can see a colour palette that feels alive, embracing the raw energy of organic textures, subtle symbols, and a kind of ethereal beauty. Every shape and color seems to carry a hidden message, like a quiet secret borrowed from nature itself. She observes the rhythms of life, turning fleeting moments into art—expressions that linger, like the whisper of the wind through leaves or the soft weight of morning dew.
In every creation, she suggests that art is not merely an act of making but a ritual, a journey, a communion with the living world. A tribute to the beauty of transformation, an ode to the unyielding flow of becoming—a flow mirrored in the cycles of nature and the deeply personal journey of every human being.
Entering her world feels like stepping into a dream woven from silk, moss, and shadow. Here, lightness becomes a whispered rebellion, and fragility reveals itself as a radical act of care. Through ephemeral forms and gestures steeped in nature’s rhythms, her work invites us to pause—to notice the unspoken dialogues between roots and soil, hands and clay, light and darkness. It beckons us to listen to the quiet hum of life itself, reminding us of our place within its vast and intricate web.
This is an invitation to explore a world where nature is both ally and enigma, where the boundaries between human and non-human blur into whispers of symbiosis. In this conversation, the artist reflects on the sensual tactility of decay, the invisible politics of delicacy, and the quiet power of darkness.

At first contact with your art, I was immediately struck by a strong sense of lightness mixed with ethereal grace. If my intuition is correct, how does this lightness manifest in your work, both metaphorically and practically?
Your intuition is correct. In my artistic research, I explore themes of evanescence, sensuality, lightness, and ethereal grace. I see these as political forms of resistance. I think about what requires time, attention, and concentration to be noticed—what doesn’t bombard but caresses gently. Of course, I also love techno raves, but that’s another story.
Fragility and delicacy are very important conditions. Imagine holding a snail shell in your hand and being careful not to break it—that’s the kind of care and consideration for others that I believe in. Speaking of care, I’m reminded of Cane che si morde la coda III, a terracotta sculpture of a dog lying down, biting its own tail. This behavior is often caused by stress, brought on by captivity. I remember that while modeling the dog’s back, I gently and rhythmically stroked the clay, and in that gesture, I found a kind of care dear to me.
In my textile work, I use delicate and spectral painting for human figures, taking on the task of rendering us “invisible” in the eyes of the planet—the very opposite of the era we live in. Lightness also manifests through the use of semi-transparent silk, on which traces of vegetation conceal paintings of animal and feminine bodies blended together.
(I’m ethically unsatisfied with silk as a medium, given that silkworms are often boiled alive to produce continuous filaments. I’m currently researching sustainable or at least cruelty-free alternatives.)


Nature plays a central role in your art. What is your personal relationship with it, and how do you translate this connection into your work?
I’d like to open a parenthesis regarding the current meaning of the term “nature.” Historically, the concept of nature was constructed to create a sense of separation between humans and other living beings, promoting the development of intellectual thought. Today, however, to address the planet’s urgent challenges, it is essential to reframe humans as an integral part of nature, with all that this implies.
My connection to the natural world feels visceral, beyond my conscious will. I’m learning to embrace this instinct, and the themes I explore in my work draw strength from this bond. Since childhood, I’ve been taught to see nature as an ally. Over time, I discovered the profound joy that comes from a physical and emotional connection to natural environments.
It’s hard to describe in words, but in those moments, I give space to my instincts, listening to my body and allowing it to seek direct contact with the environment. I feel at ease being touched by a plant while simultaneously wondering what the leaf might feel when brushing against my skin.
This practice aligns perfectly with my process of creating textiles, where the act of gathering vegetation becomes an intimate ritual that transforms me into part of the environment as well.


Is there any aspect of nature that you feel is impossible to capture through your art?
I hope there will always be something impossible to codify or fully represent. So far, my work has rarely addressed the cruelty, hunting, or survival instincts deeply rooted in the wild. Instead, I focus on envisioning a future of interspecies alliances, solidarity, symbiosis, and mutualism.
That said, I feel a growing urge to explore the dynamics of predator and prey, dominance and submission. Returning to your question, I find it inherently impossible to engage with the non-human without, in some way, translating it into a language I can understand. When I model or paint a plant or animal, what I depict is my perception of it—my interpretation, not its true essence. It is my being manifesting, not the being of the plant or animal.

In your artist statement, you wrote: “In my artistic practice, I eradicate anthropocentric visions and reposition the human like a mushroom under a stone.” The fungal realm has become especially meaningful to us recently. Could you expand on this metaphor?
Humans often see themselves as superior to other inhabitants of the planet. This mindset is reflected in speciesism and even internal human hierarchies, like racial supremacy. In my work, I aim to dismantle this hierarchical structure, where humans sit at the top, and reimagine it as a horizontal vortex, placing us on the same level as algae or fungi.
We are part of a great composting process, where every being and every action leaves its trace—just like a mushroom growing beneath a stone. Recently, I read about a marine fungus capable of digesting plastic waste. To me, this represents a hopeful ode to nature’s resilience and its ability to imagine new possibilities, even in decay and devastation—something fungi, in particular, teach us.

You mentioned wanting to give space to darkness in your practice, making it visible and sensual. Could you reflect on the personal meaning of darkness and its emotional and technical implications in your work?
For much of my life, it has been easier to focus on the positive, even at the expense of ignoring or suppressing the negative. I’ve always been afraid of confrontation, preferring to avoid conflict in order to please others. Darkness, for me, also represents these personal fears—those I must confront.
I express my darkness through sketches made with gel pens on paper. This medium allows me to silence my inner critic, letting the pen flow quickly without striving for perfection—in fact, quite the opposite. Initially, these sketches were private, something I was almost ashamed to share. But I’ve recently come to appreciate their rawness and potential, much like darkness itself.
I explored this theme further during Posidonieto, an interdisciplinary artist residency curated by Zoe De Luca Legge at the Lac o Le Mon Foundation near Lecce. Among other topics, we delved into “marcescence”—the process of decay understood not just as decomposition but as the birthplace of new life. In decay, beings emerge that thrive on what we might find repellent. I find this deeply sensual.


How important is the visual perception of your works?
At first glance, I want my works to convey a sense of calm and welcome, inviting viewers to take their time and find space for reflection and inner listening.
To answer more thoroughly, I’ll describe It takes time till the stagnant water begins to run, a piece in which drops of natural lubricant slowly glide over a clay sculpture, giving it a glistening, slimy texture. The forms and materials evoke a fluid, sensual dimension. In this work, I explore the simultaneous hermaphroditic reproduction of snails, particularly their slime—its functions and the cultural meanings it can carry.
While visual perception is vital, I aim for it to activate other senses as well, such as touch. This multisensory engagement can spark personal connections and associations, extending the impact of the work beyond what is seen.
To see more head to:
martalunavalpiana.com
@lunalgae