LADY IN GLASS

For Rome-born, Milan-based artist, set and object designer Valentina Cameranesi Sgroi, beauty is rarely straightforward. Working across glass, ceramics, printed silk, jacquard textiles, laminates, and carved marble, she creates objects that occupy an uneasy space between glamour and decay, artifice and function, the precious and the mundane. Yet she keeps returning to glass, particularly borosilicate, for the uncanny sensation it produces: the experience of watching something, or someone, through it — the inside looking out, or the outside looking in. That slight remove creates a space for projection, a territory where the ordinary begins to slip into the subconscious. Working with artisans in Paderno Dugnano and glassblowers in the Czech Republic — purposefully outside the long shadow of Murano — Cameranesi Sgroi draws on ecclesiastical dress and ceremonial objects, as in the rounded, bell-like double chalice of Fasciated I (2023), whose form recalls the voluminous silhouettes of historical Italian nun habits. Elsewhere, her sinuous glassware channels the cinematic worlds she turns to for inspiration, from the fantastical Technicolor dreamscapes of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger to the exaggerated universes of David Cronenberg and Tim Burton. For PIN–UP 40, Cameranesi Sgroi offered a sneak peek at an exclusive series of photographs from her then-forthcoming monograph, featuring tulip-shaped vessels seemingly suspended in transformation. Now published by NERO, Limitation of Life, edited by PIN–UP’s Felix Burrichter, brings together visual essays by Bela Borsodi, Camille Vivier, and Massimiliano Bomba, alongside four written contributions: an introduction by Bruce Benderson, a story by Lucy McKenzie, a letter from Nicholas Korody, and the following conversation. In it, Cameranesi Sgroi reflects on growing up in Rome, her love of cinematic illusion, the pleasures of working within constraints, and why she prefers beauty with a little dirt around the edges.

Felix Burrichter: Why do you think you do what you do?

Valentina Cameranesi Sgroi: There are two things. One is that it’s a way to be there without being there. There is something that can be me without me being present and creating relationships with others. I’m creating not just for pure expression of myself, but because I like to engage with others. And because I’m an introverted, shy person, this is a medium to get in touch with others. I like this idea of engaging through something that is not necessarily myself. My therapist told me once, “you can’t sublimate everything.” I guess that gives you a good answer about my work: It’s constant sublimation.

So would you say your work is a sublimation of the self?

It’s a sublimation of myself, but it’s also a series of experiments and exercises. I like this idea of exercise: if I make this, and then I do that, what happens? It’s very quick and immediate. And I like to play with genres, almost like in film. You apply a rule, and then you change it. That’s why I like working with something very classic as a starting point. I’m not inventing new technology. I’m playing with things that are very common and then elaborating on them.

You work within certain object typologies: vases, glasses, etc. Do you enjoy within the constraints of a typology?

I like constraints. I like having limits. I like playing within boundaries. That’s something you learn when you work with artisans. I don’t want total freedom. I like constraint, and then I like playing around within it. I’m very drawn to limits. But with these kinds of categorizations — well, take the word “glamour,” for instance. It’s always a bit fake. It’s never entirely glamour. It’s more like, let’s pretend we’re glamorous — what would that look like? So, it becomes a kind of performance rather than a true embodiment of glamour. With the typology of an object — say, champagne glasses — that’s one idea, but for me there’s much more going on. I’m not interested in projecting glamorous parties. I’m interested in something else: the shapes, the radioactive flowers, the sense that they come from some Renaissance moment but are now morphing into something else, and the way I cut them, almost like bone. There are all these kinds of dissonances. I’m much more interested in dissonance and friction, even if in the end you don’t really see it. And that’s okay.
What about materials? I’m especially interested in your use of borosilicate glass, a material more commonly associated with kitchenware and laboratory equipment. What draws you to it? Is it its physical durability, or are you more interested in what it represents?

It was a bit of a coincidence to work with it, because when Annalisa Rosso asked me to do the show in Milano, we did this fake boutique in a stripped-down store. We needed to make a perfume bottle. I was really serious about it. Like, if we do a boutique, we need a perfume. She found a supplier and I went there with all these sketches, but then I realized it was not possible. I understood their technique and played around with what they already made. I didn’t choose borosilicate, I found it. It became easy for me to work with. It really elaborated on all these shapes, all these forms, all these ideas of a crystallized moment of a marine object or something that is growing. I like that you can just attach pieces with borosilicate. It’s very hard, but different from the hot shop work to make normal glass.

What I find intriguing about the borosilicate pieces is that it is ultimately a scientific material, but you use it in a decorative way. You’re making champagne flutes out of hospital glass.

What I like about borosilicate is that it’s much less precious than other materials. It’s also the cleanest, because it doesn’t react to acids. And it handles temperature very well, so you can heat it and really experiment with it. It’s similar to the relationship I have with costume jewelry: the preciousness is evoked rather than inherent to the material itself. I’m not using the finest marble from Italy. I’m not using the purest crystal from the Czech Republic. I’m using a material that already comes in tubes and pipes and small pieces. Then you deform it and create something from it. I like that process. I like that, if you wanted to, you could put it in the dishwasher.

There are certain key words or recurring themes in your work such that I was thinking we could do a bit of free association. The first one is “Rome.”

Okay. Rome is many things. I was born and raised there, and all my memories are tied to it. We weren’t a family that traveled much, so for me it was really just Rome. It’s a city I eventually had to escape, because it was giving me anxiety. At the time it felt narrow, so I left and moved to Paris.

Can you describe the Rome you grew up in?

Rome is never complete. There’s a certain wildness to it, which I like, because nature is always growing and things are never fully cleaned up. Romans have always been quite dirty. The idea of Rome as this white, neoclassical city is an invention. Even Roman aristocrats didn’t want to stay in Rome — they would go to Tivoli or Tuscany because it was better there, because Rome was a mess. But I like that. I like the markets. And something that, at least in my memory, feels less common in other cities is the way inside and outside seem to blend.

Which is very different from Milan, where you live now.

Very different. Milan is much more hermetic. What I miss here is the land, the horizon. I was born with that sense of horizon — you would always have a big portion of sky in your eyesight — whereas Milan is the opposite. You see buildings everywhere, but there’s no real horizon. In Rome and Paris, the horizon line feels very wide. In Milan, it’s always buildings. You don’t have that flatness, that point where the sky meets the ground.

Can you describe the aesthetics of your childhood?

I had a very beautiful mother, so some of my strongest memories are of going with her to the hairdresser or watching her do her makeup at the dressing table. But there was also a total mess around it all. I think that contrast is very much at the core of my aesthetic.

Is there a smell you associate with that?

It took me years to identify it, but I eventually realized she was wearing Je Reviens by Worth. But she was also smoking, which I didn’t like. So again, there was that contrast. Everything felt very artificial. This idea of nature or purity never really existed for me. There was always something human-made about it, so in a way beauty was always a fiction to me. I’m totally against the idea of natural beauty.

In Rome, history, the Vatican, and all these larger symbolic structures are part of everyday life. How did you relate to that growing up? Was it something you actively thought about or was it simply there?

I think Romans are very arrogant. They believe they’re the center of the world. I never believed I was at the center of the world, so I rejected that attitude, because I found the arrogance annoying. But at the same time, of course, there was an imaginative world tied to the city — maybe connected to an older kind of cinema, to figures like Monica Vitti or Marcello Mastroianni. What felt beautiful to me was that idea of getting lost in the city, of having these parties I never actually experienced but somehow wished I had.

Can we talk more about your idea of beauty?

I have more of a question than an answer when it comes to beauty. I’m interested in the way beauty can be connected to conservatism — this idea of ideal harmony, of beauty as something correct or fixed, is actually quite frightening to me. I like harmony, but I also like dissonance. I don’t like the idea of beauty being tied to cleanliness and purity. I’m more drawn to a beauty that feels alive, evolving. Sometimes that includes dirt, or something imperfect. For me, what’s really interesting is the contrast.

You already said you don’t believe in natural beauty.

Exactly. You know, when someone is so beautiful without makeup… I don’t trust it! [Laughs.] I mean, I’m jealous. I love beauty in its pure form, but it has become something very clean, where the surface must remain intact. No decoration is allowed to count as “good.” What I want to make clear is that “good” and beauty are not necessarily the same thing.

So, beauty could also be evil?

Evil beauty — yes, I’m almost more drawn to that than to “good” beauty. But not in a fascist sense, not that Leni Riefenstahl kind of beauty, you know.

Has your concept of beauty evolved?

I hope so. But I also know that sometimes I’m still trapped in a cage of nostalgia. That’s something I’ve had to confront in myself. I think I am evolving — I’m exploring new shapes and new materials — but I also keep returning to the same things: certain films, certain ideas, certain situations. That’s a big question for me right now.

Because you feel you’re stuck with something?

I wouldn’t say stuck. But I do find myself wondering how things will evolve, and that’s not something I would have thought about ten years ago. Maybe it comes from having done so many things already. At a certain point, you look at them and think okay, this is it. So where do you go from here?

Can you name some of those references you return to?

I’m drawn to exaggerated situations, to things that are explicitly fake. If we stay with cinema, my references range from Tim Burton to Powell and Pressburger, but also to certain films from the 1950s — Douglas Sirk, Technicolor melodramas — where the light is so artificial. Even in black-and-white films, I love those moments when you can’t quite tell what time of day it is, because the light is fake, but everything is so shiny. Is it night? Is it day? It doesn’t matter. That’s what I like: situations where everything is controlled, where there is no reality in it, and yet you still enter the story. At the same time, I sometimes wish I were less drawn to sadness. Why do I like sadness so much? An old perfume shop with three perfumes left, a woman barely making a living — I see that, and I think: I love it. But why?

There are two strands running through your work: cinema, which is clearly a major influence, and perfume. Let’s start with film. What does cinema represent for you?

For me, film is the perfect explanation and example of a choral work. It’s not just one person, but it’s the team that has to go smoothly. One element wrong and everything can be a mess. It’s also one of the newest forms of art. It’s still evolving. I’m not a big fan of theater because it’s too close to me. I like the distance that the cinema puts between me and the world.

Is theater too natural for you?

Si. I also find genre in cinema very interesting, because there’s a kind of repetition: the same subject but changed and reappropriated by a different director and cinematographer. I like that I can see the construction and still believe in the result. That’s what I like about cinema. So, whether it’s Batman or Agnès Varda, I like them equally, because I respect the huge effort behind them, and the fact that they’re always open to major failure.

Let’s talk about perfume.

What I like about perfume is that you’re basically inventing a shape around something that has no shape. You’re free of function. You can do whatever you want, because you’re really just embodying an idea. The level of dedication that went into perfume packaging, especially in the past, is amazing, because it required incredible skill, including a sculptural sensibility. Think of the Dalí bottle.

As an artist…

Let’s say an applied artist. I feel more comfortable with that term.

You reject the term “artist”?

It’s not that I reject it out of false modesty. It’s more that I know some artists, and I’ve been lucky enough to see how they work and how they think. I think they’re able to gather many more things together and transform them. And they also physically work with what they make. For me, those are two big differences. Lucy McKenzie, for example, and other artists I’ve met, physically paint.

Jeff Koons doesn’t.

Well, I don’t like him very much. For me, an artist is someone who uses their hands, you know? And I think some fashion designers can be artists. It’s not about the final output. It’s more about what they’re able to gather into the work, and the way their personality can completely dissolve and yet remain totally present in what they make. I find that fascinating, because the work is personal, but at the same time it becomes political.

Earlier in the conversation, you said that you like constraints and limits. Does the freedom of an artist scare you?

Yes, because it brings more responsibility. I play with surface, I play with texture, but there is still a degree of functionality there, however minimal, that justifies the existence of the piece. If I were making a pure artwork, I would be confronting something where I’m not sure I could fully understand why I’m doing it. I don’t want it to be too much about me. I want it to feel almost accidental — as if it emerges from me, but through collaboration with someone else.

So distance matters to you — you don’t want to break the fourth wall?

I like the fourth wall. I like the distance. I screenshot so many scenes in films where people are seen through glass. I like that feeling of seeing something through a window while not actually being there. I like being inside and looking out, or outside and looking in. I feel more comfortable there than in full presence, because it allows me to project, to sublimate.

Does that also make you a bit of a voyeur?

Not really. I’m a bit shy, but I’m not a spy.

You’re best known for your glasswork, but your practice isn’t limited to glass — you also work with marble and ceramics. How did those other materials enter your work?

The choice of material is often quite casual. I was living in the Veneto, where ceramics were being made, so I thought: okay, I’m going to try ceramics. I started working with artisans there, and that led to the first self-initiated collection I ever made, in 2012. Before that, I had designed for others — I was working at Diesel, and I had studied industrial design, believe it or not. I did a bit of fabric, a bit of everything, but never my own objects. That was the very first one. From there, people working with marble became interested, and so I began using marble as well.

Can you talk about the marble pieces?

I did those with Bloc Studios, I made three objects inspired by baroque shapes, first hand-drawn and then sculpted using different kinds of marble: an antique French black marble with white veining, like the kind used in baroque churches, Rosa Portugal, which really looks like skin, and of course Carrara white, which I like, even if I’m not obsessed with white marble. To be honest, I prefer colored marble.

What do you like about working with marble?

I like that it reverses the process. With ceramics, you build; with marble, you extract, you remove. The approach is completely different. I’m drawn to that idea of removal. And I wanted to give a sense of softness to a material that is otherwise considered as hard and cold.

Do you like the distance you have from the material, by working with an artisan?

Yes. I like two things about it. First, I go to the artisan and we work out the shapes together, so my involvement is strong, but there are other people in between, using their own hands. That means the control is limited. I’m not a control freak. I actually like it when something turns out a little different from what I expected. I don’t panic. Honestly, I don’t know whether that makes me less of a good designer, but I don’t place that much importance on total control. I know design is often about getting every detail exactly right, but maybe not always. We’re not making medical devices.

Which brings us back to borosilicate, with all its laboratory associations. How did you begin working with glass?

It started with the show I did with Annalisa — the fake boutique. I wanted to make a fake perfume bottle, a very large one. When I visited the supplier, I ended up redrawing everything to understand their technique. I made the piece for the show, and the collector Silvia Fiorucci came and bought it. A few months later, she called and invited me to lunch around Christmas. She asked, “Would you like to design my Christmas service for Monte Carlo?” She had very specific requirements: champagne glasses, wine glasses, a carafe, a candleholder. That was my first real glass commission, and it took a year to develop through tests and constant conversations with the suppliers, because they were quite intimidated by the process. She really kick-started the glass collection, and from there I realized how much I enjoyed working with the material.

Have you ever worked with Murano glass?

Never. I’ve deliberately kept my distance from it. I’m afraid Murano can take over — you know what I mean? The whole idea of the masters, the atmosphere… I didn’t want to work there. When I received a new commission from Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery, I wanted to go to the Czech Republic and do something completely different. I really liked working in the Czech Republic.

Which is where you used crystal.

Yes, crystal — but for Jacqueline we also used another kind of glass, a milky white one that reacts to heat. I like that idea of transformation: the more it’s heated, the whiter it becomes. It’s like a jellyfish, beautiful. And it reacts to light in a beautiful way too. I wanted to grind the stems so they would really look like bones. At that time, my best friend was very sick, and I realized that I had incorporated into these glasses a fear of the body’s evolution. I think I knew, in some way, what I was doing when I designed them, and I almost made them for her, even though she never had the chance to see them. I like the idea of incorporating decay into beauty. It may be a little premier degré, but we all love falling leaves, dead leaves. They’re beautiful, even if they’re already on their way out.

“Death” was another one of my keywords.

It’s a strong word, and it has been very present in my life for many reasons. I’ve experienced significant losses, and I’m sure they have shaped me. The symbolic forms I work with are often a way of freezing something, of crystallizing a moment that is at once ugly and beautiful, painful. I have very strong emotions, so it really goes there. But I also like the wall, the fourth wall. I like having crystal between myself and other people. My relationship with my mother was very complicated, and I never really had the chance to talk to her.

Because she died quite young?

She died quite young, yes, but she was also a very complex person.

So why make a book of all your objects?

Okay. This is the best subject. I realized I was no longer enjoying the pace at which we work and live now — everything in fragments, everything moving so quickly, and then immediately on to the next thing. I wanted to give solid form to something with a beginning and an end. I also wanted it to be a collective work, made with people who inspire me or have an interesting point of view.I feel that designers today are often expected to brand themselves. They have to project this idea of success, probably because of the market. So I wanted to do something very different: a kind of fake catalogue, with fictional texts. An invention, really. Rather than saying, “look at these objects, they’re so good,” I wanted to make something more ambiguous, something you don’t immediately know how to read.In a way, I see it as an antidote to the sense of uselessness that can surround what we make. If I make this book with these people, then I can look back and say: okay, this exists. It’s there. It can rest, and I can move forward, rather than feeling completely disintegrated into a million fragments. That’s why I wanted to make this book.

I think it’s interesting that you mentioned auction catalogues as a reference for the book, because it gives you a framework or typology to work within. It’s a genre.

Yes, it’s a genre. I like that. It’s like a prop in a movie — a fake catalogue, but then you discover something interesting inside. There’s that layer of control, something distant, but it’s also a disguise. It’s incognito.

It’s sublimation.

It’s sublimation. “You can’t sublimate everything!” But why not? Let me sublimate in peace. That’s the only thing I can do.