The village in my dreams is not a symbol for another life. It is a return, a quiet thread tying me back to the land of my ancestors. My father comes from a small village in Abruzzo, the last one perched at the top of the mountains, called Villa Celiera. I have been there three times, and each visit feels like stepping into a place my spirit already knows. It is difficult to explain, but the village carries a sense of belonging that lives deep inside me. It is not only the people. It is the mountains rising like guardians, the pebble roads worn smooth by generations, the Sunday bell that folds the valley into silence, the signs and stone houses that have stood for centuries, and my nonna’s home now sitting quietly, holding its memories.

The village in my dreams is always with me, always the place I yearn to return to. This body of work explores the rural and the forgotten: spaces untouched by the demands of technology, progress, and the endless push for bigger, better, faster, more. The village in my dreams has become part of my daily language, and together with my art making, it reminds me not to lose myself in the noise of the modern world we are made to move through and obey.