Lula Broglio (Italy, 1993) lives and works in Italy. A graduate of the Accademia Albertina delle Belle Arti, she primarily expresses herself through painting and the creation of objects made from repurposed materials. Her work explores complex dimensions of thought and emotion, blending memory and freshness into a unique visual language.
Lula Broglio (Italy, 1993) lives and works in Italy. A graduate of the Accademia Albertina delle Belle Arti, she primarily expresses herself through painting and the creation of objects made from repurposed materials.
Her work explores complex dimensions of thought and emotion, blending memory and freshness into a unique visual language. Her artworks create fleeting spaces, where structures and painterly layers open up to unexpected presences. Art history is reinterpreted in a personal language of apparitions: painted images that appear as physical traces of a psychic exploration, suspended between reality and colorful hallucinations.
Through painting, drawing, and objects, Lula offers a vision of the human and animal body as a conductor of multiple narratives and realities, constantly interacting with the natural environment. Materials and images intertwine, striking a balance between opacity and figuration, innocence and play, irony and seriousness.
The objects she creates continue the relationship between the animated and the functional, bringing the fantastical into new and unexpected forms. It is not merely about reusing materials but about redeeming them. Matter itself has the ability to record time and memories, and thus, it can also tell its own stories.
AN EGG IN THE POCKET
One day, a bird laid a paintbrush on a pair of knees. The brush was slipped into a pocket and turned into an egg. Nothing extraordinary — the pocket became a nest, and the step an ancient rhythm, lulling it. The egg doesn’t speak, but it knows: it holds the entire mystery of painting. The egg is a poem, a round secret. To carry an egg in your pocket means to bear a subtle, delicate sensitivity — a tension that could turn into an omelette at any moment. It is an offering, or perhaps a sacrifice, that no one ever asked for.
On the cart, there’s a ladder that climbs toward the moon. The oil pastels, neatly lined up, await their turn to ascend. It’s a rare occasion: who can say they’ve ever looked at the moon from so close up? Perhaps they can — the pastels — before anyone else.
Silent insects rest on faces, as if they wished to preserve memory.
Profiles suspended between sleep and wakefulness, their gaze fixed on something unknown. Are they lucid dreaming?
In their pockets there are no eggs now, but seeds. They scatter them on the ground with a natural ease, like a ritual long forgotten. In that silent motion lies the same gentleness with which the bird laid the brush upon those very knees.
It’s all there, look:
in rummaging through deep darkness and the crumbs in one’s pockets,
in sowing without wondering whether anything will grow,
in playing music with no hands,
in going to see the moon up close,
in holding an expression between the thighs and a sky between the hands.
— Lula Broglio
