To myself, by Silvia Delucchi

14th May 2026

A voice accompanies us as we walk through the streets of Ferrara. It wonders whether others, too, feel that slight distance between what they are and what appears to be. We drift through the streets like the bodies around us, like the mannequins in the shop windows, like the images in which we are now constantly immersed. But who are we looking at, and who is looking at us?

The voice pauses in front of a mirror. We always return there: to that ancient and intimate gesture of looking at oneself. Of gauging the distance between the image reflected on the surface and something more internal, harder to name. Then a different voice picks up the thread, an older woman, the same mirror. Not an answer, but a continuity.

Their thought remains open, suspended: how much space do we occupy, if no one is looking at us?