This may be an unusual subject, but it holds deep sentimental value.

Between 2015 and 2020, I spent long stretches of time in Florence, where friends introduced me to Fabrizio Gori—then the owner of La Toscanella. Fabrizio was an artist in every sense of the word. As a restaurateur, he brought Renaissance dishes back to life, the same recipes once served to Michelangelo and Leonardo. Every plate came with a story—rooted not in luxury, but in necessity, survival, and tradition.

But food was only one facet of his artistry. Fabrizio was also a celebrated painter and illustrator, with work held in the permanent collection of MoMA. He had a deep fascination with Pinocchio and shared the lesser-known stories behind the character’s origins and symbolism. At the time, I was immersed in drawing fairies, and our connection was immediate. Pinocchio, after all, is guided by a fairy—his quiet conscience, trying to steer him away from mischief. We spoke of doing a joint exhibition: his Pinocchio, my fairies.

When I returned home, I sent him one of my fairy books. In response, he sent me a sculpture of Pinocchio he had made. During the pandemic, I was devastated to learn he had passed. I remember sitting alone under a pergola in North Carolina, and the sadness I felt was so heavy, so immediate, I can still feel its weight today. It was then I realized that a part of Florence—the part that held its magic for me—had faded.

That day, I created my first truly cathartic piece: a drawing of Pinocchio.

Pinocchio a San Lorenzo carries many layers. In the image, he sits in a tree, looking up at the sky. San Lorenzo refers to both the oldest basilica in Florence and the Night of San Lorenzo—August 10—when Italians watch for falling stars and make silent wishes. The meteor shower, known as the Perseids, paints the sky with fleeting light, and tradition says the stars are the tears of Saint Lawrence. It is a night of longing, memory, and whispered hope.

This piece is about all of that—grief and dreams, history and healing. It is a quiet meditation on how loss reshapes us, and how memory, like starlight, can guide us home. And in my case that first Pinocchio drawing initiated a series of events that brought me home—mentally and physically

A Note
Much of my work is highly tactile and reflective—its appearance shifts with changes in light, angle, and the viewer’s position. As a result, color and contrast can vary significantly, making it nearly impossible to maintain perfect consistency across photographs and videos. If you notice differences between images of the same piece, this is both expected and intentional.