Interview - Salvatore Arancio
by Fabrizio Meris
by Fabrizio Meris
[Fabrizio Meris] You grew up in Catania, a land marked by the volcano and the sea. When you think of your childhood and your origins, which images and sensations do you feel have remained most deeply rooted in your imagination?
[Salvatore Arancio] My origins are Sicilian—a place full of contradictions. That’s where I grew up, and that’s where I left when I was 18. I was a teenager, trying to understand who I was and to find paths that truly belonged to me. For me, Catania is tied above all to that period, which was quite turbulent. In terms of sensations, I think of how strongly the city is connected to powerful natural environments, where nature asserts itself forcefully and constantly reminds you of its presence, putting your position as a human being back into perspective. Perhaps the lines carved by lava flows, or the dark colours that characterise Catania—not only in the natural landscape but also in the urban landscape, where lava stone is used as building material—have shaped my perception. Growing up there, you don’t notice these things, but distance allows you to decode the influence they’ve had on you. This idea of uncertainty, of something never entirely stable and always capable of changing from one day to the next, in retrospect represents a great deal—perhaps everything.
[FM] Could you give us some concrete examples?
[SA] I think, for example, of the first real earthquake I experienced: I must have been around thirteen, and I had stayed up late to watch Monty Python’s Life of Brian. I remember it was heavily censored in Italy, and I believe it was broadcast on Rai 3 at around two in the morning. I had drunk who knows how many coffees to stay awake because I absolutely wanted to watch it. And just five minutes into the film a strong tremor hit…
[FM] In a way, was God punishing you?
[SA] Exactly! (laughs) That’s precisely what I thought. Earthquakes of this kind happened with a certain regularity throughout the day—on a smaller scale—as did seeing the city covered in volcanic ash, which for us in Catania is completely normal. Then, with distance, you realise how uncommon these experiences actually are.
[FM] What kind of teenager were you?
[SA] I always felt different, ever since I was eleven or twelve. Between the late ’80s and early ’90s I was passionate about music—from alternative to industrial to rock of the time—with very extreme tastes. For a while I was also into gothic music. It was something I expressed in my clothing and my appearance.
[FM] Did you ever feel like an outsider?
[SA] For me the problem didn’t really exist. The true difficulty was dealing with ordinary people you met in the street. I had to fight against stereotypes and prejudices. I was also part of the social centres in Catania, so I had a circle of friends with whom I shared a lot. I was never alone; in fact, I was very sociable. But it remained a complex period, and my points of reference were always far away.
[FM] So at 18 you chose to face new horizons. Where did you go?
[SA] To London, in 1994. At that time I hated summer; when everyone went to the sea, I was working, trying to achieve some independence that would allow me freedom of movement. The first time I managed to visit London I was sixteen. I stayed for a month, and it was wonderful. I had always had London in my heart. Anglo-Saxon culture—both in music and cinema, like the films of Derek Jarman—was part of my inspirations. When the opportunity came, I left.
[FM] What was your first sensation as an expat?
[SA] I immediately realised that the leap had been from one island to another: perhaps different in scale, but from a certain perspective, similar. People who live on islands tend to be slow to open up. At first I noticed the same attitude in London, probably also because of my poor English, which was a barrier and made me more introverted than I had been in Catania, where I was the centre of my group…
[FM] A real change in personality…
[SA] The first effects of this change were quite intense. Over time, however, I began to understand that, in a way, I had to thank England for helping me rediscover and appreciate my origins—both the positive and the negative aspects. Sicily is always enveloped in a romantic aura tied to the imaginary of the Grand Tour; so when the English learned I was Sicilian, they reacted with enthusiasm, though at first I couldn’t understand why. Over time I learned to see my land through their eyes, and this pushed me to reevaluate many things I had taken for granted, that bored me or even annoyed me. It was like reinterpreting my origins: truly understanding them, recognising their uniqueness and richness.
[FM] What do you remember of your life in London at that time?
[SA] Interestingly, at first I didn’t follow the art scene at all. I’ve always been creative—even as an early teenager I experimented with photography and took part in performances with an off-theatre group. But I didn’t come to London with the idea of enrolling in art school or becoming an artist. My interest in galleries and exhibitions came later. In the beginning, it was cinema and music that captivated me. I was fascinated by London’s club subcultures and the endless possibilities a cosmopolitan city had to offer.
[FM] How did you become an artist?
[SA] I come from a working-class background. The idea of becoming an artist always seemed like a privilege—something distant, almost impossible to conceive as a way of life. So it was a decision that emerged slowly. Over time, however, I realised it was perhaps the only thing that truly made me happy—and honestly, I don’t think I could have done anything else with the same dedication. It grew out of an inner necessity, something that eventually became unavoidable.
[FM] What kind of path did you follow?
[SA] I attended university in the morning and worked in the evening; I managed only through a lot of effort. Later I completed an MA at the Royal College of Art, graduating in Fine Art Photography in 2005. That consistency became a strength: people recognised not only creativity but also discipline and determination. In the end, seeing tangible results gave me the courage to continue. Being an artist is always a challenge, especially if you come from a certain kind of family background.
[FM] When I think of your work, I immediately think of ceramics. How did you approach it?
[SA] It came from the desire to have a more direct relationship with material. I had studied photography—a medium with minimal physical contact: it’s about buttons and technique, not touch. At a certain point I needed a different, more immediate, more physical form of expression. Ceramics entered my life thanks to a residency at the Carlo Zauli Museum in Faenza in 2011–2012. The timing was perfect: I needed something that brought me back to the ground, quite literally. Clay captivated me right away with its physicality—with the fact that it’s dirty, visceral—the opposite of photography, which has something clean, even “clinical,” about it. With ceramics I rediscovered an authentic contact with matter.
[FM] And what is your creative process like?
[SA] I would say it’s instinctive. Of course, sometimes I design larger or more complex works, and then there are sketches, calculations, adaptations to the kiln size or firing schedule. But most of the time everything begins with a spontaneous physical encounter with clay. There’s a sort of dance between the hand and the material—a tactile dialogue that gives form to something emerging from the subconscious. It’s a near-therapeutic practice: while I work, I let myself drift, often listening to music, and the images in my mind intertwine with the rhythm of my gestures. This unpredictability is what I love most. Ceramics has taught me that error, failure, can become a moment of creation.
[FM] I first saw your work in the exhibition Surreal Science: Loudon Collection with Salvatore Arancio at the Whitechapel Gallery in London, in 2019. Your works seemed suspended between nature and artificiality. Does this duality come from a conscious decision, or does it emerge from your personal experience?
[SA] I think it emerges naturally. The strongest works, in my view, are those in which an artist allows something personal to seep through, even unintentionally. It isn’t consciously constructed—it resurfaces on its own. In my case it relates strongly to my origins and cultural experiences. There is a constant movement between Sicily—a geological, visceral, almost primordial place—and England, with its Victorian tradition of observing, cataloguing, and controlling. I live constantly within that tension, and I believe it naturally surfaces in my work.
[FM] In 2017 you participated in the Venice Biennale curated by Christine Macel. What was the experience like, humanly and professionally?
[SA] It was one of the most intense moments of my career. The works were produced in Faenza with Davide Servadei and were inspired by a video performance I had shown at the Whitechapel: an online hypnotherapy session promising to make you “a better artist.” The idea of basing a work on something so absurd amused me. From that video came the “hypnosis sculptures,” as physical extensions of that mental process. It was my first collaboration with Ceramica Gatti and with those new materials. Four intense months, tight deadlines, technical challenges. The most exciting part was seeing the behind-the-scenes of the Biennale. After years of visiting it as a spectator, suddenly I was on the other side, installing works alongside artists I admired. The only disappointment was realising that the sense of community that once characterised the Biennale had somewhat faded: today everything is more fragmented, more tied to the commercial system.
[FM] What do you place at the centre of your work?
[SA] For me, the public is fundamental: art is a personal way of narrating and revealing things in a new way, reinventing the ordinary—much like Viktor Shklovsky’s notion of estrangement. Works must communicate and attract viewers, offering multiple layers of meaning: an accessible first encounter, followed by deeper strata for those who want to explore.
[FM] Today, what are your guiding points?
[SA] I actually don’t have many—I’m entirely nomadic. I’ve lived this way since 2019, when, after several years at Studio Voltaire in Clapham (a not-for-profit gallery), I decided to give up a fixed studio. The idea of an artist tied to a single space never convinced me. I like this way of living because it forces me to reinvent myself constantly. I enjoy residencies, discovering new environments, letting the work itself guide me—leading every time to new places and new possibilities.
[FM] A wish for the future?
[SA] I would very much like to create public works. The idea of working with the public in mind is an exciting challenge because it requires a constant dialogue with those who experience the piece and pushes me to search for new solutions.