Non appartiene del tutto al Dada, eppure lo attraversa.
Non resta dentro la danza, eppure la trasforma.
Non lascia opere stabili, e proprio per questo continua a sfuggire.

In questo episodio ho provato a seguirla.

Non solo come figura storica, ma come movimento.

Il suo percorso inizia a Ginevra, si sviluppa attraverso la ritmica di Émile Jaques-Dalcroze, passa per Hellerau, uno dei luoghi più radicali della sperimentazione artistica europea, e incontra figure fondamentali come Mary Wigman e Rudolf von Laban.

Poi Monte Verità.

Un luogo che non è solo geografico, ma simbolico.

Nell’estate del 1913, insieme a Laban, Wigman e altri, Suzanne Perrottet entra in uno spazio in cui il corpo viene pensato in modo nuovo:
non più forma da controllare, ma energia da liberare.

Movimento naturale.
Gesto.
Suono.
Parola.

È qui che nasce qualcosa che poi verrà chiamato danza moderna.

Quando arriva a Zurigo, durante gli anni della guerra, questo percorso entra in contatto con il Dada.

Il Cabaret Voltaire è uno spazio attraversato da voci, suoni, frammenti.

Ma anche da corpi.

E il corpo, in quel contesto, non accompagna.

Interviene.

Rompe.

Suzanne Perrottet è parte di questo attraversamento.

Non come figura centrale nel racconto storico, ma come presenza reale.

Eppure, la sua ricerca non si ferma lì.

Nel 1920 fonda una scuola a Zurigo.

Insegna a danzatori, attori, bambini, adulti, anche a persone con disabilità.

Il suo lavoro si apre, si espande.

Diventa pedagogia.

Diventa trasmissione.

Accanto all’insegnamento, costruisce qualcosa di straordinario.

Un archivio.

In assenza di una vera letteratura sulla danza moderna, inizia a ritagliare immagini da riviste:
gesti, movimenti, espressioni del corpo.

Nel corso di sessant’anni, raccoglie oltre diecimila immagini.

Le classifica.

Le organizza.

Costruisce una memoria del movimento.

Un archivio visivo che non fissa il corpo, ma ne moltiplica le possibilità.

E poi, come spesso accade, tutto questo viene dimenticato.

Le scatole restano.

I ritagli restano.

Ma la presenza si allontana.

Oggi, al Cabaret Voltaire, una mostra è dedicata a lei.

After Dada, after dance.

Un titolo che non indica una fine, ma un passaggio.

Un “dopo” che è ancora un movimento.

Questo episodio nasce anche da qui.

Dal desiderio di tornare a guardare.

Non solo ciò che è stato raccontato.

Ma ciò che è rimasto ai margini.

Suzanne Perrottet non è solo una figura da riscoprire.

È un modo di pensare il corpo.

Non come forma da conservare.

Ma come possibilità.

E forse è proprio in questo spazio instabile, mobile, aperto che continua a esistere.

It is a voice I have begun to follow more closely, a presence that, episode after episode, has become more intimate, more insistent.

Emmy Hennings was a passionate, astonishing, truly remarkable artist.
And perhaps for this very reason, difficult to contain within a linear narrative.

In this episode, I tried to approach her not only through facts, but through what remains: movement, voice, fragility, and strength.

In the coming weeks, I will also be working on a downloadable PDF dedicated to her, to her life, and to those early, intense years in Zurich, in Spiegelgasse before living to Ticino, to continue this exploration in a more extended, written form.

Non è soltanto una figura del Dada, né soltanto una performer del Cabaret Voltaire. È una voce che attraversa una vita segnata da perdita, instabilità, marginalità e che proprio da questa fragilità sembra trarre una forza inattesa.

In questo secondo episodio ho cercato di avvicinarmi a lei in modo diverso. Non solo attraverso i fatti, ma attraverso ciò che resta: il movimento, la voce, il passaggio da una scena rumorosa e instabile a una dimensione più raccolta, più interiore, negli anni del Ticino.

Zurigo, Spiegelgasse, il Cabaret Voltaire: un punto di inizio.
Ma non l’unico.

Prima, una vita errante.
Dopo, una trasformazione.

In mezzo, una voce che non si lascia fissare.

Ho inserito anche un breve frammento poetico, prima in tedesco e poi in italiano, come un modo per restituire almeno in parte il ritmo e la fragilità della sua presenza.

Questo episodio è anche un tentativo di spostare lo sguardo:
non solo sulle opere, ma sulle vite che le hanno rese possibili.

E forse è proprio lì, tra le cose, che Emmy Hennings continua a esistere.

After the Cabaret

I see the early morning sun
At five a.m. I homeward stroll.
The lights still burn in my hotel.
The cabaret is finally done.
In shadows children hunker down.
The farmers bring their goods to town.
You go to church, silent and old
grave sound of church-bells in the air,
and then a girl with untamed hair
wanders up all blear and cold:
“Love me, free of every sin.
Look, I’ve kept watch many nights .”

Treaduzione

Vedo il sole del primo mattino
alle cinque torno verso casa.
Le luci sono ancora accese nel mio hotel.
Il cabaret è finalmente finito.

Nell’ombra i bambini si rannicchiano.
I contadini portano le loro merci in città.
Tu vai in chiesa, silenzioso e antico,
con il suono grave delle campane nell’aria,

e poi una ragazza dai capelli indomabili
sale, smarrita e infreddolita:
“Amami, libera da ogni peccato.
Guarda, ho vegliato per molte notti.”

Ci sono figure che attraversano la storia senza essere davvero trattenute.

Restano.
Ma ai margini.
Come una presenza che si avverte, ma che raramente viene messa al centro.

Emmy Hennings è una di queste figure.

Quando si parla della nascita del Dada, si evocano spesso nomi, manifesti, rotture.
Si racconta un movimento.

Ma prima di tutto, il Dada è stato un’esperienza.

Un luogo.
Un incontro.
Un insieme di presenze.

E tra queste presenze, Emmy Hennings.

Nel 1916, a Zurigo, nel Cabaret Voltaire, non si costruisce ancora una teoria.
Si vive qualcosa.

Si legge.
Si canta.
Si recita.
Si sperimenta.

E in questo spazio instabile e necessario, il corpo diventa centrale.

Non come elemento secondario, ma come luogo di espressione.

La voce di Emmy Hennings.
Il suo modo di stare in scena.
Il gesto, la presenza, la fragilità e la forza.

Tutto questo non è accessorio.

È parte integrante di ciò che il Dada è stato.

Eppure, quando si torna a raccontare quella storia, il corpo scompare.

Rimangono le idee.
I nomi.
Le strutture.

Ma non sempre la presenza.

Questo episodio nasce da qui.

Dal tentativo di tornare a quella presenza,
di ascoltare una voce che non è teorica,
ma vissuta.

Di restituire spazio a ciò che non si lascia facilmente organizzare.

Questa è una prima esplorazione.

Seguirà una seconda puntata, dedicata alla biografia e alle opere di Emmy Hennings, che sto attualmente approfondendo e probabilmente la versione in Inglese.

Outside, Europe is at war.
Inside, in a small room, something begins.

Cabaret Voltaire is often remembered as the birthplace of Dada, but it is more than a historical site. It is a space of encounter, of rupture, of experimentation where language, sound, and gesture start to move in unexpected directions.

In this episode of The Forgotten Women of the Avant-Gardes, I move away from a single figure and enter a place. A space shaped by voices, performances, and fragments, where meaning is not fixed but constantly questioned.

What emerges is not a definition of Dada, but an atmosphere. One in which art no longer seeks order, but accepts instability, contradiction, and transformation.

Today, Cabaret Voltaire still exists, not only as a memory, but as a living space, continuing to host performances, discussions, and artistic research.

In this sense, Dada is not something that belongs entirely to the past.
It remains open.

The episode is above. Thank you.

NEWS In the coming weeks, together with Coralie Besse, I will begin creating a series of downloadable PDFs dedicated to some of the women of the avant-gardes exploring their lives, their art, and their loves in greater depth.

These will be available soon for those who wish to continue this journey beyond the podcast and the articles of the blog

Era uno dei miei primi soggiorni a Zurigo. Passeggiare nel Niederdorf sembrava quasi un rito: le strade strette, le luci, quella sensazione di qualcosa di vivo, di nuovo, che attraversava lo spazio.

A un certo punto chiesi indicazioni. Volevo trovare quel luogo di cui avevo letto, quel nome che nella storia dell’arte aveva assunto un’aura quasi leggendaria.

Forse era il 2012.

Molto tempo prima di immaginare che sarei tornata a pensarci, a studiarlo, a raccontarlo.

In questo episodio del podcast Le dimenticate delle avanguardie entriamo proprio lì: nel Cabaret Voltaire, la stanza in cui nel 1916 prende forma il Dada.

Un luogo attraversato da voci, suoni e frammenti, in cui artisti, poeti e performer sperimentano nuove forme di espressione in un momento segnato dalla guerra.

Buon ascolto.

Questo episodio sarà disponibile anche in versione inglese

Qui c’è la meravigliosa poesia di Baudelaire recitata/cantata da Yves Montand, in modo ugualmente meraviglioso, mi ricordo quando l’ascoltai la prima volta, commuovendomi, le canzoni di Montand - e anche le poesie di Baudelaire- hanno alimentato il mio amore per Parigi, per la cultura, l’arte, la letteratura francese e mi hanno fatto sentire tanta bellezza.

Quando ho smesso di ascoltarle?

Di cantare con Montand?

Di recitare cantando Baudelaire? Ultimamente ho cominciato a cantare su qualche aria di Puccini, ma questa è una cosa nuova e succede perché sono stata a Zurigo a portare il mio libro nei luoghi del Dadaismo e Zurigo mi rende sempre felice e creativa, a volte per settimane, da sempre. Mi piace molto cantare “Ch’ella mi creda”, da La Fanciulla dell’West di Puccini, ma è tutta una novità. Montand è la base, l’origine, lo sentivo riempire le stanze della mia casa dell’infanzia, Montand è la Francia, il modo di essere “franco-italiani” come mi sento io, o “italo francesi” Yvo Livi dit Yves Montand ( scusate se mancano accenti e se ci sono errori ma scrivo di getto e anche questo non mi capitava da tanto, da quando ho visto le opere di Suzanne Duchamp a Kunsthaus e ho pensato, nella caffetteria del museo più bello, adesso scrivo.)

Tutta questa felicità dov’era?

Dove sono tutte le nostre felicità?

Con gli anni passati troppo in fretta, con le attese negli hotel di periferia, con gli amori smarriti, i giri nella valle, le nostalgie inimmaginabili che riemergono sempre nella piscina della città di frontiera dove avevo tanto pianto la prima volta, sono con i libri che abbiamo letto e sottolineato, oppure sono col babbo che non c’è più ma che ha sparso, quando c’era, una grande quantità di felicità, sono con l’illusione d’amore più grande ( ne abbiamo una tutti, no?) o con gli amori costanti e presenti che invecchiano con noi? sono rimaste nel periodo in cui non avevo male al ginocchio e non sapevo che tutti, proprio tutti nella vita, in qualche modo diventiamo disabili, ossia con una forma di dis- abilità più o meno grave, più o meno difficile da gestire, non credevo, pensavo tutto rimanesse uguale, che mio padre non sarebbe mai morto. Così era mio padre, immortale.

Dove sono le nostre felicità? Dove sono le mie?

Con le sorprese che saranno sorprese d’Agosto, con quel dolore che emerge involontario pensando al cambiamento, alle fini, negli angoli, negli orli, nei posti a sedere degli autobus a lunga percorrenza che mi hanno portato ovunque, nelle cene con Riccardo a metà settimana, con la Smart di 17 anni che adesso deve lasciare spazio a una macchina più grande, con le soste all’ExtraCoop, con i panorami del passo della Raticosa, con la mamma che mangia i funghi fritti, con il cane Tobia che ha 17 anni e col cane Bob che ne ha otto e gioca con una pallina verde che si chiama Freesby a cui vuole molto, molto bene.

Come si fa, col mondo in fiamme, a ritrovarne un pezzettino di quelle felicità?

Les bijoux

Charles Baudelaire

La très-chère était nue, et, connaissant mon coeur,
Elle n’avait gardé que ses bijoux sonores,
Dont le riche attirail lui donnait l’air vainqueur
Qu’ont dans leurs jours heureux les esclaves des Maures.

Quand il jette en dansant son bruit vif et moqueur,
Ce monde rayonnant de métal et de pierre
Me ravit en extase, et j’aime à la fureur
Les choses où le son se mêle à la lumière.

Elle était donc couchée et se laissait aimer,
Et du haut du divan elle souriait d’aise
A mon amour profond et doux comme la mer,
Qui vers elle montait comme vers sa falaise.

Les yeux fixés sur moi, comme un tigre dompté,
D’un air vague et rêveur elle essayait des poses,
Et la candeur unie à la lubricité
Donnait un charme neuf à ses métamorphoses ;

Et son bras et sa jambe, et sa cuisse et ses reins,
Polis comme de l’huile, onduleux comme un cygne,
Passaient devant mes yeux clairvoyants et sereins ;
Et son ventre et ses seins, ces grappes de ma vigne,

S’avançaient, plus câlins que les Anges du mal,
Pour troubler le repos où mon âme était mise,
Et pour la déranger du rocher de cristal
Où, calme et solitaire, elle s’était assise.

Je croyais voir unis par un nouveau dessin
Les hanches de l’Antiope au buste d’un imberbe,
Tant sa taille faisait ressortir son bassin.
Sur ce teint fauve et brun, le fard était superbe !

Et la lampe s’étant résignée à mourir,
Comme le foyer seul illuminait la chambre,
Chaque fois qu’il poussait un flamboyant soupir,
Il inondait de sang cette peau couleur d’ambre !

Charles Baudelaire, Les fleurs du mal

In this episode of The Forgotten Women of the Avant-Gardes, I explore the work of Suzanne Duchamp, a refined and often overlooked figure of the Dada movement.

For a long time, her name has been remembered mainly in relation to her brother, Marcel Duchamp. Yet her work reveals an independent, ironic and deeply original artistic voice.

This episode is part of a broader research project that also led to my book Suzanne Duchamp nel dadaismo.

If you have suggestions, ideas, or artists you would like me to explore in future episodes, feel free to write in the comments or send me a message.

Nel secondo episodio del podcast Le dimenticate delle avanguardie parliamo di Suzanne Duchamp, artista raffinata e spesso dimenticata della scena dadaista. Per molto tempo il suo nome è stato ricordato soprattutto in relazione al fratello Marcel Duchamp. Eppure il suo lavoro mostra una ricerca autonoma, ironica e profondamente originale all’interno del clima delle avanguardie del primo Novecento. Questo episodio fa parte di un percorso di ricerca che ho dedicato a questa artista anche nel mio libro Suzanne Duchamp nel Dadaismo Se avete curiosità, suggerimenti o desiderate proporre un’artista o una storia da esplorare nei prossimi episodi potete scrivermi nei commenti o mandarmi un messaggio. Anche solo per raccontarmi gli artisti e LE ARTISTE per voi importanti e che hanno influenzato di più il vostro percorso creativo.

Dopo molto tempo passato a pensarci, a immaginarlo e a rimandarlo, finalmente pubblico la prima puntata del mio podcast.

È un momento che aspettavo da tempo e che mi emoziona più di quanto immaginassi. La voce, quando si registra per la prima volta, è sempre un po’ fragile, un po’ incerta. Per questo vi chiedo fin da subito un po’ di indulgenza: se ci saranno piccoli errori o imperfezioni, fanno parte di questo inizio.

Questo podcast nasce come un’estensione naturale del lavoro che sto portando avanti sulle donne delle avanguardie e, in particolare, sulla figura di Suzanne Duchamp. Tuttavia non sarà uno spazio rigidamente tematico.

Le dimenticate delle avanguardie saranno certamente una presenza importante, ma questo podcast sarà anche un luogo di passaggio, di ricerca e di libertà.

Ci saranno frammenti, divagazioni, variazioni.

A volte parlerò di un’artista, altre volte di un’opera, di una lettura, di una musica, di una scoperta fatta per caso durante una ricerca. Mi interessa lasciare che questo spazio resti aperto, vivo, capace di accogliere percorsi inattesi.

Per il momento gli episodi saranno in italiano, ma in futuro alcuni potranno essere anche in inglese, perché il progetto che sto costruendo intorno alle artiste delle avanguardie è ormai internazionale.

Mi farà molto piacere se vorrete partecipare a questa piccola avventura.

Se avete suggerimenti, curiosità, domande, o se desiderate propormi un tema, un’artista o una storia da esplorare, potete scrivermi o mandarmi un messaggio. Leggo sempre con grande interesse ciò che arriva dai lettori e dagli ascoltatori.

Nei prossimi episodi ci saranno anche interviste e conversazioni, perché credo che la storia dell’arte diventi ancora più viva quando si apre al dialogo.

Per ora, questo è soltanto il primo passo.

Grazie per essere qui e per aver deciso di ascoltare questa prima puntata.

Io sono Francesca Mazzucato, e questo è Le dimenticate delle avanguardie.
Un luogo dove le storie dimenticate tornano lentamente a parlare.

The artistic avant-gardes of the early twentieth century are often described as territories of rupture, freedom and radical experimentation. Futurism, Dada, Surrealism and the many constellations that emerged between Paris, Zurich, Berlin and New York are still evoked today as laboratories in which art reinvented itself.

Yet when this history is retold, the same names almost always appear.

Marcel Duchamp, Tristan Tzara, Francis Picabia, Man Ray.

Alongside these figures, however, there existed a far richer and more complex network of relationships, collaborations and intellectual exchanges in which many women played active and original roles. Some took part directly in avant-garde circles, published in contemporary journals, exhibited their works or contributed to the cultural life of these groups.

And yet, over time, many of them remained at the margins of historical narratives.

The reasons are varied. In some cases, works were lost or dispersed. In others, careers developed in discontinuous ways. Often, their presence was interpreted primarily through their relationship with more famous male artists: as companions, muses or collaborators. Rarely, however, as artists engaged in an autonomous and independent search.

In recent years, art history has slowly begun to reopen these interrupted trajectories. Archives, exhibitions and new research are bringing to light figures that deserve to be reconsidered with greater attention, not as mere footnotes, but as integral parts of the artistic landscape of the avant-garde.

This blog was born from this intention: to look more closely at some of these presences, to reconstruct contexts, and to reconnect threads that have long remained invisible.

Among these figures, Suzanne Duchamp occupies a particularly fascinating position. Her work, subtle and ironic, developed in dialogue with the Dada environment and with some of the most radical artistic questions of her time.

To begin with her means opening a door that leads toward a constellation of women artists who, although they actively participated in the life of the avant-garde, remained for a long time in the shadows of history.

A research blog dedicated to this project is gradually taking shape.

Some time ago, while speaking with my friend Coralie Besse, a musician, poet and editor based in France, we found ourselves discussing the artistic avant-gardes, Dada,

and those figures whom the history of art has often left at the margins of its main narrative.

Coralie works with words and sound: her sensitivity as both a poet and a musician often leads her to listen for what remains in the background of official histories, for the voices that are not always fully heard. The questions she asked during that conversation were simple and profound.

Coralie:
How did your interest in Suzanne Duchamp begin?

Francesca:
It began almost as an intuition. Suzanne Duchamp appeared frequently in texts about the avant-gardes, but almost always in relation to someone else: as Marcel Duchamp’s sister or as the partner of Jean Crotti. That intrigued me. I started wondering what her own artistic voice truly was and what place she occupied within the network of relationships that shaped the European avant-garde. From there grew the desire to study her work more closely.

Coralie:
In music and poetry something similar happens: some voices remain in the shadows while others are amplified. Why do you think so many women artists of the avant-garde were forgotten?

Francesca:
Partly because art history has long been told through a few dominant figures. The avant-gardes, however, were much more complex worlds, made of dialogues, friendships and intellectual exchanges. Many women took part fully in these cultural networks, yet over time their contributions were simplified or reduced. It is not necessarily the result of a deliberate erasure; often it comes from historical narratives constructed around a small number of protagonists.

Coralie:
Who was Suzanne Duchamp, really?

Francesca:
She was an artist with a very distinctive voice. Her work engages with the experiments of the avant-garde while maintaining a personal dimension that is often ironic and reflective. She was deeply involved in the European Dada context and in the artistic dialogue of her time. To describe her simply as “Marcel Duchamp’s sister” means overlooking an important part of her artistic identity.

Coralie:
What has always fascinated me about the avant-gardes is the dialogue between different forms of expression: painting, poetry, music, performance. Was Dada also like this?

Francesca:
Absolutely. Dada emerged precisely from the intersection of different artistic languages. At the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich, poetry, sound experiments, music, theatre and visual images were intertwined. Artists did not think in terms of separate disciplines. This is what makes the study of their relationships and exchanges so fascinating.

Coralie:
We often imagine Dada as a movement tied to a few specific places. Was it really so limited geographically?

Francesca:
In reality, Dada was from the beginning a European network. Zurich is the place where the movement was born in 1916, but very quickly ideas and relationships spread to other cities, including Paris. Artists travelled, wrote to one another, met in different cultural circles. Dada was a continuous dialogue between places and personalities.

Coralie:
Why is it important today to return to these women artists?

Francesca:
Because art history is not something fixed. It is a narrative that can be revisited, expanded and made more complex. Returning to figures like Suzanne Duchamp means recognising the richness of the cultural networks of the twentieth century and listening to voices that remained for a long time in the background.

Coralie:
Do you think Suzanne Duchamp is finally receiving the attention she deserves?

Francesca:
I believe that something is slowly changing. Exhibitions, new studies and research are helping to bring her work back into the conversation. It is not about rewriting art history artificially, but about reading it with greater attention and sensitivity.

Today I walked through Zurich with a copy of my book on Suzanne Duchamp in my bag.

It felt like a small but meaningful journey. This city is where Dada was born in 1916, when artists and writers gathered at the Cabaret Voltaire to invent a radically new language of art.

Part of my research on Suzanne Duchamp was inspired by the remarkable retrospective dedicated to her at the Kunsthaus Zürich. Bringing the finished book back to the city where Dada took shape seemed only natural.

During the day I visited several places connected to this story. I presented the book at the Italian Cultural Institute in Zurich, and I donated copies to the Zentralbibliothek , to the library of the Kunsthaus. Another copy is on its way to the Cabaret Voltaire, and one has also been sent to a local bookstore which organizes very interesting “ conversations “ with the readers.

She will come back with me, for sure.

In a way, the book is now circulating through the same city that once hosted the artists of the avant-garde.

But this project is not only about Dada.

It is also about a question that continues to interest me deeply: how many artists remain partially forgotten in the history of modern art?

Suzanne Duchamp is one of them.

For a long time she appeared mainly as the sister of Marcel Duchamp. Yet her work reveals an artist with a distinct voice, engaged in the intellectual and artistic debates of the European avant-garde.

Walking through Zurich today, I was reminded that art history is not fixed. It is something that continues to be questioned, and maybe quietly rewritten.

And sometimes the journey begins with something very simple: a book, a city, and a story that deserves to be told again.

(Italian following)

I came to the music of Pierre Adenot not by searching for it, but by following a line of attention that had already shifted elsewhere.
While writing my essay on Suzanne Duchamp, I learned to remain within the fragment, not to force connections, and to recognise the value of what stays on the margins.

Within this quiet movement, Marcel Duchamp was not a centre, but an intermittent presence. Not a destination, but a field of attraction — something felt rather than constantly named.
Following Suzanne, my way of listening changed. And with it, my understanding of music.

Adenot’s music appeared to me as a form aligned with this way of thinking.
It is not music that accompanies or illustrates. It is music that holds back, that leaves space, that accepts silence and error as active materials.

As in Duchamp, the gesture is not expressive but structural: what matters is not immediate emotion, but the device that makes it possible or deliberately suspends it.

This is why I chose his music as a sonic space for images connected to my work.
Not to explain, but to remain in tension.
Word, image, and sound do not clarify one another; they observe each other, brush past one another, and remain open.

Ultimately, it reflects the same attitude that guided my essay: listening to what does not demand attention, yet quietly deserves it. Staying long enough for something to emerge, without forcing it into form. (my book in the italian version is going to be distributed in few days, the English version will follow)

Sono arrivata alla musica di Pierre Adenot non cercandola, ma seguendo una linea di attenzione che si era già spostata altrove.
Scrivendo il mio saggio su Suzanne Duchamp, ho imparato a restare nel frammento, a non forzare le connessioni, a riconoscere il valore di ciò che resta laterale.

In questo movimento silenzioso, Marcel Duchamp non era un centro, ma una presenza intermittente. Non un punto di arrivo, piuttosto un campo di attrazione: qualcosa che si avverte senza essere continuamente nominato.
Seguendo Suzanne, il mio modo di ascoltare è cambiato. E con esso, la mia idea di musica.

La musica di Adenot mi è apparsa come una forma affine a questo pensiero.
Non è una musica che accompagna o illustra. È una musica che trattiene, che lascia spazio, che accetta il silenzio e l’errore come materiali attivi. Come in Duchamp, il gesto non è espressivo ma strutturale: ciò che conta non è l’emozione immediata, ma il dispositivo che la rende possibile o che la sospende.

Per questo ho scelto la sua musica come spazio sonoro per alcune immagini legate al mio lavoro.
Non per spiegare, ma per restare in tensione.
Parola, immagine e suono non si chiariscono a vicenda: si osservano, si sfiorano, restano aperti.

In fondo, è lo stesso atteggiamento che ha guidato il mio saggio: ascoltare ciò che non chiede attenzione, ma la merita. Restare abbastanza a lungo da permettere a qualcosa di emergere, senza costringerlo a prendere forma.

There are moments when learning a language stops being an exercise and becomes an experience.
For me, opera is one of those moments. I live this experience and I want my students and learners to enjoy it

This is why I’m reopening my course Italian and Italy through Opera: a journey in 5 or 10 one-to-one sessions, designed for those who want to explore Italian not only as a language, but as a cultural, emotional, and musical landscape.

Opera has always been my secret passage into Italian. Not the polished, textbook version of the language, but its most intense, dramatic, intimate form. The one that carries desire, conflict, irony, devotion, loss. The one that sings.

Over the past weeks, my weekends have turned into a small personal paradise: evenings spent watching operas in streaming, commenting on them with friends, moving between the digital stages of Teatro alla Scala and the Opéra de Paris. A period of wonders, truly where music, language, and conversation flow together.

This week alone feels like a gift: Madama Butterfly and Der fliegende Holländer on the program. Two worlds, two emotional climates, two radically different ways of inhabiting music and language.

At the moment, three students have already joined the course, and I’m accompanying each of them individually, in one-to-one lessons, shaped around their interests, level, and rhythm. Together, we listen, read, translate, comment, and write. We slow down. We let the language resonate.

I’m also in the middle of gathering and curating a wide range of materials on composers, librettos, historical contexts, and recurring themes. I usually begin with Giuseppe Verdi and Giacomo Puccini — inevitable companions — but I think next time I’ll start even earlier, at the source: Claudio Monteverdi and his L’Orfeo. Because every language, like every music, has an origin myth. With the growing body of materials I’m gathering, I’m considering publishing a collection that is clear and approachable, yet intellectually precise, enriched with links, listening suggestions, and insights shaped by decades of personal engagement and by an ongoing dialogue with scholars and fellow opera lovers over the past months.

Giacomo Puccini

This course is for those who love Italian, for those who are curious about opera, and for those who sense that language learning can be something richer, deeper, and more pleasurable than mere correctness.

If this resonates with you, I’d be happy to tell you more

Italia, italiano e opera: una lingua che va in scena

Ci sono momenti in cui imparare una lingua smette di essere un esercizio e diventa un’esperienza.
Per me, l’opera è uno di quei momenti.

È per questo che ripropongo il mio corso Italia e italiano attraverso l’opera lirica: un percorso in 5 o 10 incontri individuali, pensato per chi desidera esplorare l’italiano non solo come lingua, ma come paesaggio culturale, emotivo e musicale.

L’opera è sempre stata per me una porta segreta sull’italiano. Non quello levigato dei manuali, ma la sua forma più intensa, drammatica, intima. Quella che contiene desiderio, conflitto, ironia, devozione, perdita. Quella che canta.

Negli ultimi weekend mi sono concessa un piccolo paese dei balocchi personale: serate passate a guardare opere in streaming, a commentarle con gli amici, spostandomi idealmente tra i palcoscenici digitali del Teatro alla Scala e dell’Opéra de Paris. Un tempo di meraviglia continua, dove musica, lingua e conversazione si intrecciano.

Questa settimana, poi, sembra un dono: Madama Butterfly e Der fliegende Holländer in programma. Due mondi, due climi emotivi, due modi radicalmente diversi di abitare la musica e la lingua. Perché il corso è adattato con precisione e attenzione sui maggiori compositori italiani, ma io amo Wagner da tanti anni.

Al momento il corso conta tre iscritti, che seguo individualmente, in lezioni 1:1, costruite su misura in base al loro livello, ai loro interessi e al loro ritmo. Ascoltiamo, leggiamo, traduciamo, commentiamo, scriviamo. Rallentiamo. Lasciamo che l’italiano risuoni.

Sto anche raccogliendo e curando molti materiali su compositori, libretti, contesti storici e temi ricorrenti. Con tutti i materiali che sto raccogliendo, sto pensando di pubblicare una raccolta accessibile ma rigorosa, arricchita da link, suggerimenti di ascolto e spiegazioni nate da decenni di esperienza personale e da un dialogo costante con studiosi e appassionati che ho avuto modo di coltivare negli ultimi tempi.
Condividerò parte di questo lavoro anche qui su Substack.

Di solito parto da Giuseppe Verdi e Giacomo Puccini, compagni inevitabili, ma questa volta sento il desiderio di cominciare ancora prima, all’origine: Claudio Monteverdi e il suo L’Orfeo. Perché ogni lingua, come ogni musica, ha un mito fondativo.

Questo corso è per chi ama l’italiano, per chi è curioso dell’opera, e per chi sente che imparare una lingua può essere qualcosa di più ricco, profondo e piacevole della semplice correttezza.

L’italiano, quando canta, resta.

Se senti che questo percorso potrebbe parlarti, scrivimi: sarò felice di raccontarti di più. Basta rispondere alla mail.

PAGE PRESENTATION – ENGLISH VERSION

A one-to-one journey through music, language, and imagination

This course is the result of years of personal research, close reading, and archival exploration.
Italian Opera is approached not as a museum artifact, but as a living language—cultural, musical, political, and deeply human.

Opera is storytelling, voice, body, desire, and conflict.
It is a space where language becomes sound and music becomes thought.

Throughout this journey, opera is explored as both an aesthetic experience and a tool for understanding, capable of opening questions, connections, and insights that still speak powerfully to the present.

What we will explore

• Operas and libretti through guided listening and close reading

• Historical and cultural contexts

• Characters, narrative structures, symbols, and recurring themes

• The relationship between opera, history, politics, and emotion

• Opera as a reflective space and, if desired, as a form of cultural coaching

Materials

Students will have access to:

• primary sources

• lesser-known libretti

• historical documents

• visual archives

• carefully curated critical texts

These materials are rarely included in standard courses and are drawn from long-term research.

Available formats

1. One-to-one journey – 10 sessions

A deeply personalized path, designed to follow each participant with close attention.

Sessions resemble coaching encounters, where opera becomes a space for reflection, dialogue, and linguistic refinement.

📌 Language: English
📌 Ideal for: international students, advanced learners, opera lovers, cultural professionals

2. Intensive path – 3 sessions

Three highly focused and carefully structured sessions, offering depth and clarity in a compact format.

📌 Language: English
📌 Ideal for: those seeking an in-depth introduction without a long commitment

3. Single session – 90 minutes

A complete and self-contained experience, which may also serve as a prelude to a longer journey.

📌 Language: English
📌 Ideal for: first-time participants or those wishing to explore before continuing

For info email me

My book on Suzanne Duchamp is in an advanced stage of proofreading. The editor will be back on January 7, and once the final revisions are completed, the book will move on to layout and then publication. It will be released first in Italian and later in English.

I have revised, corrected, worked on, and spent countless nights with the Italian text, and I can honestly say that I am deeply satisfied with the result. I will speak about it again, I will speak about it often—you will forgive me, you will read me, and I hope you will come to love Suzanne Duchamp as I have loved her.

But there are many projects underway. My memoir - the family stories started after my loss-continues slowly, because it is truly difficult and, at times, painful. Writing a memoir is like shedding one’s skin. We will speak about this too, again, here on Substack.

For now, I am back by the sea, and I can finally take a moment to breathe. I need to write, in detail, about the course I intend to propose on Italian Opera. Over the past two years, I have studied Italian Opera for months at a time, working closely with professionals, artists, and performers, as well as with curious minds and students from all over the world. They enrolled, they listened, and they became deeply passionate because Opera, like art itself, is a form of dreaming.

There are three possible formats.

The first consists of ten one-to-one sessions, as I intend to follow each participant with great care and attention. These meetings will resemble coaching sessions—because yes, it is absolutely possible to practice coaching through opera, music, and bel canto. Along the way, I will teach or help refine Italian; however, since Opera is a universal language, these sessions can also be offered in English, for those who wish to improve their English while engaging with a demanding and beautiful narrative tradition such as Italian Opera.

The second option consists of three highly focused sessions, designed to be as thorough and accurate as possible. These will be intensive, carefully structured encounters, offered either in Italian or in English.

This course is the result of years of personal research, close reading, and archival exploration in Italy and abroad
Opera is not treated here as a museum object, but as a living language—cultural, musical, political, and profoundly human.

During the lessons, students will have access to rare and original materials: primary sources, little-known libretti, historical documents, visual archives, and curated texts that are not commonly included in standard courses. We will also work on listening practices, narrative structures, and the emotional and symbolic dimensions of opera, exploring how voice, text, and music shape meaning and identity.

The third possibility, for those who wish to try before committing further, is a single 90-minute session. This meeting will be complete and meaningful in itself, yet it may also serve as a prelude to a longer journey. It will offer carefully chosen “tastes” of the course—enough to experience its depth and spirit, and to decide whether to continue.

More details will follow, soon.

Every year, at this exact moment, the world accelerates.
Buying becomes instinctive.
Packages move faster than thought, and desire is constantly encouraged to hurry.

Reselling tells part of this story: objects purchased in moments of intensity, now circulating again, searching for a second life. Some carry care and attention. Others reveal excess. All of them, in their own way, speak about us.

In the middle of this flow, I notice what truly stays with me:
beautiful books, chosen slowly,
and handmade bookmarks, made with intention. People are choosing them in my spaces and in the reselling spaces of my friends

They are not fast objects.
They are gestures of attention.

They ask us to pause, to read, to listen and to inhabit time instead of consuming it.

Which leads to a deeper question:
what do we really give when we give a gift?
An object, or an experience?
A possession, or a way of seeing?

I believe the most meaningful gifts today are those that create continuity, depth, and memory.

An Elegant Alternative to Objects

For the end of the year — and as a refined proposal that will continue into January — I am offering two carefully structured learning paths, each composed of 10 private lessons, designed to be gifted or undertaken personally.

Italian Opera History – 10 Lessons

This course is the result of years of personal research, close reading, and archival exploration.
Opera here is not treated as a museum object, but as a living language, cultural, musical, political, and deeply human.

During the lessons, students will have access to rare and original materials:
primary sources, little-known libretti, historical documents, visual archives, and curated texts that are not commonly found in standard courses.

Each lesson weaves together history, language, listening, and interpretation.
Opera becomes a gateway to Italian culture, but also a powerful tool for refining linguistic sensitivity, critical thinking, and aesthetic awareness.

This is not a simplified overview.
It is a guided immersion, shaped by scholarship, passion, and precision.

Autobiographical Creative Writing – 10 Lessons

Alongside this, I offer a second path dedicated to writing the self.
A structured yet intimate journey into autobiographical creative writing, where memory is transformed into language with clarity, rhythm, and intention.

The lessons are grounded in literary practice and guided reflection, offering tools to shape experience into meaningful narrative.

A Gift With Long-Term Value

These are not generic courses.
They are learning experiences, designed for those who value elegance over accumulation, depth over speed.

They are ideal for students of Italian, lovers of opera, writers, readers, and intellectually curious minds.

Both paths can be gifted during the holidays or started in January.

For details, availability, and personalized proposals, you can contact me directly at:

francescamazzucato3@gmail.com

In a season defined by urgency,
choosing depth is not indulgence.

It is discernment.

Writing about objects always begins the same way for me: with the moment of contact. A fingertip tracing the edge of a ceramic bowl. A hand lifting the corner of an old photograph. A glance returning, again and again, to a jacket carrying the faint scent of a decade long gone. These small gestures reveal something that goes beyond materiality. They reveal the object as witness.

For years, second-hand markets lived on the edges of culture. They belonged to collectors, nostalgists, and those ready to wake up early on a Sunday to sift through cardboard boxes under a tent. The charm lay in the uncertainty. You walked in without expectations and let chance decide what you carried out.

Something changed quietly, almost imperceptibly at first.

The shift began with a new way of seeing. Objects were no longer treated as remnants of the past. They became documents, traces of human decisions, timelines, rooms, habits, and identities. Reselling slipped out of the realm of nostalgia and moved into a new territory: cultural language.

The Shift From Nostalgia to Structure

The past decade has redefined the second-hand world. What once looked like an unregulated, dusty universe gradually turned into a dynamic economy with its own codes, aesthetics, and rhythms. Market stalls became curated displays. Online listings became micro-stories. Pop-up shops emerged with the precision of galleries.

Reselling is no longer about luck. It’s about fluency.

A successful reseller doesn’t simply “find things.” They interpret them. They notice details most people overlook: the era suggested by a pattern, the material that reveals a production method, the tiny scratch that proves real use. They understand how desire shifts through generations and how objects carry echoes of styles that keep returning, often unexpectedly.

This fluency didn’t appear overnight. It grew in the shadows of excessive production and the fatigue of uniformity. As the world became saturated with the new, the meaningful weight of the used acquired renewed significance.

The Object as Timeline

Every object has a simple function. But beyond that function lies the timeline it carries.

A lamp from 1994 speaks of the room it illuminated, the hands that moved it, the evenings spent under its glow. A jacket from the early ‘90s contains the shape of the shoulder that wore it through winters and routines. A ceramic bowl holds traces of meals, conversations, migrations from one home to another.

Objects survive in ways people do not. They remain intact even when the memories attached to them begin to fray. They become silent witnesses of human cycles: departures, renovations, losses, transitions.

This is what transforms reselling into something more than a transaction. It becomes an act of translation. Meaning passes from one context to another, like a story rewritten without losing its original tone.

The Rise of Micro-Markets and Narrative Economies

The new reselling landscape looks nothing like the fragmented world of a decade ago. It is organized, intentional, and deeply expressive.

Small markets have multiplied in cities and towns. Digital platforms host communities where each listing is crafted with care. Collectors and casual sellers co-exist, but the language they use has changed. Descriptions read like micro-histories. Photographs highlight texture and craftsmanship. Provenance matters. Repair matters. Imperfection matters.

These spaces offer something our fast culture rarely provides: slowness. The process of selecting, describing, restoring, and passing on objects creates a rhythm that resists haste. Reselling becomes a quiet refusal of disposability—not out of ideology, but out of intuition.

The object is no longer “old.”
It is storied.

Reselling as Cultural Translation

Every act of reselling contains an invisible gesture of care. When you decide to pass on an object, you’re not discarding it. You’re choosing the next chapter of its life. You’re trusting that someone else will recognize the meaning embedded in it.

This isn’t sentimentalism.
It’s literacy.

The literacy of understanding that objects form a bridge between eras.
That styles travel.
That craftsmanship persists even when trends dissolve.
That value transforms when the context changes.

Reselling teaches how to read the world through things. It cultivates a vision that looks beyond price tags and sees continuity instead.

Objects as Social Memory

In every city, market tables now resemble small archives of collective memory. They contain clues about past aesthetics, past priorities, past desires. They also reveal how the present interprets the past.

A minimalist today might fall in love with a maximalist object from 1973.
A Gen Z buyer might pick up a jacket once worn in 1988.
A home decorator might center an entire room around a restored desk that survived countless moves.

This isn’t retro fascination.
It’s recognition.

Objects create a form of social memory—a thread of continuity between generations that rarely meet, but often share sensibilities without realizing it.

Emotional Value vs. Material Value

Anyone who has held a repaired bowl, a frayed scarf, or a slightly dented metal box knows this truth: imperfections are not defects. They are provenance. They are the visible record of an object’s endurance.

Material value fluctuates.
Emotional value transforms.

The act of giving an item a second life reshapes that value. It becomes lighter, freer, more expansive. It enters the world again, carrying traces of its past without being trapped by it. This process softens our own relationship with things. It teaches us how to let go without losing what matters.

Why Storytelling Matters More Than Scarcity

Scarcity once defined the vintage market. Rarity determined value. Today, storytelling carries equal—if not greater—weight. A common object with a compelling narrative resonates more than a rare item with none.

This is not a trend. It’s a cultural shift.

People crave meaning more than novelty.
Objects with history feel alive.

A well-told story doesn’t embellish.
It reveals the layers already present.

The best resellers have understood this instinctively: an object becomes desirable when its timeline becomes visible.

The Object as Quiet Witness

In the end, reselling is not about things.
It’s about noticing.

Noticing textures.
Noticing craftsmanship.
Noticing the passage of time in a tangible form.

Objects remain steady when life becomes unstable. They stay intact when memories splinter. They hold continuity when the world accelerates.

Perhaps this is why reselling has grown so quietly and so powerfully. It offers a way to touch time without fearing it. A way to stay connected without clinging. A way to honour the movement of life through something you can hold in your hands.

Objects witness.
Reselling lets them speak.

If this reflection resonates with the way you observe the world through objects, consider joining me here. Each new piece deepens this slow, attentive way of seeing one story, one item, one timeline at a time.