What is identity? Is it a balance between the image we create of ourselves and who we truly are? Is it the projection of our hidden true self… or maybe it’s just an illusion? In fact, it’s more likely a necessary construction that enables us to survive in the society. A society where there is no longer time to think, where time rushes forward, and if you don’t keep up with the pace, you risk to fall behind. Identities change constantly and they are shaped by tastes, cities, languages, habits, and clothing. Sofia Lai’s works come to life through an unceasing dialogue between the surface and the unconscious, aiming to challenge this sharp dichotomy.
Bodies emptied of their personhood come to life through gestures, movements and memories. Clothes sculpt their identities and mirror the personal experiences of the viewers, while evoking an emotional archive that is both collective and individual. It’s as if a looking-glass weren’t the right tool to reflect one’s image because it would risk to give back an illusion, failing to reveal what lies beneath the surface. Sofia Lai is a visual artist and fashion stylist from Florence, who lives and works in London. She studied at Marangoni in Milan and at Manchester Metropolitan University. She has collaborated with several magazines as an artist and stylist, including Numéro Berlin, The Face Magazine, Tank Magazine, Vogue Italia and ID Italy. In 2024, Sofia Lai was selected by Nick Knight to participate in an artist residency at SHOWstudio Gallery, culminating in an exhibition titled “Interdependence”.
Enrico Boschi: You’ve said that you use fashion as a tool for creating your sculptures. This approach makes me think of a post-medial conception of the artwork, where media are manipulated to materialize your ideas.
Sofia Lai: When I have something in mind, I always need to put it into practice: it could end up in my writings – I write a lot – or in my drawings. As for sculpture, I often use memories. Perhaps my background in fashion makes me associate specific garments with the people who wore them. For example, I think of my grandmother, who always wore a wool vest under her clothes or a bonnet before going to bed. Such elements represent a person to me on an emotional level, not as clothing in themselves. When I studied fashion, I was more interested in the philosophy behind the gesture than in the actual clothes. I saw this approach in the works of Rei Kawakubo and Yohji Yamamoto, but also in Miguel Adrover’s early collections or projects like Mainstream Downstream by Poell. My sculptures might not exist without a relationship with fashion, but it’s not just about that. Fashion helps me give concrete form to a thought.
Your work revolves around the union of figurative and abstract images from the fashion world. What does abstraction mean to you?
Abstraction, for me, is indivisible from the concept of the uncanny. I associate it with a sense of distortion of reality that, without being either positive or negative, makes you think. I’ve always perceived the abstract as a discomfort, a frustration over a thought you can’t grasp. We all tend to focus on ourselves at times, believing we’re unique, thinking we’re the only ones to have certain thoughts to the extent that we don’t want to share them, fearing no one will understand. But in reality, these are common thoughts. We’re all unique, yet we all experience the same emotions. Still, this can lead to isolation rather than fostering community.
Does fabric amplify this sense of community, of participation?
Yes, I was reading an article about the sense of belonging, the need to be part of a group while wanting to feel unique at the same time. In my sculptures, I try to emphasize or dismantle this duality. I want my audience to freely associate my works with their own thoughts. The viewer doesn’t need to know that a particular creation of mine stems from the memory of my grandmother.
Your latest exhibition, “Interdependence”, resulted from an artist residency at Nick Knight’s SHOWstudio.
Yes, I worked on a series of sculptures at the SHOWstudio Gallery for three days while being filmed. This happened during the opening hours of the gallery, and visitors could come in and watch what I was doing. It was the first time I worked on sculptures in front of an audience of strangers.
Inspiration and outcome met for the first time.
At first, I was a little nervous about exposing the creative process of my work, as I had always worked alone in my studio, presenting my pieces only after they were finished. When you have to show how you do things, you might feel like suffering from the “imposter syndrome”: the idea of revealing the stages of creation was intimidating. But eventually, the tension eased, and a familiar atmosphere emerged, eliminating any discomfort. Those three days were very intense. I didn’t even feel tired. Interacting with visitors in the gallery, perceiving their reactions and listening to their comments while I worked turned out to be a fascinating experience.
Do you think the visitors influenced the outcome?
Some of them ended up in the sculptures; they conveyed emotions that I transformed into something concrete. When I start working, I never know what the final result will be; the pieces take shape as I create them. Nick Knight gave me total freedom, and I’m very grateful for that. He let me do exactly what I wanted, with strong mutual engagement. Nick also created 3D renderings of my sculptures, and afterward, we gave them names, trying to connect their visual identity to a person’s name that could represent them.
How do you like Tim Burton’s work?
I like it a lot. Aesthetically, Burton isn’t my favourite, but I fully share his perspective. He always portrays situations where everything is going terribly, to the point of thinking… either I laugh or I kill myself! The Cohen brothers’ films express this concept too. I love the idea of extracting satire from grotesque situations: mocking the things we can’t stand, and eventually confronting them.
You mentioned that among your inspiration sources there are Louise Bourgeois and Michelangelo Pistoletto, but you also find inspiration in unknown people who allow you to pause for a moment and feel something.
I keep track of the people who leave me with an emotion and I create an archive out of them. Moving to London was a sort of cultural shock for me: here, everyone walks straight ahead, always avoiding eye contact. The upside is that in this huge crowd of people, you can be whoever you want, even though it can make you feel estranged from the world. On my way here, for instance, I took a photo of a Japanese little girl who was laughing because of the gusts of wind on the escalator in the underground. It was a true moment of joy. In a way, through other people’s emotions, you can better appreciate your own.
How does archiving take form?
I don’t really have a method. I have things scattered everywhere, a thousand notebooks where I write and draw. I’m obsessed with buying a new one every week because if I’m out and don’t have one with me, I’m sure I’ll feel like drawing something. On my computer I have countless folders filled with photos of people. I’ve been writing and drawing for as long as I can remember. I still keep things I wrote and drew as a child or a teenager. It’s interesting to see how your perspective changes during different stages of life. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m very concrete – I always need to put down in words or images what I think and feel.
Your artistic practice is characterized by constructing identities through textile materials.
I have albums full of photographs of strangers. I’m interested in relating these images to my perception of them in connection with their movements and the clothes they wear. I try to create a connection between memories of loved ones and images of strangers I pass in the street. In this overlap, there’s both detachment and affection. Fabrics help me emphasize a person’s expression or movement, interpreting them in relation to my experience or by trying to put myself in their shoes. I’m aware that I don’t truly know that person. After all, I fully understand the impossibility of knowing everything. For instance, while studying fashion, I delved deeply into the styling aspect and neglected to develop properly a sewing skill. I actually don’t know how to sew, but I sew nevertheless.
Does your creative process involve looking back, relying on what you’ve done previously?
Absolutely. My works are a deep dive into self-analysis. I want to actively coexist with who I’ve been. In a sense, it’s a long-term effort to feel at peace with myself.
How does the sculpting process work?
I create a plaster cast of my body, remove it, let it dry, and then start shaping it. The starting point is often movement. I take many photos of myself while performing specific gestures, and then I replicate them in my works.
How important is it to you that your works can inspire others?
In my pieces, I tend not to fully expose my personal struggles (like insomnia, for instance!), but if someone viewing them feels even a little comforted or gratified – and maybe transforms this shared experience into inspiration – that’s fantastic. When I was fourteen, my father worked next to a gallery, and I came across a catalog of Louise Bourgeois. Reading that the artist used to jot down her dreams in a journal – something I also did regularly! – made me feel reassured, authorized, as if it was okay to do so because someone respected and admired had done it before me. This is my idea of inspiration. If I could achieve that same effect on even one person, I’d be the happiest artist in the world.
Info:
Born in Bologna, he studies fashion design and multimedia arts at the IUAV in Venice. He believes in the possibility of crossing boundaries between disciplines and that art can have an active role in breaking down inequalities and uniting people by creating communities.
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