Who I am

 

Giorgia Tusoni was born in Rome thanks to a successful cesarean.
Daughter of artists and not daughter of art, she breathes to create and to give off smells.
She does it through infinite expressive ways:
from singing to writing, from photography to painting and not least through acting.
On canvas her poetic song is first immortalized and then represented.
She lives touching disparate places, rooting her inspiration in salt water and all its growths.
She laically renames herself as Laila.
Laila is the name chosen by her intimacy
because her work is an art in lingerie that has a lot to do with poetry:
immediate, fluid, a tear.
Always free and without censorship
(and in case she has ever had any, it will collapse with time as an ancient building erected without her conscious choice).
She never hides. She opens up.
Her paintings are born
in the electric desire to give birth to a fleeting
presence eager to take shape.
All almost always in silence, between uncomfortable and improvised postures.
The first breaths are crucial because at that moment Laila feels the kind of woman that will born, her vibes, passions, traumas, everything.
Color is the vitalizing element, the catalyst, the personality, which declares itself explicitly and makes us think.
Some of the created women are adult,
others simply precocious,
but all luxuriant, intense, females
who, in the limited space of a canvas, find the width of a whole life,
as is their
absolute privilege.
From Vasco Bendini’s vapours to the oneiric blues of Marc Chagall, from the sincere introspections of Emily Dickinson to the drunken solitudes of Charles Bukowsky, Laila’s expiation is sensual, dramatic, sometimes ironic expiation of a great, vibrant femininity, escaping herself but which thanks to the encounter with her Goddesses and their courage has been able to tell herself.


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