Giovanna Silva and the art of making the invisible visible

First name and surname: Giovanna Silva

Place and year of birth: Milan, 1980

Featured galleries and social media contacts: Instagram @giovannamuzzisilva

It is a place to reflect and organise my work, to develop my mental and physical maps, and to carry out research. I have always imagined an artist’s studio as a cluttered space, full of objects steeped in history. Mine, however, is extremely tidy and almost empty – perhaps to compensate for my compulsive nature – and it is precisely this emptiness that allows me to relax and think. The studio (which today also serves as the editorial office of Humboldt Books, the publishing house I run) is a space made up of memories: it was my maternal grandmother’s house, which I inherited and decided to leave exactly as it was – I kept the furniture and her furs. My grandmother was a pivotal figure, the family member who nurtured in me a touch of the narcissism that every artist possesses. It was she who gave me my first Polaroid. So my studio is also a tribute to her; without her, I might well have turned to more practical work. What’s more, the 1950s furnishings often serve as a backdrop for my still lifes. Because, after all, the real studio is the city: the exploration, the endless walks, the ever-watchful gaze.

I currently have two books in the pipeline, which I hope to finish after the summer break. One is a project with the British graphic designers OK-RM, for their publishing house InOtherWords, on product displays in markets: the absurd jumble of vibrantly coloured objects in a confined space, arranged in a controlled chaos. I’ve collected these photos over the years during my travels to various cities, including Bangkok, Mexico City and Cairo. Each place has its own distinct character with recurring patterns – a geographical structuralism inherent in the very idea of commerce. It’s a project that combines unconscious design with anthropological research, and above all, it’s a project about compulsion and accumulation, not only in the displays but also in my own work.

I am also working with Mousse Publishing on a book of photographs of bamboo building scaffolding in Hong Kong. These incredible, primitive structures set against such a modern urban backdrop form an interplay of lines in space; they are the legacy of a tradition based on practical principles that modernisation is seeking to erase.

During my travels, I have accumulated real images and some mythical ones. When I walk through a city I do not know, I open up my mental archives of past experiences and try to discern connections and parallels – halfway between The Matrix and Aby Warburg. Photographs crystallise moments, sometimes stolen from other senses. The image of a journey brings back the memory of a place, a smell, a specific state of mind. It is only through these archives that the journey makes sense, not in its singularity but in the sum of experiences: the journey is an archive of stories, both my own and universal ones. In their collection and archiving, journeys hold value above all in the context of everyday life.

I must say I know more about cinema than photography, perhaps because of its strongly narrative nature – which is, in fact, what I try to recreate in my editorial work; sometimes I watch and re-watch a film solely for the cinematography. Although I obviously cannot compare my work with that of a director like Wong Kar-wai, I love the use of light to depict places and atmospheres. For various reasons, I have a particular fondness for Chris Marker, my unwitting mentor – his "Petite Planète" guides were a source of inspiration for Humboldt Books. Alberto Savinio, on the other hand – with his ability to move freely between set design and writing, a multifaceted man who was never banal – has been the guiding spirit behind my city stories: both the book on Rome and the one on Milan owe their titles to him.

There is a relationship of constant mutual inspiration between my work as an artist and my work at the publishing house. I began by working on my own books first, and only later on those of others – but with the same approach. I believe that Humboldt Books’ publications have a strong editorial identity: there is a part of me in every one of our publications; and at the same time, my personal work is enriched by my collaborations with the artists we work with at the publishing house.

Although it may sound a little naïve – because it is often merely a commercial investment – I believe that art can still take us on journeys of the mind and open up unreal worlds; or make the invisible visible. Art should have the power to make us feel alive, to make the present historical moment bearable. I do not know how much impact it can have on society, but it can certainly raise questions and help spark a debate.

When I’m in Milan – which is very rarely – I wake up very early – though I go to bed even earlier – and focus on breakfast, the one meal of the day I simply cannot do without. After that, I ‘do things, see people’, but above all I sit at my computer or teach. It’s when I’m travelling that my day is constantly on the move. After breakfast, I begin wandering obsessively around the city, following routes only to get lost, returning to the same places in different light. I return to the hotel after walking far more than usual and, before falling asleep, find myself dreaming of the map of the city I’m in. I’m obsessed with portraying cities, but I think this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

For me, editing, constructing a narrative and juxtaposing images are just as important as the photography itself. I certainly enjoy wearing out my knees walking around towns with my camera, but the real work – the moment when the project takes on meaning – comes when the images come together in the editing process. Sometimes I can sense certain combinations at the very moment I take the shot, but the truth is that I produce countless test shots to decide which one works best. There must always be a story, a narrative, behind the image; for me, photography serves a purpose: it may happen that, in a book, even the most beautiful shots are set aside for the sake of the narrative. When everything comes together, I know I can stop.

I wanted to travel. I studied architecture first and then anthropology, in the hope that they would somehow lead me to see the world. Then, by chance, I started working as a photographer’s assistant; just as by chance, I began working for Domus; and again by chance, I turned this passion into my job. I hadn’t planned it; I got there by unexpected means. Even today, however, if someone asks me what I do, I impulsively reply: ‘I’m an architect!’ – a job I’ve practically never done.

This photograph appears to be my first – no one in the family can remember for certain, but there is nothing in the family albums to contradict this. Here I am at the age of six, taking a photo of my father (in a Rothian style) against a New York backdrop where the Twin Towers are still just visible: it’s 1986, I’m six years old and my father has taken me to America for the first time. I remember that you were still allowed to smoke on the plane.

After eight years as a photographer for architecture magazines – where the unwritten but universal rule was clean, wide-angle photographs that were perfect in their rendering – I don’t know if it was a reaction, but I began working in war-torn countries, documenting architecture after its destruction. Here, in particular, I am in the living room of Gaddafi’s residence at Bab al-Aziziya, his fortress in Tripoli. I have dedicated one of the books I hold most dear to Gaddafi and the creation of his public image (as well as to his downfall).

After five years in war-torn countries – Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya and an arrest in Egypt – I decided to return to my first passion: architecture. This time, however, I’m using it as a means of telling stories. Pictured here is the Olympic Stadium in Phnom Penh, designed by the Cambodian architect Vann Molyvann. He was the architect to the last king, Sihanouk, who was ousted in 1975 by the arrival of the Khmer Rouge led by Pol Pot. The story uses architecture as a narrative device to explore something greater.

I have dedicated my latest works to the city of Milan, my city. For years I had taken it for granted, and exploring it through images has been a therapeutic process that has helped me reconnect with it. The San Siro stadium is a cathedral which, it seems, will soon be no more. This is neither a political nor a sentimental photograph, but an image that seeks to restore a beauty that is far from ordinary to this iconic building, in all its sculptural form.

It is my favourite building in the city, thanks to its architecture and history. The Monte Amiata complex is a micro-city project in the Gallarate area of Milan, designed by Carlo Aymonino and Aldo Rossi in the 1980s. Beyond the theoretical underpinnings, Aymonino’s red structure is a delight to photograph, with its coloured planes that intersect to create an abstract effect.

I got to know Rome when I was a fellow at the American Academy. On my first day there, I hung a map on the wall of my studio, divided it into quadrants and began exploring the city every day, without fail. With its layers so complex as to be almost indecipherable, Rome can only be experienced as a given. What interested me most was the relationship between the history that emanates from the many archaeological sites and modern daily life, which carries on regardless.

New York was the first city I visited after the enforced break caused by the pandemic, which ‘forced’ me to explore Italy. In New York, I achieved my objective – in the literal sense. New York is an explosion of lettering, signs, colours and stimuli. And it was here that I realised I needed a photographic zoom lens – a lens that is by no means architectural – to ‘flatten’ all the planes together, creating an abstract representation of urban depth.

I began photographing market displays out of professional curiosity, to study their strategy and apply it to my own retail displays. I then began to pay increasing attention to these works of ‘unintentional design’ – this jumble of objects that transcends the national boundaries of any single market to convey a more general and uniform complexity.

In Hong Kong, I mapped almost all the buildings clad in bamboo scaffolding. This is a widespread practice due to the abundance of the plant and the seismic resistance of the bamboo stalks. Following a fire on 27 November 2025, there was a lengthy debate over whether to replace them with the more common steel structures. Before this architectural feature – so fascinating and ancient in a modern capital – disappears, I have tried as much as possible to document its presence, transforming it into works of art.

I’m not yet sure where all these photographs of Tokyo will lead me. But I’m fascinated by this interplay of lines, colours and indecipherable symbols.