Conversation with Sabrina Donadel

My first time in front of a work of art was also my first encounter with Giovanni Battista Cima, known as Cima da Conegliano. I was in fifth grade, and from the small town of Pieve di Soligo where I lived, our teacher took us on a field trip to the Cathedral of Conegliano, just a few kilometers away. There, she began telling us the story of one of the major exponents of the Venetian school of the 15th century.
The memory of a ten-year-old girl standing in front of Madonna Enthroned with the Child between Angels and Saints — oil on panel transferred to canvas, dated 1492—is vivid. I was captivated by the gaze of the Madonna, by the colors, the folds of the garments, the realism of the details. The awe I felt was so strong that from then on, I became passionate about Renaissance painting and asked for books through which I could admire it.
Giovanni Battista Cima was born just a few steps from the Cathedral, and when we passed in front of his house, now a museum, our teacher moved us by telling us that after moving to Venice, he would return to spend summers in our hills. This great painter is considered one of the geniuses of art history, and his works are now held in the most important galleries around the world.

My first time in front of a sculpture was also my first encounter with Antonio Canova. I was twelve years old, and the art history teacher at my middle school took us on a field trip to Possagno, just a few kilometers from home, to visit the Gypsotheca. This museum, established in 1834 by the artist’s half-brother, houses numerous plaster models, terracotta sketches, and marbles by the celebrated sculptor, who was born in the house next door and often returned there from his travels to rest.
The beauty, the delicacy, the expressions on the plaster of Standing Cupid and Psyche left me speechless. The love story between the god Eros and the beautiful yet mortal Psyche is captured in the flutter of a wing. That butterfly, symbol of the soul, which the maiden offers to her beloved, and those hands that, with a fragile gesture, caress it as if to protect its purity, were etched deep within me. So much so that, many years later, when I had the good fortune to see the same work in marble, it was an unforgettable emotion—not only because of the sensitivity with which Canova shaped that material, but also because it brought back the wonder in the eyes of that young girl, barely more than a child, standing before the timeless expressive power of a great artist.
Such was the strength of the spark ignited in me by the sculptural works of Antonio Canova that, every time I find myself in front of a sculpture, my gaze is touched by a subtle, distinct energy. And from there, a love for the work of another great artist was born.

My first time in front of a sculpture was also my first encounter with Antonio Canova. I was twelve years old, and the art history teacher at my middle school took us on a field trip to Possagno, just a few kilometers from home, to visit the Gypsotheca. This museum, established in 1834 by the artist’s half-brother, houses numerous plaster models, terracotta sketches, and marbles by the celebrated sculptor, who was born in the house next door and often returned there from his travels to rest.

The beauty, the delicacy, the expressions on the plaster of Standing Cupid and Psyche left me speechless. The love story between the god Eros and the beautiful yet mortal Psyche is captured in the flutter of a wing. That butterfly, symbol of the soul, which the maiden offers to her beloved, and those hands that, with a fragile gesture, caress it as if to protect its purity, were etched deep within me. So much so that, many years later, when I had the good fortune to see the same work in marble, it was an unforgettable emotion, not only because of the sensitivity with which Canova shaped that material, but also because it brought back the wonder in the eyes of that young girl, barely more than a child, standing before the timeless expressive power of a great artist.
Such was the strength of the spark ignited in me by the sculptural works of Antonio Canova that, every time I find myself in front of a sculpture, my gaze is touched by a subtle, distinct energy. And from there, a love for the work of another great artist was born.

My First Time Overseas, in New York, Was Also My First Encounter with Constantin Brancusi
When I saw The Sleeping Muse, I froze captivated by its form, by the material energy and, at the same time, its spiritual aura. The bronze sculpture, created by the artist in 1910, depicts the face of a Muse, with striated hair patinated in contrast to the smoothness of the face. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth slightly open in an asymmetrical slit. The tilted head of the sleeping muse, with its clean, essential lines, an expression of a primitive ideal of beauty, was love at first sight for me.

“Simplicity is not an objective in art,” Brancusi once said, “but one arrives at it unintentionally, as one approaches the real sense of things.”

This is exactly how I feel: in the physical relationship with sculpture, with the material shaped and molded by the artist, I sense that I can reach its essence.