The fashion world anointed her. Vogue called her "the poet of decay." Offers arrived daily: a perfume bottle shaped like a fossil, a jewelry line made of melted circuit boards.
Visitors entered one by one. They did not see "art" in the conventional sense. They saw relics. They heard a soundscape that changed based on their proximity to each plate. The closer they came, the higher the pitch. The show was called Resonance #4 . giulia m
Her process is forensic. When she built Mourning Machine (2021)—a kinetic sculpture made from the gears of a decommissioned funicular railway—she spent six weeks interviewing former railway workers. She recorded their voices, slowed them to subsonic frequencies, and embedded the audio into the sculpture's motor. When Mourning Machine runs, it does not sound like grief. It sounds like a mountain exhaling. The fashion world anointed her
Giulia M.'s "The Unfinished City" runs through November. By appointment only. No photography. Bring nothing. Leave changed. They did not see "art" in the conventional sense
She has a point. Her newer works, including a 2024 piece called Joy as a Contact Force , is built from carnival ride scrap and children's playground bells. It emits erratic, laughing tones. Visitors have reported dancing. Off the record, Giulia M. is not the ascetic her public persona suggests. She cooks elaborate pasta meals for friends. She has a collection of ugly ceramic frogs. She cries during The Muppet Christmas Carol . She is also, quietly, a fierce advocate for arts education in Italian public schools, having anonymously funded six after-school sculpture labs in the past three years.
In the hushed, golden-hour light of her Milanese studio, Giulia M. does not so much create as she translates. She takes the frequency of a feeling—loss, wonder, the static of a crowded city—and renders it into physical form. To some, she is a sculptor. To others, a sound artist. To a growing global following, she is the architect of a new kind of sensory honesty.