Through a blend of intuition, self-reflection, and a deep connection to stories both real and imagined, the work delves into themes of identity, memory, and emotional resonance. This conversation offers a glimpse into the philosophies and processes that shape Fabiola’s art, where necessity meets passion, and imagination transforms the everyday into the extraordinary.
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Can you pinpoint a single moment in your life when you realized art was not just a passion but your purpose?
I was often told I should consider art as a path, especially during my upbringing, although I never took it seriously, until I was old enough to be working. As a kid, you have endless time for your hobbies, and that’s probably why I never saw an artistic career as a necessity for me. Things started shifting when I began working - in a normal job, and I realised that even if I enjoyed my work, the time I could dedicate to art now wasn’t enough to make me feel how I needed to. It wasn’t fulfilling my creative needs. Because rather than a purpose, I would say it’s a necessity. Not having the same time to dedicate to drawing that I used to, made me realise that making art was truly a necessity; it wasn’t just something I enjoyed doing. I would feel sick if I wasn’t making art for too long. Art is something I need to be happy within. Art is the only thing I keep on coming back to throughout my life. It’s my anchor. The only thing I have never abandoned. This is the thing, I didn’t wake up thinking I wanted to be an artist. I didn’t study art. I only saw myself as someone who needed art to affirm her identity. My art was always self-referential. Artistic experimentation is how I try to define myself. That’s why I call it a necessity. Art is amongst the most powerful, most liberating tools at my disposal.
How do you reconcile the tension between raw, innate creativity and the discipline required to master your craft?
It took time to truly understand my relationship with art. I hold a view that I will tell you about, although this doesn’t mean it won’t change. It started as an interest, a hobby, it then turned into a passion driven by purpose, and finally into a necessity. As the perception of my relationship with my own art changed, so did the balance of creativity and discipline. Back when drawing was simply a hobby, I would draw solely when I was really inspired, and I felt I wanted to recreate something I harboured in my mind. I would eagerly embrace these moments of creativity as much as I would those of apathy. These moments of little creativity often coincided with the times I was distracted by other aspects of life, like moving to London, starting a job and entering adulthood. Or even just letting go, forgetting about everything and enjoying life to the fullest. It would be exciting, even, to live a different life, one without art ever-present. It was almost like choosing to be someone else, someone I alone got to define. However, each time these cycles ended, I would return to drawing. That was my constant. I needed to draw to rebuild, re-centre, and re-balance myself. This also taught me that I wasn’t doomed to the extremes of artistic proliferation or artistic nothingness. I could be more dedicated and, thus, more disciplined.
Nowadays, I try to find time to draw even when a million other things are going on in my life. It’s not always easy, but I do it so that I don’t lose my bearings. Periods of little productivity are normal, and I welcome them, but eventually, I force myself to create something. You know that feeling of wanting to postpone something while knowing that if you do, you’ll regret it and feel even worse?
How do you reignite creativity during those inevitable periods of self-doubt or stagnation?
I feel like periods of doubt can be of various natures. There is doubt concerning the solidity of one’s own artistic drive, and then there is doubt around the artistic outcome. I am often quite sceptical about the latter. I am not academically educated in the art of drawing, and my technique isn’t always the best. I am self-taught, and most of what I learned, I did so by experimenting by myself. About the former, instead, I remember a moment in my life when I thought “Maybe I’ve convinced myself I like drawing more than I really do, maybe it’s not my prerogative any longer”. I remember confronting others about this and letting them in on my plan: I would stop drawing, I wouldn’t think about it and I’d focus on other stuff. I actively chose to stop drawing. I carried out an experiment on myself: If I didn’t feel the need to draw ever again, I would never pick the pencil back up. I would put my time into something else. I can’t remember how long it lasted... I’m not sure. But not for long. I was miserable. Therefore art came back into my life like it had never left. From that moment onwards I’ve never stopped drawing. Now, Artistic stagnation is also a reality. I sometimes find myself staring at a sheet of paper without knowing what to do. I draw a line, just one, I look at it and I despise it. I end up covering the sheet with lines until there is no drawing left, only a coloured sheet of paper. When it happens I know there isn’t much I can do. But I’ve also learned that when that happens I can do other stuff, like working on details. Or revisiting old drawings, adding details, or even making something small and detailed. Detailing is a form of therapy for me and I have to force myself to stop, or I’d go on forever.
How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?
I like ambiguity, I think it’s a fantastic thing. It allows the observer to become an artist. Rendering your interpretation of an art-work is a bit like finishing an unfinished drawing. You need to be creative. At least, that’s what I like to think. Whenever I’m drawing I try to imagine the piece is a snap-shot of a much longer story I created in my head. And anyone can add their own details to it. I am usually inspired by stories I read or events I live through; these are what give meaning to the drawing. Sharing my art with the public is not about imposing my story on the observers, on the contrary, it’s about letting them develop their own. You are simply using the drawing as a starting point for your story. If the story behind my drawing is a specific one, I usually share the meaning, on a high level. For my past collection, for example, I explained who the nymphs were and where their myth comes from. All the rest is up to the observer to decide. Really, that’s how I like it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?
Whenever I draw I’m usually trying to give space to something I saw, and that I feel wasn’t granted enough attention. Something that deserves more in order to be fully appreciated; it’s as if I were trying to give that moment some more space in my life. These stories and snap-shots make me feel like I want to dive into the details and bring them to life, using different colours and techniques. It’s like “renovating the moment” while slightly changing reality and filtering it through feelings, rather than through your eyes. By drawing, I am adding my personal emotional gradient, that is, a level of intimacy that a realistic representation would not achieve. It becomes much more personal. I love it. Even though I usually start from a real glimpse of life, I often go on to add whatever my imagination comes up with, not what I witnessed. Take the Marrakech table, for example. The plate of grilled sardines was really there, but all the rest was a figment of my imagination. The table, the floor - all the details, are almost a reflection of my inner feelings and of the journey of taste, smell and vision I went on while eating the dish, all decorated in patterns of colour.
Do you feel a personal connection to your subject matter is essential? How has this connection shaped your work?
Ultimately, I’d say yes. I draw stuff I feel drawn to. It’s natural to me and it’s my own form of therapy. This is actually a great question, and it’s making me reflect on why I sometimes struggle to draw things I really find fascinating and that I’d love to capture on paper. I am captivated by certain subjects that are visually pleasing, and that I often think of representing.. but I never do it unless there is a deeper connection. The aesthetic element is not enough for me to go ahead and create an entire piece. If the connection is missing, I need to create one. I do this by reading more on the argument and developing a more personal relationship with the story. It’s the only way. This personal connection isn’t always easy to see, especially from the outside. The Moroccan collection, for example, was directly inspired by instances of my own life, but the Nymphs one wasn’t. The latter includes drawings that were influenced by the bedtime stories my father used to read us (instead of the usual fairy tales!). Drawing those nymphs was a way for me to reconnect and relive my childhood. It was comforting. The drawings inevitably brought those stories back, allowing me to reinterpret them in a new way.
If you had only 24 hours left to create, how would you spend them?
I would spend the 24 hours on a unique giant piece that represents my life. I love storytelling so I think I would follow a fairly logical timeline allowing myself to celebrate and savour each moment I experienced by representing it as a visual memory. Something I would love to do is also to adapt the technique and style to that specific moment of my life. I think I can easily think about at least five different art periods I had and evolved through.
How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?
I am excited to think my art is growing with me. I would love to expand my practice and create much more than what I am currently doing; this evolution necessarily entails spending more time working on canvas in the coming years. I would also love to experiment more with mixed media, especially considering my art already consists of a juxtaposition of photographs and imagination. I have an idea to layer my process even more by starting from a collection of photographs that inspire me, then collating them, creating digital drawings, printing them, and finally giving each drawing a personal touch by hand. I love digital media, and being able to print in various scales is amazing, but I miss the material texture and uniqueness of hand-crafted pieces. I recently started going to a studio to experiment more freely with acrylics, oil paints and other mediums, as I can’t really do much in my flat. You will see me incorporate these in my future practice.
It’s different when you can see pieces on a real-life scale. On the iPad, you can only view them on a much smaller scale, and you don't really get a feel for the outcome, until it’s printed out. Another thing I'd love to do more of is collaborations. I worked on some commissions for privates and I have another one lined up, but I’d like to do more! I find it beautifully challenging. Collaborating with other people really takes me out of my comfort zone, and this is something I believe we all need. Feeling slightly uncomfortable is somehow inspiring.
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Fabiola Smorto’s work captures the intersection of the personal and universal, where art becomes both a necessity and a method of storytelling. By infusing life’s moments with layers of imagination and emotional depth, each creation becomes a unique reflection of both subject and self. As Fabiola continues to experiment and evolve, the work stands as a celebration of creativity’s capacity to inspire, connect, and transform.