ARTTYCO TALKS
Francesca invites us into landscapes of quiet resilience—where nature becomes a metaphor for adaptation, and each layered surface echoes the slow, steady rhythm of renewal.
ARTTYCO TALKS | August 20, 2025.
EPISODE #8: FRANCESCA BORGO
1. Your paintings evoke the movement and fluidity of natural elements—especially water and air. What draws you to these liminal, formless states?
F: I’m drawn to the threshold between forms—those spaces where one thing dissolves into another, like mist rising from water or wind shaping clouds, almost carving them. These states are fragile, fleeting, and open-ended, much like our emotions and thoughts. As someone who moved from a scientific to an artistic path, I’m fascinated by what escapes immediate-direct measurement: the felt experience of change, the sensation of slow transformation from what may initially seem stillness. Water and air embody that—they don’t resist transformation; they are transformation. Painting becomes my way of exploring that liminality, where form emerges and fades, where nothing is fixed but everything is connected.
2. There’s a meditative stillness in your work. Do you see painting as a contemplative or even spiritual practice?
F: Absolutely. Painting for me is a deeply immersive and contemplative act. Each layer, each gesture, becomes a moment of connection—not just with the canvas, but with something larger, encompassing both past and future dimensions of time. The repetition of certain movements, the shaping of textures with water and sand, creates a rhythm that slows me down and centers me. In that sense, it feels very close to a meditative state. I don’t aim to depict the world outside, but to translate an inner landscape of presence, silence, and emotional depth. It’s a spiritual process, but one rooted in the body—intuitive, grounded, and open to imperfection.
3. You often translate the rhythms of nature onto canvas—inviting viewers to see it as more than just scenery. In what ways does nature become a metaphor for adaptation, endurance, or renewal in your work?
F: Nature is never static—it shifts, adapts, persists. That’s what resonates with me most. I see a wave not just as a form, but as a metaphor for resilience: it bends, breaks, reforms. A gust of wind, the slow layering of sediment, the erosion of stone—these are all acts of transformation. In my paintings, I try to echo that same quiet power. The textures and forms suggest motion, erosion, and rebuilding. I want to remind the viewer that, like nature, we too are shaped by time and pressure—not broken, but redefined. There’s beauty in that process—and in being open to growth.
4. Do you tend to work in long uninterrupted sessions or more slowly over time? How does that rhythm affect the mood or movement in your paintings?
F: It depends on the phase. At the beginning, the process demands a burst of energy—especially when I’m shaping the sand with water. Those first gestures are instinctive and physical; they set the emotional tone of the piece. Once the sand dries, though, the rhythm slows. Most of my paintings then evolve gradually. I return to them over several days, letting each diluted layer of color settle before adding the next. This stage feels entirely out of my control, and that unpredictability creates space for reflection and nuance. It mirrors the movement I aim to convey—never abrupt or forced, but fluid and organic, like the slow shifting of water shaping sand along a shoreline. Later, when I begin applying thicker layers of paint, the rhythm changes again. My brushstrokes become more deliberate and spaced out—not in terms of the surface, but in time. It’s about connecting elements and intuitively ‘guiding’ the final composition so that it aligns with my sense of how the painting should move as a whole.
5. Your paintings have an immersive, almost atmospheric quality. What kind of emotional or physical response do you hope they evoke in the viewer?
F: I hope my paintings invite a kind of quiet openness to change—an intimate adventure into exploring the boundaries of personal growth. I want the viewer to feel drawn in—not to decode a message, but simply to be with the work, feeling wide-open limits, much like those within the painting itself. Some may sense a need to slow down, breathe, and attune to the texture, the light, the flow—of both the painting and their own life. Others might feel a sense of freedom, like waves that keep rolling or clouds drifting across an infinite sky.
My hope is that the painting becomes a space for feeling—a mirror for the viewer’s inner world of potentials. It’s about looking toward our future selves while remaining connected to our past. Often, the mood within a painting stirs unspoken memories, impressions, or sensations that resurface unexpectedly and seem to speak directly to the self in the present. Many people have shared this with me over time.
For me, a painting isn’t decorative; it’s meant to hold something real and intimate—something that speaks in a quiet, ancient language of memory, transformation, and growth.
