Giulia M May 2026

Giulia's response is characteristically quiet. "I don't make sad work," she says. "I make work that doesn't lie about time. Time takes things. That's not tragic. That's physics."

She is also rumored to be writing a book. Not an artist's monograph, but a novel—one she says is "about a woman who builds a house out of other people's alarm clocks."

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. giulia m

"I grew up believing that every object holds a conversation," Giulia recalls, running a finger along a rusted spring on her worktable. "You just have to be quiet enough to hear it."

The final installation, located in a former insane asylum on the outskirts, contains no objects at all. Only a single chair and a recorded voice—her mother, reading a list of every street in Bergamo that has been renamed since 1950. By the end, the listener is meant to understand that memory is not a photograph. It is a palimpsest. And we are all writing over each other's ghosts. Not everyone celebrates Giulia M. Critic Lorenzo Fabbri of Il Giornale dell'Arte has called her work "emotionally manipulative" and "structurally elitist." He points out that her installations require silence, time, and a willingness to stand in cold rooms for long periods. "This is not democracy," he wrote. "This is a religion with a guest list." Giulia's response is characteristically quiet

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 . Time takes things

That period became her unspoken graduate school. "The lab taught me rhythm," she says. "The brain has frequencies. So does a room. So does a broken chair." In 2019, a small gallery in the Brera district agreed to host a solo show for an unknown artist named "Giulia M." The installation was simple: a single room, darkened. In the center, a series of suspended copper plates, each salvaged from a different decommissioned hospital. Around them, electromagnetic field listeners—repurposed from her lab days—emitted low, shifting tones.