APPAREL INTERVIEW:
Andreas Zampella
Artist [Italy]
Here is Andreas Zampella, the Campanian artist now based in Milan who, with his recent exhibition Il cielo sopra Milano at Galleria Poggiali, overturned the Milanese sky into a constellation of suspended, ordinary, daily, precarious objects. He comes to pick us up at the entrance of the courtyard where his studio is located, tucked among postwar social housing buildings with the flavor of old Milan, cars covered with winter tarps, cats wandering around, small gardens and laundry hanging out to dry. The studio is in a basement, shared with two other young artists, and Andreas’ atelier is scattered with tiny, almost invisible works. Feels like the perfect place to get to know him better. In this Apparel Interview, straight from the Maggiolina district of Milan, we explored not only the alchemies of thought that define his research, but also the folds of his personality, among flour, clay, stacked canvases, small works hiding everywhere, memories, and above all fatalism, simplicity, life’s flow, and a healthy dose of fascinating disenchantment. Here we are, on a couple of chairs and a sofa covered with dishcloths, a bag of candies, and other materials that will surely end up inside some future piece.
APPAREL INTERVIEW:
Andreas Zampella
Artist [Italy]
Here is Andreas Zampella, the Campanian artist now based in Milan who, with his recent exhibition Il cielo sopra Milano at Galleria Poggiali, overturned the Milanese sky into a constellation of suspended, ordinary, daily, precarious objects. He comes to pick us up at the entrance of the courtyard where his studio is located, tucked among postwar social housing buildings with the flavor of old Milan, cars covered with winter tarps, cats wandering around, small gardens and laundry hanging out to dry. The studio is in a basement, shared with two other young artists, and Andreas’ atelier is scattered with tiny, almost invisible works. Feels like the perfect place to get to know him better. In this Apparel Interview, straight from the Maggiolina district of Milan, we explored not only the alchemies of thought that define his research, but also the folds of his personality, among flour, clay, stacked canvases, small works hiding everywhere, memories, and above all fatalism, simplicity, life’s flow, and a healthy dose of fascinating disenchantment. Here we are, on a couple of chairs and a sofa covered with dishcloths, a bag of candies, and other materials that will surely end up inside some future piece.
-Andreas, first of all, thanks for welcoming us here. I will repeat what I asked you a moment ago: how are you, right now?
- …and as I was telling you earlier, yeah, I’m feeling normal, spinning between good and bad, normal. It can always get worse and it can always get better, ahah. It surely is an intense moment but, how can I put it, in a way every moment in life is intense. Summer is intense, winter is intense. In the end every day becomes intense, at least the way I see it.
-We’d like to understand a bit more about your path. How did you end up here talking to us today?
- Look, how can I explain… I think I would have found myself here today in any way. I attended an art high-school in Salerno (I’m from Cava de’ Tirreni, about 15 km away), then I went to the Academy of Fine Arts in Naples. After that, I ended up in Milan for other reasons I won’t get into because it would be too complicated. But in any case, I’ve always drawn and painted since I was a child. At home there was always a very open mindset, an open environment. So to make a long story very short: here I am!
-Let’s come back to the present. In your new exhibition, opened on February 11, 2026 at Galleria Poggiali, Il cielo sopra Milano, you brought an alternative Milanese sky into the gallery space, to restore a night the city no longer allows us to see. We were there, and we’ve read some of your previous reflections before the vernissage, but we would like you to tell it again for us, maybe exploring themes you haven’t spoken about before.
- Yes. So, this work is a process. It’s an integral part of a path I’ve been carrying on for years; it’s more a logical consequence than an isolated idea. My “confusion,” if I can call it that, is the starting point of my work. From there many macro and micro themes emerge. They fuse, evolve, and at some point they give birth to something that takes form and becomes real. Il cielo sopra Milano is an experiment, a deepening of my thinking, a fragment of a larger discourse. The research behind it revolves around the term “natura morta”, my recurring question. In Italian we call it that, literally “Dead Nature.” It’s a closed term, like there’s a wall at the end of it. It doesn’t leave space for imagination. In Dutch, the language that coined it, it’s “stilleven,” which means “silent life” or “still life”, as in English. These terms open up much broader and more interesting interpretations. Starting from here, the exhibition talks about everything and nothing, because in the end… I like “talking” about everything and nothing. But maybe that’s precisely the role of art. There are macro and micro topics. If the macro is art, the micro is what you bring, your reading. Il cielo sopra Milano is also a sort of summary of many things I love: I like working with the idea of “controlled darkness,” I love stars. The title clearly references Wings of Desire (Editor's Note: “Il cielo sopra Berlino” is the film’s Italian title), with its angels who decide to become human. I reasoned in the opposite direction: the human part, materialised in objects produced by human beings, becoming celestial bodies. It’s about the human through its absence. That’s the core of still life. My work often revolves around the artificial and the natural at the same time, a dichotomy that applies to society too. The sun is a natural obligation. We’re obliged to daylight, and obliged to darkness at night. Artificial lighting imposes light on us, going against nature. I like to reflect on these things. Once, I designed a project where a streetlamp had a switch installed on it, so anyone could regulate the light themselves, creating an artificial nature guided by free will. Life, and my research, is a constant play of light and shadow. Everything exists only if its opposite exists. These reflections guide my practice, deciding what should exist and what shouldn’t. The objects applied to my artificial sky were collected from friends, from markets… everyday objects that become actors telling other stories.
-Talking about objects: in your works, everyday objects shift function and become suspended, almost scenographic presences. When you look at a common object, what needs to happen for you to decide it can enter your work and become an unconscious co-protagonist?
- The object is a fragment of life. In some way I have to live it, or have lived it. That’s how it enters my sphere. When you speak about scenography and co-protagonists, you’re giving me the perfect cue to mention a fundamental inspiration of mine: theatre and its rules. I experience my works as if they were actors on a stage. Some become protagonists, others co-protagonists, forming small self-sufficient ecosystems. Another field I investigate a lot is grammar. Periods, commas, applied in space. Space is what we live inside; it belongs to me as it belongs to everyone. In my case, it gets re-proposed on canvas or on whatever support I’m working with. Some paintings and objects become actual “verbs” in my imagination. They perform actions that influence how I interpret them. They enter that silent life, that still life I mentioned, which tells me that everything is alive, everything is moving, contrary to the literal Italian definition, “Dead Nature.” I attribute a soul to these objects. They are verbs. They come alive. They become companions. It’s a mantra of mine, a way to connect with them, and potentially for the viewer to absorb them and see them as companions too. It’s a process. It’s evolving. It’s all experimental. There’s no certainty of success.
-Since we also love words, and you mentioned grammar, would you expand on this fascination?
- I’ll try, but it’s not easy to define. A painting can be a poem, and an object can become a word. Everything can merge. But how do you explain a poem? The moment you translate it, it loses impact. My work is grammar, and is “writing” too. Think of the works I make using some “canovacci”, in Italian that word means both dishcloths and the structural outline of a theatrical piece whose development is left to actors’ improvisation. I think that some things need to be left as they are.
-Many of your works seem to require the viewer to move and find the right light to really “see” them. Do you consider the viewer during your process, or do you work purely for yourself?
- Of course I think about the viewer. If my work is like a writing, I have to put myself in the reader’s shoes. I need to attempt a universal language, readable, somehow understandable. In theatre, again, you think about the audience: will they laugh? Cry? But if you’re asking whether I create expecting to provoke a reaction, no. On that I’m free, luckily. Over the years my thinking about the people who might experience my art has changed. You grow and mature.
-Are there recurring patterns in your creative process, or is everything subject to change?
- There’s a lot of unconsciousness in what I do. My hand moves, it’s not controlled. The unconscious always surfaces. It’s like Alberto Giacometti trying to make “beautiful” things and ending up making only “ugly” ones, and the entire meaning of his work was there. I don’t have recurring patterns. I try to detach from what I’ve done before, constantly questioning myself. I like changing. I ask myself: if I change this, what goes on? One painting suggests another and a chain reaction happens. There’s no beginning or end. It’s a flow. Same in life. I change points of view often, to remain coherent with myself. In a way, I’m inconsistent to stay consistent! To answer simply: repetition and static situations cause me enormous suffering...
-How do you relate today to your past works, and to the past in general?
- I look at paintings from twenty years ago and think: wow, you were already using that element back then… maybe something I picked up again twenty years later. I rediscover things. I respect what I’ve done and recognise myself in it. I see a past version of me and I feel affection. All in all, I can say that I live my past with simplicity.
-You’re originally from Cava de’ Tirreni. How much of home is there in Milan, and how much Milan is there in Cava?
I think of Cava both as micro and macro, again. In my mind it represents the South, Campania, a broader territory more than just “home”. But of course it’s my place of origin, with a thousand strong ties. I carry it with me, in my heart. I feel even more attached to it now. I bring elements from home to Milan and transform them, like lemons, which I’ve often used in my work. They represent the “Costiera” (coast). It’s almost a metaphysical decontextualization. Same with ceramics, a material abundant where I’m from. I’ve used liquid clay, barbottina, for years to paint canvases. Bringing it here and making it mine. Then I try to bring something of Milan back south, if it’s welcomed there… I’m good in Milan. I’d love to live again on the Costiera, but right now it’s not feasible. In the end, one day you’re here, the next you might not be, so I don’t think too much about what might be. Living somewhere is mental, it depends on the moment.
-What can never be missing from your bag, or your workspace?
Well, first of all, I don’t have a bag. I have a fanny pack, and I’m kind of addicted to it. Inside, the things that must not be lost, hahaha. When I’m working, space is crucial. The “still life” that builds itself around me is essential. From the things of the space I inhabit, characters emerge. I develop real relationships with them. If at some point I feel like painting the sofa, it’s because somehow I’ve had an exchange with the sofa. The disorder, the chaos, especially during long production phases, becomes part of the work. Within it, immaterial relationships with material things are born.
-Great. Now our usual little questions. Let’s see what you tell us, and what they end up revealing about you.
-If you were a city?
- An imaginary city… I’d say Neverland.
-If you were a piece of cutlery?
- Haha, a fork. Yes, I think so. But also a teaspoon.
-If you were a geometric shape?
- An octagon.
-If you were a song or album?
- Instinctively, something from Nirvana. I don’t know why, maybe because you look a bit like Kurt. Yeah, let’s say Nevermind from Nirvana. But I don’t have a favorite musician or genre. If you saw my playlists, you’d see they’re totally all over the place. But if I had to choose a concert right now, I’d actually love to hear Brunori Sas live.
-If you were an artwork?
- Clothespin by Claes Oldenburg (Editor’s Note: 1976, Philadelphia). That’s what comes to mind now. You have to consider that, in another moment, I’d probably say something else.
-If you hadn’t chosen to be an artist?
- Whatever I’d be doing, I’d hope to do it lightly and happily.
-What’s a question nobody’s ever asked you that you wish they would?
- I’d like to be asked a simple, direct question. About everyday life, maybe politics, not technical, but applied politics. Even the issue of darkness we mentioned earlier is political, but it becomes poetic. I’d like to talk about those kinds of things. Real politics, human politics, not left or right, but the dynamics of community, which fascinates me deeply. The theme of authority fascinates me a great deal as well, for instance the way it is explored in some of Richard Sennett’s writings. You know, I like extracting words from contexts, because when you investigate a word’s etymology, it becomes political when applied to contemporaneity. I once made a work about a flag, which is a totem of modern society. I wanted to understand what the word meant and what each person’s “flag” might be. I researched its etymology in Italian (bandiera). The Indo-European prefix “bha-” means epiphany, apocalypse, revelation, light. And today in English it evolved into “banner.” There’s so much politics in that shift.
-Andreas, I guess we’re done.
- We’re done? Okay, good. From here on out, it’s all downhill…
-How do you relate today to your past works, and to the past in general?
- I look at paintings from twenty years ago and think: wow, you were already using that element back then… maybe something I picked up again twenty years later. I rediscover things. I respect what I’ve done and recognise myself in it. I see a past version of me and I feel affection. All in all, I can say that I live my past with simplicity.
-You’re originally from Cava de’ Tirreni. How much of home is there in Milan, and how much Milan is there in Cava?
I think of Cava both as micro and macro, again. In my mind it represents the South, Campania, a broader territory more than just “home”. But of course it’s my place of origin, with a thousand strong ties. I carry it with me, in my heart. I feel even more attached to it now. I bring elements from home to Milan and transform them, like lemons, which I’ve often used in my work. They represent the “Costiera” (coast). It’s almost a metaphysical decontextualization. Same with ceramics, a material abundant where I’m from. I’ve used liquid clay, barbottina, for years to paint canvases. Bringing it here and making it mine. Then I try to bring something of Milan back south, if it’s welcomed there… I’m good in Milan. I’d love to live again on the Costiera, but right now it’s not feasible. In the end, one day you’re here, the next you might not be, so I don’t think too much about what might be. Living somewhere is mental, it depends on the moment.
-What can never be missing from your bag, or your workspace?
Well, first of all, I don’t have a bag. I have a fanny pack, and I’m kind of addicted to it. Inside, the things that must not be lost, hahaha. When I’m working, space is crucial. The “still life” that builds itself around me is essential. From the things of the space I inhabit, characters emerge. I develop real relationships with them. If at some point I feel like painting the sofa, it’s because somehow I’ve had an exchange with the sofa. The disorder, the chaos, especially during long production phases, becomes part of the work. Within it, immaterial relationships with material things are born.
-Great. Now our usual little questions. Let’s see what you tell us, and what they end up revealing about you.
-If you were a city?
- An imaginary city… I’d say Neverland.
-If you were a piece of cutlery?
- Haha, a fork. Yes, I think so. But also a teaspoon.
-If you were a geometric shape?
- An octagon.
-If you were a song or album?
- Instinctively, something from Nirvana. I don’t know why, maybe because you look a bit like Kurt. Yeah, let’s say Nevermind from Nirvana. But I don’t have a favorite musician or genre. If you saw my playlists, you’d see they’re totally all over the place. But if I had to choose a concert right now, I’d actually love to hear Brunori Sas live.
-If you were an artwork?
- Clothespin by Claes Oldenburg (Editor’s Note: 1976, Philadelphia). That’s what comes to mind now. You have to consider that, in another moment, I’d probably say something else.
-If you hadn’t chosen to be an artist?
- Whatever I’d be doing, I’d hope to do it lightly and happily.
-What’s a question nobody’s ever asked you that you wish they would?
- I’d like to be asked a simple, direct question. About everyday life, maybe politics, not technical, but applied politics. Even the issue of darkness we mentioned earlier is political, but it becomes poetic. I’d like to talk about those kinds of things. Real politics, human politics, not left or right, but the dynamics of community, which fascinates me deeply. The theme of authority fascinates me a great deal as well, for instance the way it is explored in some of Richard Sennett’s writings. You know, I like extracting words from contexts, because when you investigate a word’s etymology, it becomes political when applied to contemporaneity. I once made a work about a flag, which is a totem of modern society. I wanted to understand what the word meant and what each person’s “flag” might be. I researched its etymology in Italian (bandiera). The Indo-European prefix “bha-” means epiphany, apocalypse, revelation, light. And today in English it evolved into “banner.” There’s so much politics in that shift.
-Andreas, I guess we’re done.
- We’re done? Okay, good. From here on out, it’s all downhill…
