Trompe-l’oeil, as a pictorial device, bends the boundary between reality and illusion, deceiving the viewer’s perception with hyperreal precision. It forces us to confront the very nature of what’s real—a surface, a medium, suddenly rupturing with the illusion of depth and dimension crafted by the artist. It’s a distortion of reality that simultaneously redefines it. In an expansive conversation, Louisa Gagliardi and I navigated the technical articulation of our desires, both for others and ourselves; the translation of emotions through intentions as a mode of designing sensation.

Liminal spaces emerge, milky strokes ripple across surfaces, and the uncanny unfolds—these are the interpretive tools we deploy to capture the hyper-modern condition, where reality is constantly shifting, expanding, and being rewritten.‍‍

Cyana-Djoher: Are you trying to break into reality or extend it and redefines the limits of space?

Louisa Gagliardi: This ambivalence is actually one of the main themes I explore. When you look at our generation, we're immersed in technology, social networks, and so on, but I believe we're quite disconnected despite this hyper-connectivity.

Even before the pandemic, you could sense the false reassurance in duplicating yourself online or creating an entirely different identity. There's an illusion of freedom in it, yet we're still conditioned by algorithms.

The internet is so vast that it gives us the feeling of boundless freedom. But also, I really enjoy being online, and I don’t see it as inherently negative. If people find happiness in being connected and discovering their communities online, that’s wonderful.

However, this duality is very present in my work, especially becauseI often create environments that feel closed-off yet still resemble reality—though slightly distorted. I work a lot with trompe l’oeil or screen-to-screen reflections. My art is typically presented in this way to express how we also exist through filtered lenses and layers—especially the characters populating my images. It’s about the filters we apply to continue existing in reality, and, to some extent, it questions what is real.

C: Do you see the canvas as a way to create a new dimension? I've explored this idea in fashion, particularly through the use of exaggerated shapes and voluminous garments. It's almost a response to the two-dimensional nature of how we consume images today, the oversized silhouettes seem to push back against flatness. When you create these"rooms," it feels as if you're breaking through the walls. Is it about evoking a greater sense of depth?

L: That’s a great analogy, yes! I see it as infusing more drama into the 2D, creating a kind of false sense of 3D within a flat space.

There's always a hint of dystopia in my work, something almost post-apocalyptic.

When you think about utopian architecture, it's often about these extraordinary, vast, and monumental spaces. The canvas, in a way, offers that same possibility.

C: To you, is there a certain allure or even optimism to be found in dystopian or post-apocalyptic themes? Overtime, these aesthetics have almost become a dominant cultural narrative. How do you navigate or engage with that in your work?

L: Yes, there is! I think, especially in my landscape and nature paintings, there's always a sense of hope emerging from that post-apocalyptic theme.

It’s this idea that after humanity has been subdued, nature begins to reclaim its rightful place, and we become guests on the planet once again. ‍

It's about that ambivalence—like when you see images of Chernobyl today, with lush nature and deer roaming freely. It’s very...

C: Romantic?

L: Yes, and it also reveals alternative possibilities—what happens when we let things exist on their own terms. I think there's a positive virtue in that. We live in a world that, to some extent, feels very sad; doomsday is already here in away. While I’m aware of my privileges,

I feel like I’m metabolizing these fears and unsettling thoughts through my paintings. It’s almost therapeutic, in a sense.

C: In your paintings, there’s an intriguing incursion into reality that seems to mirror our current condition. Rather than offering critique or a fantasized take, it presents a more grounded, tangible perception of this post-apocalyptic world—both real and virtual. Would you say that’s an intentional reflection of our current state, an alternative to escapism?

L: Yes, I’d define my practice as quite concrete, though there are still subconscious elements at play. I’ve noticed a certain evolution and decentering in my work. If you compare my paintings from three years ago, they were more self-centered, focused on my personal fears and anxieties. But with time, experience, and a greater sense of social maturity, I feel like I’m zooming out—both in my paintings and in my social roles.

What started as channeling social anxiety has expanded into a broader, more general anxiety, and this ‘zooming out’ reflects that shift.

I’ve gone from close-up portraits to creating expansive environments, refining my technique as the concepts and ideas have grown more complex.

C: Do you think this gradual decentering in your work was allowed by technique, or was it a conscious artistic choice on your part?

L: I believe this shift came through technique, both in my art and in my mindset—it’s also a kind of mental technique. With experience, you naturally start putting things into perspective, and I think these two aspects go hand in hand. We’re living through a collective experience in this crisis, so it all feels interconnected. I sometimes wonder if it holds meaning on such a broad scale, but for me, it’s important to channel these feelings and reflections through my work.

C: It’s also a way to acknowledge this reality and communicate it through your specific point of view, to archive feelings and eco-emotions?

L: Yes, and it’s fascinating to see how people interpret my work. I intentionally leave room for interpretation, as my work is both narrative and visual but still open-ended.

I prefer to keep my work open so that viewers can contribute with their own perspectives and complete the narrative in their own way.

C: Is it why you keep everything vaporous and diffused in your work? It taps into this ambivalence you mentioned earlier, the depiction of real situations and this eeriness to it.

L: Yes, also my work is primarily digital. I gravitate towards digital mediums because my background is in graphic design, though I also incorporate manual techniques into the process. The milky aspect you notice is something I'm actively pursuing. I aspire to a certain level of realism while staying true to my creative intentions, evoking a sense of the nebulous.

This often echoes the distorted perspectives and labyrinthine, liminal spaces found in old video games.

Overall, I seek to create something that feels liquid and distorted.

C: Liquidity was the term I was looking for! It’s as if you were adding relief to a picture, like when a game introduces a cinematic sequence, revealing a more refined version of its 2D or faux-3D world. This renewed experience offers a richer, more nuanced perspective.

L: You also have this in dreams, when you attempt to recall their details but can't quite grasp them fully, there's a sense of elusiveness. I'm attached to the concept of liminal space. I believe that, in my painting there’s something of being either too early or too late and it forces our imagination to recreate or give meaning to the scenario.

Another big concept in my work is the idea of being an "uninvited guest"-someone who intrudes upon a situation, disrupting the scenario or interrupts it.

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C: I’m deeply intrigued by the concept of “interruption,” and I’m curious about how the cars in your paintings fit into this theme. Cars, along with motorcycles, are one of my main obsessions. As closed spaces and distinct environments, they create a sense of inertia while life speeds by, outside their confines, they interrupt something of the collective experienced time. Do these vehicles serve as an extension of the layered reality you’re exploring in your work?

L: Firstly, I’d say my use of cars in my work stems from my appreciation for refined objects, a passion shared with my father. I’m also intrigued by these closed cabins that can transport you anywhere. I’m currently preparing for an exhibition in Vienna this October, where a car will once again feature. It’s aesthetically so pleasing but in the meantime it’s extremely dangerous.

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C: I was also wondering about your usage of the trompe l’oeil like in "Like One of Your French Girls”, is it a reoccurring theme to infuse 2D in 3D for you?

L: I love creating this way, although it is less spontaneous. My primary medium is two-dimensional, but when an idea translates well into three dimensions, it complements the exhibition space and extends the impact of the paintings. In this particular piece, the seat is placed on a pedestal, and the lingerie is printed on fabric, once again feel “uninvited” or don’t know whether you can sit or not. I think it works best when the space become dynamic.

C: Yes, it’s like a chain of provoked and interactive Freudian slips in a way.

L: Yes, exactly! That’s the concept!