18 Questions With...
Roberto Maria Lino

I found it interesting. At first, I remember being shocked, running to my mother in tears and asking for a pencil so I could show her that the shape of the heart wasn’t what I’d been taught (two parentheses kissing), but a shapeless ball. Later, as a teenager, I got used to being in that environment; it stopped affecting me. That’s around when I realized [medicine] wasn’t for me. Still, growing up in an operating theatre left a deep impression. Even though it made me uncomfortable at first, it taught me how to handle pressure. In my practice today, there are needles, threads, and re-stitched fragments—things that could belong either in an artwork or in an operating room.

There isn’t one specific memory, but rather a desire to build and to heal, to reflect and to be reborn. I’m not disturbed by the fact that this fabric has seen raw experiences; what matters most is giving it a new life.

Spolia is my most recent series, shown so far only in New York and Monte Carlo. I’m fascinated by the idea of creating a timeless space within a single dimension, bringing together antique linens and contemporary fabrics, combining hand embroidery (a fading tradition) with textiles that once revolutionized history, like jersey. As in architectural Spolia, nothing is useless or beyond reuse; everything returns, and nothing is lost.

I use medical fabrics in the series Sutura and A tutto spessore. Surgical gowns are central to what I want to explore; they’ve always been the most direct medium for expressing what I wish to convey, beginning right at the source. The series examines family relationships, pressures, fears, expectations, dreams, and desires that often come with those bonds.

I hope so! If the fabric has a stain or a small mark from time, I always leave it, as if they were moles or small scars.

The exhibition Di mare e il suo orlo was born from an artist residency with the cultural affairs office of Monte Carlo. Part of the show was later presented at NM Contemporary in Monaco, in the exhibition Trames émotionnelles. The series that formed the show is Mare Cinereo. The sea has always been part of my childhood, and since the studios were near the shore, I wanted to work closely with nature. The fabric absorbs; salt corrodes and heals; the sun cures and fades—contrasts I love to explore.

I like to box myself in, challenging myself to keep giving new life to the path I’ve chosen: textile work. Of course, things can change, but for now, it’s what represents me most.

The Spolia series is tied to architecture, especially Italian architecture, where countless examples of spolia can be found: ancient columns, foundations, and marbles, thousands of years old, embedded in later structures, layering time within the very fabric of the buildings.

It was very emotional, one of the hardest projects to process but in a positive way. The exhibition Memoir of a Needle will always stay in my heart, thanks to Paul Henkel and Louis Vaccara.

I was discussing my show at Palo Gallery (NY) with someone who was analyzing some of the abstract marks in the installation. I explained that they were more compositional than symbolic, simply casual gestures.

They replied, “The artist is a medium, without knowing it. They read the present and reimagine it.”

I really appreciated that interpretation.

My mother always told me I had many flaws, but that they all disappeared because I was such a radiant child.

I loved playing with friends, dancing, choreographing, performing, drawing, making portraits, dressing up, and shooting short films with my dad’s cameras—being around people, but also feeling perfectly fine on my own. Luckily, the question wasn’t about my teenage years, haha.

I remember having a very honest phone call with my grandmother before starting my studies at the Academy of Fine Arts. It was a moment that helped me understand myself more deeply, who I was and who I wanted to become.

I listen to a lot of music and watch a lot of films. Paradoxically, when I’m most active on my favorite app, Letterboxd, it might look like I haven’t worked at all.

But those are actually my most productive days; at the studio, I can watch four or five films while sewing nonstop.

It amuses me that such a simple question throws me into confusion, probably because I have so many imaginary versions of what a perfect day could be. My first thought is that 24 hours wouldn’t be enough to fit everything I’d want to do or experience.

So let’s assume, just for fun, that on this perfect day time stretches to 36 hours, and I wake up early. The sun is shining, of course. I have a proper savory breakfast, then go for a walk with the family dog or a swim.

Since it’s the ideal day, I get to see the people I love. We catch up on life, and hopefully share some good gossip too. Then, because it’s spring—and the perfect day has to be either in spring or early summer—I have lunch: a fresh, delicious salad I’ve made myself, at home, alone.

In the afternoon, I work. I sew. Then I go back outside—maybe to one of my own exhibitions, or to discover a new gallery, or visit a museum that’s just reopened with a new layout.

In the evening, there’s a screening of a film I’ve been waiting to see since the director first announced it. Or maybe there’s a party with friends, an excuse to dress up and celebrate.

This day could take place in any city I love, really; one of the luxuries of my practice is that I can work anywhere, as long as I have a needle, thread, and fabric.

There’s a balance in the perfect day between social and solitary time, indoors and outdoors, and for me, that mix is essential.

A pair of Nikes, light blue and red—colors I might end up regretting, but they should be good for my back. I’ve had enough loafers for now.

And a new staple gun!

Professionally, I’m proud that within a year I managed to exhibit my work, which I deeply care about, in New York at Palo Gallery, in Monte Carlo at NM Contemporary, and as part of a project in Hurghada.

Personally, I’m grateful I had the chance to be close to part of my family during a time of need.

Working on a theater set.

It’s a question I often ask myself, and others ask me too, but I never quite know how to answer.

I’d certainly love to work in film. Recently, I remastered some short films my grandfather had made on film stock. Bringing his silent movies back to life brought me so much joy—I even added them to Letterboxd. He had his own small production company called Thomas Film, named after my uncle.

So perhaps… something in that world.