Could you give us an introductory overview of your journey as an artist? What motivated you to become the artist you are today?

My path to becoming an artist was not linear, but each stage of my life has shaped the work I create today.  I was raised in New York by an American mother and a Venetian father, both passionate about classical music and visual art. Our apartment was filled with European and Chinese antiques, and many childhood summers were spent in Venice exploring churches and museums and visiting family homes.  These early influences laid the foundation for my artistic language, particularly my choice of palette and my symbolic approach to visual storytelling.

Those influences naturally led me to study art history in college, but my subsequent decision to go to law school played an equally important role in developing an artistic style.  The seventeen years I spent representing museums and other nonprofit organizations honed my ability to distill complex issues — a skill that now enables me to construct miniature scenes that remain focused and accessible even when tackling layered or difficult subjects.

After leaving the legal field, I felt drawn to working with my hands and began designing intricate necklaces, often unconsciously echoing the joyful opulence of the multi-strand Murano glass torsades I remembered from my childhood. Consciously avoiding symmetry, I balanced semi-precious stones, pearls, shells, and amber — always including at least one Murano bead in memory of my father. Over time, I felt a growing desire to move beyond surface beauty and embed meaning into my mixed-media designs.  That impulse led me to shift to small-scale assemblages: richly layered works merging elegance with metaphor.

You depict topics such as immigration, climate change, and social justice through three-dimensional mixed media scenes. What methods do you use to make strategic choices when visually representing such complex issues?

The final assemblage rarely looks like I first imagined it would — it takes shape through experimentation, storytelling, and quite a bit of problem-solving.

I usually begin by selecting a segment from a necklace I’ve previously designed. From that small piece — its colors, textures, and emotional tone — I draw a palette, a sense of place, and a mood. That foundation helps me decide whether a scene should feel tender, unsettling, playful, or mournful. Occasionally, though, a single object sparks the entire direction — as with several pieces in my “From War to Peace” collection, which were built around specific World War II recruiting posters.

My studio holds a vast inventory of dollhouse miniatures, fabrics, craft items, papers, and found objects. Once I have a general concept in mind, I begin composing intuitively — arranging elements, testing combinations and layering meaning through visual metaphor. It’s a highly iterative process; I frequently swap components in and out, especially when a more symbolic or resonant option emerges.

When I hit a creative wall, I turn to research. Digging deeper often reveals new angles, uncovers overlooked connections, and sharpens the work’s intent.  And sometimes, the practical constraints of a 4-inch-deep frame — or even the laws of gravity — force unexpected changes. These seeming set-backs can shape the final piece in surprisingly strategic ways.  

Your work is heavily influenced by your Venetian heritage, even though it addresses several universal topics, and it often includes references from other cultures. How does your heritage manifest in the underlying themes of your practice, and how do you decide which topics to explore in your artworks?

As a first-generation American, I’ve long been influenced by my father’s immigration story, aware of how it has shaped my understanding of identity, belonging, and opportunity. Born and raised in Venice, he arrived in the U.S. in 1940 as a refugee soon after Italy’s Racial Laws barred Jews from working. Though he became an American citizen and built a life here, his connection to Venice never wavered — he even chose to be buried there. The visual language, foods, and rituals of Venetian life were constants, whether in our New York apartment or during regular visits to Italy.  That connection inspired my own.

Growing up bilingual and moving between Manhattan and Venice — especially at a time when international travel wasn’t as common as it is today — quietly shaped both my worldview and aesthetic sensibility.  I was always slightly out of sync with my surroundings: in the U.S., I was the Italian; in Italy, the American.  That sense of being between cultures made me a close observer, someone inclined to notice how different societies respond to the same issues. 

All of that naturally informs my work. The topics I explore — identity, migration, belonging, how we relate to nature, the fragility of rights — are personally meaningful, even if I try to approach them in ways that invite reflection and conversation.

In your statement, you mentioned that you aim to inspire a deeper appreciation for the shared human experiences that connect us. What visual and conceptual methods do you employ to foster this dialogue?

I try never to scold others for what they have or haven’t done; instead, my work aims to nurture empathy and awaken a desire to help.  As a result, I’m always thinking about how to lower defenses and open hearts.  

Conceptually, when working with complex or polarizing topics, I often turn to humor and historical reference points rather than current politicians or events. That bit of distance allows space for reflection — and reflection, rather than reaction, is my goal.  

Visually, I use scale and framing to invite a more reflective, receptive state. The intimate size of my pieces encourages viewers to come closer.  This physical intimacy tends to disarm; when someone leans in, curiosity naturally takes the lead, often replacing judgment with genuine interest.  I use custom wood frames that extend slightly toward the viewer, creating a sense of embrace, while the clarity of museum glass I always use removes visual barriers, enhancing the illusion of being present at the scene.  In that moment, passive viewing can shift into something more personal — a silent, thoughtful exchange between the work and the viewer. 

One of your pieces, titled "From War to Peace(Mail Call)," includes personal references and honours the women of the Six Triple Eight, a predominantly Black battalion active in England during World War II. Could you walk us through the process and the visual and conceptual language behind this work?

From War to Peace (Mail Call) weaves together wartime history, personal memory, and the civil rights struggles that followed World War II. At its heart is the story of the Six Triple Eight — a predominantly Black, all-female battalion tasked with clearing a staggering backlog of over a million pieces of mail intended for U.S. troops in Europe. On the surface, delivering mail might seem like a minor wartime duty, but military leaders understood its vital role in sustaining morale. The women of the Six Triple Eight worked tirelessly, under harsh conditions, to ensure that those fighting for their country remained connected to home.

The piece also draws from my own family’s wartime history. Shortly after VE Day (Victory in Europe Day), my mother — then a young opera student — sent her brother a recording of herself singing Un Bel Dì from Madama Butterfly. Because of Army regulations, she had to send it in two separate packages, so she divided the recording between two records.  The packages and recording are referenced by the two miniature records, symbolically sent from the family hearth, along with a snippet of the score showing the aria’s opening notes. It’s a particularly poignant detail: during the war, the Metropolitan Opera removed Madama Butterfly from its repertoire to avoid its portrayal of a Japanese woman betrayed by an American serviceman while the U.S. fought in the Pacific.

Each work in my From War to Peace series explores the stark contrast between how women’s talents were utilized during the war and how quickly the opportunities were rescinded as the war ended. Women recruited, trained, and entrusted with critical roles — including cryptographers, pilots, and parachute riggers — were unceremoniously thrust back into domestic life. For the women of the Six Triple Eight, that reversal was compounded by the reality of returning to a segregated nation. In Mail Call, a ribbon encircles a soda fountain with upturned stools, referencing the soda fountain sit-ins of the civil rights movement to come. It’s both a tribute and a quiet reminder of how long the fight for dignity and recognition has been — and how much of it still lies ahead.

The small scale of your artworks encourages viewers to come closer and engage intimately with the scene, sparking a conversation that avoids criticism or preaching and instead invites dialogue. Could you share a specific example of a moment or piece that embodies this approach?

The approach underlies The Diner (Coming to America).  At first glance, it appears to be a cheerful, quintessential 1950s American diner.  But as viewers lean in, small symbols of displacement begin to shift the tone — the phone off the hook referencing the need to leave at a moment’s notice and the lingerie representing the need to leave behind intimate, valued possessions — alluding to the sacrifices made when leaving one’s homeland. 

The assemblage is rooted in my father’s immigration story — what appears to be a business license on the wall bears a chillingly clinical excerpt from his 1939 U.S. visa application, revealing that he was fired for being Jewish.  But I designed the work to reach beyond personal history to prompt reflection on the struggles and endurance of immigrants everywhere, inviting viewers to reflect on what it means to seek safety, dignity, and a new beginning.

The reasons for immigration — fleeing poverty, persecution, and political unrest — have remained strikingly consistent over centuries. For this reason, I am turning this assemblage into a life-size diner installation.  The installation encourages visitors to see the desire for a new beginning — a desire central to immigration — as a unifying force regardless of race, religion, culture, and time. My hope is that those whose ancestors arrived long ago will see today’s immigrants through the lens of shared history, not as threats but as modern-day versions of their own ancestors. 

I plan to construct an 8’ x 20’ x 8’ modular, transportable recreation of the scene outfitted with diner-style tables and chairs to invite visitors to sit, reflect, and record their family’s reasons for wanting to come to America and their journeys. These collected stories will become part of the exhibit itself, evolving as the installation travels to communities throughout the U.S.  The stories will be retained and made available for statistical and other research either online or by donation to an appropriate recipient or recipients.

In your work, titled "Hope (The Guiding Light)," what drew you specifically to the Six of Swords and The Hermit cards? How do you see tarot cards functioning as a universal language for exploring challenging themes such as displacement and hope?

I began exploring Tarot imagery a few years ago as a way to connect with younger viewers without relying on contemporary pop culture references. Tarot offers a rich, symbolic language that feels timeless — intuitive yet layered, and open to interpretation. Rather than focusing on traditional meanings, I tend to respond to the visual language of each card — what the image evokes emotionally or metaphorically.

The hunched figure in the Six of Swords immediately called to mind two images — the woman ironing in one of Picasso’s iconic paintings (La repasseuse), quietly bearing the weight of the world, and those currently risking everything to cross the Mediterranean from North Africa to Europe. That seated figure became, for me, a powerful symbol of sacrifice, courage, and the hope that drives people to leave one life behind in hopes of a better one.

I paired the Six of Swords with The Hermit because of the quiet strength he conveys and the lantern he carries. So many beings in nature move instinctively towards light, and we humans rely on it to guide us and to search for others. Together, these two cards reflect the emotional landscape of displacement: the burden of departure, the solitude of transition, and the fragile, persistent hope that something better lies ahead.

Tarot works as a universal language, not because everyone believes in its divinatory power but because its archetypes and symbols speak to shared human experiences: loss, longing, transformation, and resilience.

Another aspect of your practice involves incorporating personal items with deep, symbolic significance, such as segments of a necklace you design. What can you tell us about the layered meanings behind these objects?

The necklace segment is a personal trace — a handmade element embedded within a scene otherwise built from mass-produced objects. Its presence underscores the contrast between the intimate and the manufactured, but the deeper symbolism in my work tends to come from the miniatures I pair with it. Each object is carefully chosen for its layered meaning. In Code Girls, for example, I used a crib not only to evoke the postwar expectation that women would return to domestic life, but also as a nod to their enduring intelligence despite their household duties. (In cryptography, a “crib” is a known piece of plaintext used to break a code.) Likewise, when I wanted to represent a complete fall from grace, I turned to a miniature replica of President Nixon’s Oval Office chair — a small object saturated with historical weight and moral ambiguity.

From your perspective, how do art and artistic creation bridge the gap between global societal and political issues and the general public?

It really depends on the kind of art. Some conceptual works are intentionally jarring — they confront viewers head-on and can be incredibly powerful, lingering in your mind long after you’ve left the gallery. But they’re not always the kind of pieces people want to live with, and they may leave viewers like me with a sense of hopelessness because of the enormity of the problem presented.

As someone more inclined to whisper than to shout, I take a different approach, aiming to draw viewers in through beauty, intimacy, and a sense of play. My goal is to raise awareness without triggering defensiveness — to create space for reflection rather than confrontation. In that way, art becomes a kind of bridge: it allows difficult issues to be approached with curiosity rather than resistance, making them feel more personal, more accessible, and ultimately harder to ignore.

Finally, what message would you like to leave for our readers?

I’d like to leave readers with a sense of hope — even in a world that often feels divided.  Moments of connection, understanding, and mutual respect remain possible, and often emerge in the most unexpected places.  These moments are often sparked by exposure, by choosing to step outside our own experience. Spending time with people from different backgrounds, hearing their stories, and engaging with their art teaches us how distinct experiences can still reflect common values — even when filtered through different cultural lenses.

Learn more about the artist here.

Cover image:

From War to Peace (Ivy & Orchids), mixed media, 18 x 22 x 4 inches. By Vivian Cavalieri.

All images courtesy of Vivian Cavalieri.