Pietro Ruffo
Every artist of the past was, after all, a contemporary of their own time
“Creativity is also boredom and dedication. It’s in those moments, when the mind wanders and the hands keep working, that a breach opens up”
Halfway between a baroque cartographer and a visionary naturalist, Pietro Ruffo cuts, draws, engraves, and overlaps as if reality could still be reassembled. Born in Rome in 1978, with a degree in architecture but allergic to the rigidity of construction, Ruffo has made paper—geographic, graph, ancient, or invented—his medium of choice. He builds emotional maps where skulls meet botany, constellations cross paths with conflict, and paleoclimatology blends with utopia. With a scalpel instead of a brush, he explores the drift of the Anthropocene with the tenacity of a scientist and the irony of someone who knows that history, like the planet, tends to unravel. His intricately layered works are fragments of an imagination that observes humanity from the right distance: somewhere between a NASA satellite and an engraving by Athanasius Kircher. We met him in his beautiful studio in Rome.
You’re Roman and chose to stay in Rome. Does the city, with its weight of history and beauty, ever feel overwhelming, or does it push you toward dialogue?
Rome is a city of superimposed layers, centuries stacked one on top of the other, with architectural languages constantly overlapping. It’s a continuous dialogue with time and those who came before us. When you look at certain buildings, you think about the architects and artists who created them: they were our age, with our fears and vulnerabilities. And yet they left behind extraordinary things. That gives you a sense of responsibility—but also of possibility. It makes you think that we too can—and must—try to do something, even at the risk of failing. Because that’s how you leave a mark.
Your Rome often feels geological, climatic, mythological. Is that a way of restoring its complexity—something we tend to forget today?
Absolutely. In ancient times, those three disciplines were interconnected. Today we perceive Rome as crystallized, but it’s always been a place of ongoing transformation. It used to be below sea level, then a tropical forest—jaguar, elephant, and rhinoceros bones have been found here. Then came the constructions of imperial Rome, then medieval, Renaissance, baroque, and finally contemporary Rome. All of that is present in my work. Of course, it should never be didactic: the goal is to offer visual stimuli that, once absorbed, allow you to see the city differently.
How important is time in your work?
Creativity isn’t just spark and inspiration. It’s also boredom, repetition, dedication. And it’s in those moments—when your hands work and your mind wanders—that something opens up. That doesn’t mean works made in an hour are less valid—some artists can create masterpieces in a single hour. Time is not a measure of artistic value, but it is essential to personal practice. And for me, it’s incredibly valuable.
You’ve collaborated with Dior in the past. What draws you to fashion?
The fashion world moves fast. But haute couture is different—you find the same artisanal slowness. A garment can take one or two months to make; each stitch is the result of multiple skilled hands. That’s why I felt at home in that world: we recognized ourselves in that shared rhythm.
Upcoming projects?
In September, I’m unveiling an installation at the Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia in Rome. It’s a large piece under the portico, and I’m happy because it should become a permanent work in the museum’s collection. Also in September, I’m presenting a piece made for the Quirinale Palace. It’s such a symbolic place, with a long history, and the fact that it has opened up to contemporary art in recent years is a beautiful sign. It means acknowledging that history didn’t end in the 19th century, and that artists and architects are still creating and leaving traces. Then, in November, I have a show in Paris at the gallery Pron, 75 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which I’ve been working with for years. This project will focus more directly on the French capital.
Book on your nightstand?
Always more than one. The first is Ecofascism, a recent essay by Francesca Santolini. The other is The Cross and the Sphinx by Pierluigi Panza, about Giovan Battista Piranesi. An incredible artist—perhaps the greatest engraver Italy has ever had. I haven’t started it yet, but the way Panza describes him, he seems like a true madman of his time. I love the idea that every artist from the past was, in their own time, a contemporary artist. We often see them in museums and imagine them as ethereal beings, but they were full of contradictions, neuroses… just like us. That’s what makes art history vibrate. Understanding how some masterpieces were born—sometimes by chance, sometimes through unexpected encounters—is deeply human. And beautiful.
Portraits: Niccolò Campita
Text: Germano D’Acquisto
