Throughout 2026, the Cittadellarte Journal is hosting a series of interviews with the Foundation’s collaborators, who are asked to respond to an identical set of questions. Cittadellarte in the Mirror -the name of the column- is intended as an exercise in listening and self-reflection that spans different roles, practices, and sensibilities, providing a plural portrait of the Cittadellarte organism. The questions touch upon some of the most urgent issues of our time -from social transformation to responsibility, from education to indifference, from the risk of artistic action to the possibility of reactivating empathy- and function as a mirror: they do not seek definitive answers, but ask the respondents to take a stand, to expose themselves, and to interrogate their own role in the present.

In this sixteenth instalment, the mirror turns to Luisa Mertina, Assistant Project Manager of the Fashion Office at Cittadellarte. Born and raised in Biella, after classical studies and a degree in Intercultural Communication between Turin and Nice, she changed direction by joining the Accademia Unidee in its early days, completing the course in Sustainable Fashion Design and collaborating with the fashion office. From anthropology and sociology, she thus arrived at the world of responsible fashion and eco-design, while simultaneously approaching contemporary art through courses in Art for Social Change. Meanwhile, she founded an association in the Biella area involving young people aged 15 to 30, which over time became a creative collective committed to experimenting with sustainable practices and organising events for the city, supported by European and international grants. Subsequently, she moved to Milan, where she collaborated with a design studio focused on creating garments from vintage denim and salvaged materials, also handling communication and event planning in the store. Parallel to this, she became a volunteer at the Trama Plaza association, which promotes sustainable fashion practices through art. She then continued her path with an internship at a tech startup active in developing digital product passports, before finally arriving at her current role as Assistant Project Manager of the Fashion Office at Cittadellarte.

In the following interview, Luisa explores themes of social transformation, education, and responsibility from a perspective attentive to processes, relationships, and the dimension of care. Her answers reveal an image of art as a space capable of accommodating complexity and contradiction, where "listening" and "responding" become fundamental practices for remaining "present" in the world. Between sustainable fashion, material research, and collective planning, a reflection emerges that holds together commitment and sensitivity, action and the possibility of slowing down.

2025 draws to a close as a year in which the word “transition” seems to have lost its power, replaced by a widespread sense of fatigue and a return to the logic of power, war, and closure. In this context, does it still make sense to talk about responsible social transformation, or is it necessary to change the lexicon and rethink practices?
I think that, precisely in a moment like this, it makes even more sense to talk about responsible social transformation. I don’t believe it’s a question of lexicon, even if it is often easier to take refuge in a discussion about words rather than the thing itself. Those already working in this direction have, in fact, already traced a path: there are practices, models, and ways of being in the world that seek to be more attentive to others, the planet, and the impact we generate. The difficulty today is not so much redefining the language as it is managing to continue on this path without losing momentum, in a context that seems to be moving in the opposite direction, and where hope wavers. Perhaps the point is not to change what we are doing, but to have the courage to carry it forward despite everything. In this sense, I believe that social transformation is built precisely in the “despites,” rather than in the “ifs.”

This year again, Cittadellarte has operated on both a local and global level: from China to the borders of Europe, from the Mediterranean to East Asia. Bringing an installation or a demopractic work to places steeped in history, conflict, or symbolism exposes art to unpredictable interpretations. How important is it for the Foundation to accept this risk?
Cittadellarte has the privilege of being able to step out of its own “bubble”—be it Biella, Northern Italy, or Europe—and encounter the “other” in its many facets. In this sense, every artistic action, every gesture, and every word carries an impact, both active and passive, and requires the awareness that one might also be misunderstood. For the Foundation, this aspect is central. From my perspective, having arrived recently but having already experienced Cittadellarte as a student, I have been able to observe how the external gaze continuously constructs new readings of who we are. This exchange is a fundamental wealth. Cittadellarte is also a place of arrival: it welcomes artists, students, professionals, and visitors from very different contexts. Perhaps, in addition to looking outwards, it is important to learn to listen more carefully to those who arrive here, because it is precisely in this encounter that a significant part of the value of our work is generated. Bringing works or installations into complex contexts is naturally a risk, but also a possibility. It requires sensitivity, openness, and sometimes even a willingness to be provocative, because art is sometimes called upon not to be harmless, but to generate reaction and thought.

In 2026, what does it mean to educate for responsibility in a world where algorithms, artificial intelligence, and automation seem to subtract more and more space from conscious human action and, in this sense, from authorship?
During a meeting, the director Paolo Naldini spoke about responsibility in its etymological origin: “to respond.” It is a definition that stayed with me, because it shifts the meaning of the word from an abstract duty to a concrete action. For me, even before “educating for responsibility,” it is precisely about this: educating to respond—that is, to be there. To be present with respect to what is happening around us, to people, and to contexts. In a time when automation and technology permeate every field, the point is not so much to oppose this, but rather not to lose the capacity for presence. Being present means being there physically, mentally, and emotionally. It means not withdrawing from the moment, but remaining in a state of listening. In this sense, educating for responsibility still coincides with a very simple and very human gesture: listening and responding.

In the time spent at Cittadellarte, what do you feel you have unlearned? Is there a conviction that you would let go of today compared to the past?
Paradoxically, in my time at Cittadellarte, I think I have unlearned the idea that art must necessarily be useful, or that it must always translate into an explicit message or an immediate form of social impact, or even generate profit. In a context that daily inspires the urgency of social, active, and responsible art, I have simultaneously developed an increasingly strong curiosity towards other forms of expression. These are practices often long considered “minor,” but which today are acquiring new relevance: an art that is “poor,” artisanal, often associated with the feminine, slow, and not necessarily aesthetic or immediately legible. Forms that do not define themselves through protest or function, but through a more intimate and personal dimension, though no less powerful for it. In particular, I am very interested in textile art and fiber art, because there I find a prolonged, direct, and physical contact with the material—a research that does not necessarily aim to transform everything, that does not pretend to always have a declared social goal, but that works on another level: that of the narrative of the self and, together, of the “us.”

Let’s consider Cittadellarte as a living organism. Which part do you feel is most fragile today? And which is more mature than you would have imagined?
If I think of Cittadellarte as a living organism, what I perceive above all is its vitality. I see it in the professionalism of the people who work there, in the quality of the relationships, and in the mutual willingness to help and exchange. It is a space where one can learn a great deal, where professional and personal growth happen continuously, precisely thanks to the complexity of the projects and the people who pass through it. In this sense, Cittadellarte is also a place of implicit training, where one learns by observing, working together, and engaging in daily dialogue. The dimension that I feel is simultaneously the most fragile is that of care. Care for spaces, people, and processes. It is a quality that is very present, but also exposed, because it requires constancy, presence, and continuous listening. Especially in a growing context that welcomes more and more students, artists, and professionals, the challenge becomes keeping this relational and community attention alive. In this sense, fragility is not a lack, but a delicate point to be preserved: the ability to continue taking care of the community that inhabits the Foundation.

We live in a time where we are exposed daily to images of extreme pain, yet we often remain immobile. What kind of emotion is indifference? If it were a work of art, would you destroy it like a breaking of Pistoletto’s mirror?
Indifference, especially in the face of what is happening in the world—injustices, exploitation, violence, near and far—is an emotion I would define as profoundly human. It often arises as a form of defence, a shield against a reality that can be difficult to bear. In this sense, yes, it is blameworthy, also because we are used to thinking that the opposite of love is not hate, but precisely indifference. Yet I believe that is a true but incomplete reading: indifference is even more complex, and often has its roots in fear. For this reason, I would return to the subject of courage: the courage to encounter one’s own indifference and try to stay with it, to know it. Rather than destroying it, I would think of a process of “upcycling” the work: dismantling and reassembling it, moving the parts, adding new materials, leaving it open to continuous transformations. A work that could also be collective, involving many hands, because the encounter with the other could help to overturn it and re-read it from different perspectives. In this sense, indifference would not be something to be eliminated or pilloried, but something to be moved through. Perhaps talking about it is already a first step: beginning to observe it, to deconstruct it, to understand its origins, without shame.

In the dominant media narrative of conflicts, numbers often replace faces. What responsibility does art have in restoring humanity where political language erases it? Can art reactivate empathy without falling into the spectacularisation of pain? Let us also consider that the word of the year for 2025, according to the Oxford Dictionary, is "Rage Bait"—content created to provoke anger and indignation, particularly on social media.
Art has been defined by one critic as the “massage to the sleeping muscle of society”: a force capable of awakening what risks remaining anaesthetised. In this sense, it is granted a privilege, but also a deep responsibility: that of reactivating the gaze and the conscience, even beyond the limits of political correctness or the conventions of public discourse. I don’t believe that art must necessarily set rigid boundaries for its own tools. Sometimes, even shock, or a form of spectacularisation, can become necessary to interrupt indifference and generate a real reaction. The point is not so much to avoid every risk, but to question what that shift produces in the viewer. Even phenomena like so-called “rage bait” force us to reflect on the role of emotions in the public sphere. Anger, in itself, is not negative: it can be a lucid force, a necessary drive. The problem arises when it remains an end in itself. For this reason, rather than opposing critique and proposal, I believe it is important to let them coexist. Critique is fundamental in a democratic space, but when one has the possibility to express oneself, art can also try to propose directions, imagine possibilities for transformation, not just denounce what is not working. In this sense, the responsibility of art is not so much to “sweeten” the pain as it is to consciously decide how to be in it and how to move through it, to restore complexity instead of reducing it to the rapid consumption of emotions.

When you turn off the lights in your office, what emotion remains switched on? What remains switched on is the desire to learn and to never stop doing so.