You teach us that every space belongs to a specific narrative dimension. What does the entrance of your house in Genoa communicate to those who enter it? 

Personally, I consider the sequence of entrances leading to the house more significant than the single entrance. I am referring, in particular, to how I reach that space and what I encounter before the fateful moment of the entry. Speaking of my Genoa home studio, before reaching the entrance door, I come upon Garibaldi Avenue and, immediately after, I enter an internal courtyard that articulates the sequence of approach to the architectural volume. What really counts to me, however, is the twofold threshold. Indeed, whether I enter the house or I enter the studio, a perspective opens up to me. Climbing up the ladder to the house, I find an apparently narrow corridor that plays by reflection with mirror elements and, in turn, heads to a window of cinematic camera framing that brings you back to the city. This also applies to the studio, where a series of rooms drives you to an external perspective, namely the garden. To me, the wonder is not the ‘whoo’ you pronounce in front of the bizarre, but rather the way the space compresses and expands, the way the light enters and, finally, the way you touch the material, always having a visual goal that guides you. This is how I think about space. When you enter a place and visit a physical world, you always experience – and this is what I care the most – an imaginary world, that everyone may interpret as he wishes. This is part of the imaginary realism by which I read the space around me.