For Silvia Franchini, creativity “is like an avalanche: all it takes is a little pressure, and then everything starts running.” So when she first encountered Foscarini’s lamps, and at first glance an imaginary world of moons, eclipses, and solar systems lit up in her mind, the narrative for her illustrations for What’s in a Lamp? began to take shape.
Silvia’s illustrations are small, inhabited worlds: stories in which, like pieces of music, backgrounds, textures, touches of color, even words overlap — and where it is the whole that conveys rhythm and meaning.
For Foscarini, Silvia interpreted six lamps as celestial bodies: luminous presences that, as the sun sets, become small domestic suns. Under their light, and thanks to it, stories are born, passions ignite, and those moments of magical suspension arise that you feel when you truly enjoy doing something: drawing, reading, playing music, playing games, or simply eating with friends.
The moments when light stops being decor and becomes Home.


You interpreted Foscarini’s lamps as celestial bodies. How did this idea come to you?
From observing the lamps. Because many of them, at first glance, brought to mind a celestial imagery: moons, eclipses, solar systems. All ideas that, in fact, eventually made their way into the project. Hoba, for example, immediately reminded me of a moon or a meteorite, Anoor a total eclipse with sunlight peeking out from behind a full moon. Just reading the names of many of the lamps and studying the catalog already suggested a direction — Nuee, Satellight, Solar, Sun – Light of Love, Supernova, Asteria: they evoked a cosmic root and a nocturnal, starry imagery.
What story do the illustrations you created for What’s in a Lamp? tell?
The concept is based on the idea of interpreting the lamps as celestial bodies, luminous presences that, as the sun sets, take on the role of small domestic suns. I liked the idea of artificial light becoming a generative element: one that illuminates the space, but above all creates worlds, alters proportions, opens up imaginary scenarios within everyday life. I also wanted to tell a story that unites home and passions, with the lamp as a narrative amplifier. The idea of passion as an engine capable of carrying you toward a new dimension fit well with the idea of lamps as celestial bodies. The result tries to recall that moment of total absorption you feel when you enjoy doing something: drawing, playing an instrument, playing games, or eating with friends. The world around you shifts, changes, becomes hospitable and suspended. Time stretches, space transforms. To put it in the words of a song, I tried to portray a bit of “skies in a room.”
How does a story come to life starting from an object, a space, a situation?
By finding a foothold for creativity: in my case, it was precisely this resemblance to celestial bodies. For me, creativity is a bit like an avalanche: all it takes is a little pressure, and then everything starts running — sometimes very fast — and things find their place. That’s how projects are born for me, especially when they’re free and creative; they sweep me away.
Is evoking rather than explaining always the right starting point for telling a story?
There’s no simple answer to this question. For me, evoking is a fundamental component, especially as a starting point, because I believe whoever looks at an illustration needs to recognize themselves in something, and when telling a story, recalling a feeling — evoking it, precisely — is essential. That said, explaining the narrative clearly is also important: evocation, without clear foundations, doesn’t fulfil its role properly. In my creative journey, I’ve often struggled with not being able to clearly convey what’s happening in an illustration, and I’ve worked hard to make my way of illustrating more legible. So I’d say they’re two feet walking in the same direction, and there must always be balance between the two.
In general, how do the concepts for your projects come about?
First of all, by looking around a lot, seeking inspiration from other forms of expression: illustrations, paintings, poems, and often listening to music. And then by making mental space and jotting down some texts — which are almost never coherent texts. They’re more like suggestions, clusters of words, prompts, or lists that I later rearrange within a project, trying to bring clarity to them.
And how do they then turn into illustrations?
The actual illustrations always start from those words: I begin by writing a few key phrases and a vague description. For example, the illustration for Sun – Light of Love was born from: “SUN – LIGHT OF LOVE = INTIMATE MOMENT NIGHT CIGARETTE WINDOW BREATHE.” Then I start sketching, trying to stay true to my original intention (sometimes I need a few minutes to decipher it better myself). And that’s how I proceed.
When do you feel that an illustration really works?
When, looking at it again after a few hours, I wouldn’t want to change anything (it’s very rare, but it does happen sometimes).
How would you describe your work to someone who can’t see it?
The way I build images in my mind often has roots very similar to those of music, so I’ll venture an analogy. In a song, many sounds and instruments coexist simultaneously: something similar happens in my illustrations. There are backgrounds and textures that function like a bassline or an ambient backdrop; then there are touches of color, repeated marks, and graphic elements that recur in different parts of the image, creating a rhythm. The subjects — often dressed colorfully, sometimes a bit bizarrely — inhabit the scene and build the narrative, as if it were a melody. And often phrases appear too: ultimately, just as in songs, in my images text can also become part of the composition. Lastly, I’d say color is a fundamental component of my work: my illustrations are intense, layered, and maximalist.
You use both traditional and digital techniques. What are they, and what role does digital play in your creative process?
Actually, I create about 90% of my illustrations digitally. The only traditional component of my work consists of papers and textured materials that I occasionally allow myself to make using various techniques: acrylics, collage, doodles, but above all monotypes. I then digitize those same textures and reuse them, reworked to change their color or structure, in a great many projects. Digital was a real revolution for me: even though mistakes can often become a source of creativity, for me they used to be a huge limitation. Drawing digitally, I can make a thousand mistakes and go back, change colors, spaces, dimensions. This way, the making of my illustrations is colored by constant experimentation.
Your images seem to be built on overlapping layers: is that an aesthetic or a narrative choice?
There isn’t a particularly rational line of thinking behind some of my stylistic or compositional decisions. There’s something that moves me from within, almost unconsciously, in structuring my images — it’s a very instinctive process. This constant layering, which is very dear to me, I think reflects a bit of how I think. Sometimes it’s a purely stylistic quirk; other times it becomes a narrative device, especially when I need to describe something complex through my images. In the end, I think it represents my very layered way of seeing things: I’m a reflective, introspective person — some would call it an “overthinker” — and my illustrations carry this overthinking of mine and translate it visually, in a layered way, of course when the theme, the subject, and the readability of the image allow for it.
How did you become an illustrator? What was your path?
I attended art high school in Modena, after which I moved between the academies of Venice and Bologna, and after earning a diploma in printmaking, I began studying illustration at the academy in Florence. Studying in Florence was deeply formative for me — that’s where I truly understood I wanted to do this for a living, even though you wouldn’t guess it, since I left my studies to go work in a printmaking workshop just before graduating. Still, passions eventually find their way, and it was precisely while working there that I started my first projects as an illustrator. My experience as a printmaker enriched me enormously, though — both because it taught me manual skill, technique, and discipline, and because it was there that I realized creating images mattered more to me than reproducing and printing other people’s work.
What does creativity mean to you?
It’s finding a way to always open the same door, but each time with a different key.
Discover the collaboration with Silvia Franchini and the full series on the Instagram channel @foscarinilamps, and explore all interpretations of the What’s in a Lamp? project, where international artists are invited to freely interpret light and Foscarini collections.







