During a month of walks in the forest surrounding the vineyards of the Cortona area, I tried countless times to see wild animals in their natural environment. While direct encounters were rare, I frequently came across their footprints, including those of deer, porcupines, wild boars, dogs, and wolves.

These footprints led me on a meticulous search for the animals, following their paths as far as possible. Although I never managed to see one using this method, I discovered places where many animals congregated, especially near water sources and food-rich areas. This process, often lasting from early morning to late evening, was both detailed and absorbing.

I brought liquid resin, powdered gypsum, and a silicone bowl for mixing. As I retraced the animal tracks, I left behind white resin spots as if marking my own path. At the end of each day, I collected the molds, removing the soil that clung to them with knives, brushes, and old dental tools, akin to an archaeological dig.

This work involved repeating the presence of a form of life that left an imprint in the ground. Filling these voids with resin created mysterious shapes, often unrecognizable as footprints, resembling stones, bones, or fossils. Observing wild animals repopulating cities during the pandemic, I saw the contemporary relevance of this work as a critique. Animals no longer feel at home in noisy, polluted cities, isolating themselves amid concrete buildings and manicured gardens. The act of filling the voids becomes a semantic gesture, offering an ineffective solution to this absence.