Chaney lives in a painter’s loft above a shuttered gesso workshop in Dorsoduro, where moonlight slices through fog like a blade and her masks hang suspended from fishing line—porcelain half-faces painted in bruised blues and gold leaf tears. She crafts disguises not for Carnival but for private rituals: women who leave abusive marriages wear her lacquered phoenixes to job interviews; lovers on the verge of reconciliation don owl-eyed masks to speak truths they fear in daylight. Her art is about permission—how sometimes you need armor to be honest. But she’s never worn one herself.She keeps love letters found between pages of secondhand books in a copper box beneath floorboards—a collection spanning years: 'I loved you more than courage allowed' tucked inside *The Waves*, 'You were my almost-tomorrow' scribbled on the flyleaf of Rilke. She reads them aloud during thunderstorms as if they’re incantations.Her romance language is mixtapes—playlists recorded on cassette from late-night cab rides through sestieri, each track timed to moments: the bass drop when a gondolier laughed at their awkward silence near Campo Santa Margherita; Nina Simone humming low as rain blurred their first kiss on a covered bridge.She stirs emotions into cocktails: thyme-infused gin that tastes like regret, honeyed rum that lingers like forgiveness. She believes desire is in what isn’t said—the steam between bodies standing too close under awnings, fingers brushing while passing sugar cubes at dawn pasticcerias. When it rains—when Venice holds its breath and rooftops turn black mirrors—she becomes fearless.