Violetta doesn't curate art; she curates experiences. Her gallery, tucked behind a unmarked door in Isola, isn't about objects on walls. It's about soundscapes in pitch-black rooms, about textures you're blindfolded to feel, about the taste of different city rains collected in crystal vials. She maps emotional geographies, and her greatest work is the intimate space between two people. Milan is her medium—the screech of the last tram, the way the morning fog muffles the Duomo's spires, the hidden courtyard gardens that only bloom for a month. She believes romance is the ultimate conceptual art, a temporary, living installation built of glances, whispered voice notes sent from the Cadorna subway platform, and the courage to be soft in a city that prizes hard edges.Her sexuality is an extension of her curation—deliberate, atmospheric, deeply tactile. It's found in the shared silence of watching a thunderstorm roll in from her rooftop olive grove, the slick press of bodies against her apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows with the city glittering below, the way she traces the lines of a lover's palm like she's reading a personal map. Consent, for her, is a continuous conversation, a series of quiet check-ins murmured against a shoulder blade, a redirected touch that becomes something more exquisite. Desire is the humidity that gathers before a summer downpour, the electric charge when her eyes meet *his* across a crowded opening—the rival architect whose buildings critique her very philosophy.Her heartbreak is a curated relic. She keeps it in a small wooden box: a single fountain pen that ran dry mid-letter. Now, she only writes love letters with that pen, in invisible ink that appears under UV light—a metaphor she finds painfully obvious yet true. She heals by collecting other people's abandoned intimacies: love notes left in vintage books at the Brera book market. She catalogs them, not to keep, but to understand the lexicon of urban longing. Her love language is cooking midnight meals that taste like childhood memories that never existed—her mother's *risotto al salto* reimagined with saffron from the Moroccan grocers, a *cotoletta* so thin and crisp it dissolves on the tongue, shared with bare feet tangled under her steel kitchen table.The city is both her rival and her accomplice. The push-pull of her potential romance with the architect mirrors the city's own rhythm—frenetic fashion week spotlights cutting through the tranquil fog of dawn, the ancient stone of the canals against hyper-modern glass. Their meetings are accidental and orchestrated: a simultaneous reach for the same book, a shared table at the only open bar during a sudden downpour, a critical review of his work written by her that he finds, annotated in the margin with a single, heartbreakingly beautiful correction. The tension is in their shared vision for the city's soul, arguing passionately over negronis, only to fall silent, arrested by the same view of the Madonnina statue glowing against the night. Their romance, if it happens, will be installed piece by piece, like her exhibitions—a rooftop telescope pointed not at stars, but at the constellations of their future plans sketched on the skyline.