Unseen. What If We’re Missing Something?
It all began with a photograph I took in Florence back in 2014. Even then, I knew I wanted to turn it into a painting one day. It was an everyday city scene: people moving through the same space, each absorbed in their own thoughts and going about their own lives.
Our paths cross, we brush past one another, sometimes we meet, and sometimes our lives run alongside each other without quite connecting. But are we really so far apart? Someone passing us in the street can leave us with something of themselves: a thought, a feeling, an idea. Or, on a less fortunate day, a sharp elbow in the ribs!
It’s these encounters, however fleeting, that fascinate me and continue to inspire my work in the Metropolitan series. Working with a palette knife, I build images from fragments of colour that overlap, blend and extend across both figures and their surroundings. I enjoy exploring the complexity of these connections, allowing every detail to contribute to the whole and boundaries to become more fluid without erasing individual identities.
In a way, we’re much the same: each of us has our own story, but we all carry little fragments of other people within us.
An Unsettling Presence
I was already more than halfway through the painting when I finally decided to listen to a little voice that had been nagging at me for some time. It wanted me to introduce something that would disturb the balance of the scene. Something unexpected, perhaps even uncomfortable, like a pebble in your shoe.
I chose a wild animal: a wolf. Although, to me, it’s a she-wolf. You’re welcome to decide for yourselves.
But why a wolf? Why not a dog, a cat, a little owl, an ostrich or a jaguar?
To be honest, I don’t know. It was the first animal that came to mind. When I paint, I sometimes make choices I only begin to understand later, as I reflect on what I’ve put on the canvas.
Still, I can think of a few reasons. More than a few, actually.
The wolf represents the wildness we’ve spent centuries trying to keep at a distance, building fences, roads and brightly lit cities.
And yet it still inhabits our imagination: the threatening creature of fairy tales, a symbol of danger and ferocity, but also of strength, freedom and a deep connection with nature.
Curious, isn’t it? We fear wolves and are fascinated by them at the same time. Perhaps that’s precisely what makes one such an intriguing guest in my painted city: a presence that can inspire fear, curiosity, attraction or respect, depending on who’s looking.
Wolves and Our Social Nature
And then, when you think about it, wolves are social animals, just like us. Now things get interesting…
They live in family groups, form bonds, cooperate and care for one another. So much for the big bad wolf!
And what about us? We’ve built crowded cities, invented countless ways to communicate and connected ourselves to practically the entire world. Yet how often do we struggle to exchange even a few words with the person standing next to us?
So, in the crowd of Unseen, I find myself bringing two social species face to face. One has taken over the cities. The other is standing right there, staring at us, with no apparent intention of asking permission.
Why a She-Wolf?
For me, though, that animal is a she-wolf.
Perhaps because I’m a woman. Or perhaps because, looking back, I’m reminded of books I read decades ago. One in particular: Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. One of those books that stays with you for a lifetime, even when you’ve forgotten most of its pages.
What stayed with me most was its evocation of an instinctive, free and creative feminine nature, one we so often learn to suppress in order to meet other people’s expectations. A part of ourselves we can silence for a while, but which, fortunately, has the annoying habit of making itself heard again.
And that goes for you men, too! Surely you’re not going to leave us women with a monopoly on instinct, freedom and creativity?
Who knows? Perhaps my she-wolf emerged from just such a distant memory, finding its way through countless others until it finally resurfaced on the canvas. After all, when I paint, I don’t always know straight away why I’ve made a particular choice. Sometimes it’s only afterwards that I begin to recognise the threads connecting it to my own story.
Of course, that’s my interpretation. The she-wolf may tell each of us a different story, and I rather like the thought that someone might see something in her that I haven’t yet discovered myself.
Who’s Looking at Whom?
Once the she-wolf appeared in the painting, I began looking differently at the other characters, the ones who actually belong in the city. Some are looking at their phones, some are busy taking photographs, others are gazing elsewhere, while those wearing sunglasses give very little away.
The she-wolf, meanwhile, looks straight out of the painting with her yellow eyes, directly at us, with such confidence that she almost seems to be asking what on earth we find so interesting to look at.
And all around her, nobody seems to have noticed a thing. A wolf in the middle of a crowd, and nobody bats an eyelid!
The she-wolf sees us, but nobody seems to see her.
Don’t you find that reversal curious? The wild animal, the one we’d expect to spring an unpleasant surprise on us, seems to be the only one making direct contact with us.
Which makes me wonder: does it really take a wolf to catch our attention? How many things, how many people, pass right under our noses without us noticing? And, more importantly, can we still recognise the big bad wolf when he’s standing right in front of us, perhaps well dressed and wearing a reassuring smile, before it’s too late?
Perhaps, sometimes, the problem lies in the distance from which we look at things. It reminds me of something I do constantly while painting: taking a few steps back to look at the canvas from a distance, check the composition, spot mistakes or see how everything fits together in ways that aren’t obvious up close.
It’s a constant movement towards and away from the painting, almost a dance. And I like to think that this interplay is reflected in my painting itself: up close, the fragments of colour draw the eye, while from farther away the figures come together and relationships emerge that we hadn’t noticed before.
Perhaps taking a step back every now and then would do us some good in life, too, helping us see what’s right in front of us. Provided, of course, we’re willing to look.
Unseen. Taking Another Look
There she is, my she-wolf, standing in the middle of the crowd, looking perfectly at ease, at least on the surface. What she’s doing in the heart of the city is still anyone’s guess, but she certainly seems to know exactly whom she wants to watch.
And me? Even after painting her and spending so much time thinking about her, I still discover something new whenever I look at her. Perhaps that’s what I love most about painting: a work can keep telling us things long after we’ve put down our brushes. Or, in my case, my palette knife.
And you? Did you spot the she-wolf straight away? And now that you’ve met her gaze, are you quite sure she’s the one you should be keeping an eye on?
Unseen, 2026 | Oil on canvas, palette knife | 80 × 120 × 3.5 cm | Metropolitan series
Assunta Cassa
