When I spin wool, I enter a different sense of time. It is a moment of calm, togetherness, and breathing space. I love doing it with other women: we sit together, talk, laugh, while our hands work almost on their own, as if they already knew exactly what to do. I watched my grandmother and great-grandmother spin wool, and each time it felt like witnessing an ancient, precise gesture that needed no words. Today, I carry on in the same way, with the same patience. It is a craft that has remained almost unchanged for thousands of years, and that is precisely why it deserves to be preserved.
Spinning tells the story of Livigno as it once was: a simple life shaped by necessity, sacrifice, and the ability to make do with what you had. I learned when I was ten, at a time when knowing how to work wool was essential to clothe the family. Almost nothing was bought; everything was made by hand. Today, it has become a hobby, but for me it remains a way of remembering how people truly lived, how much work went into everything, and how valuable everyday objects were. Wool was never wasted: it came from the sheep, the pastures, and the land itself, then was transformed with care and skill into a precious resource.
Over time, I came to understand that this gesture is not only practical: it is also beautiful. The movement of the hands, the transformation of raw wool into thread, the concentration it requires... there is a natural elegance to it all. Even the tools tell a story: the worn wood, the smooth surfaces, the marks left by time. Every scratch holds a memory, a fragment of life.
And then there is the slowness. A kind of slowness that never feels like a burden — quite the opposite: it teaches you. It makes you stop, devote time to what you are doing, and understand that what you create depends on the care you put into every gesture. In a world that is always rushing, spinning reminds me that some things need to follow their own rhythm, and that patience is a form of strength.
Perhaps that is why, when I think about younger generations, I feel the desire to pass something on. Not just the technique — that can be learned — but the values behind it. Sacrifice, going without, the ability to find joy in simple things. Spinning teaches you to wait, not to expect everything immediately, while at the same time nurturing creativity: you learn to make something with your own hands and to appreciate the value of what you create.
The story closest to my heart is that of my family. I remember watching my aunt spin wool near our home: her movements mesmerised me. I would try to understand how she did it, how she held the wool, how she transformed it. In time, I learned too, and today I am proud to have passed this craft on to other women. Knowing that it continues to live on is one of my greatest sources of satisfaction.
When I give demonstrations at the museum, I feel like a bridge between past and present. The old rooms create the perfect setting: it is there that the gesture can truly be understood. People watch, listen, and ask questions. And I feel that those movements are not being lost, that they continue to be passed from hand to hand.
The object that symbolises my craft is the ball of wool. For years, it was essential to my family: from it came clothes, socks, and sweaters. It is more than just an object: it is a symbol of care, hard work, and love.
And then there is Livigno, the community that raised me. A valley shaped by people who knew how to make a virtue of necessity. Poverty did not take away their dignity: it taught them the value of hard work, commitment, and cooperation. People helped one another, knew one another, and shared what they had. Today, the village has changed. It has grown, becoming larger and more comfortable. But within me remains the memory of that closeness, that simplicity, that way of life — a story that the art of spinning continues to tell.