IS1 | Capturing time in Marble

Isabela came from a city that seemed to never end. São Paulo, with its glass skyscrapers, bustling streets, and lights that never turned off, was a place that did not know solitude. Yet, in the solitude of her thoughts, amidst the noise and color, Isabela felt she belonged to another world. A world not made of asphalt and rush, but of stone, of form, of silence. Her passion for sculpture had always been like this: born in the folds of a dream that had turned into reality but had yet to be touched.

She had always been fascinated by the imperishable beauty of marble. That material which, though cold and still, hid within itself a soul. As though every block of marble was a fragment of a dream, fossilized in white, waiting to be set free. Her greatest ambition was to walk in the land where marble was born, where artists had been carving their works for centuries. And so, one day, she decided to leave—without realizing how much this journey would change her life.

The flight from São Paulo to Carrara was an act of faith. Each step that took her closer to Tuscany seemed to push her deeper into a dream she had yet to fully claim. It wasn’t the destination that called her, but rather the journey itself, the promise that something greater would await her at the heart of the mountains.

Upon arriving in Carrara, the impression was immediate and overwhelming. The moment her feet touched the town, it felt as though she had entered another time. The streets of Carrara, narrow and silent, carried with them the sound of an ancient art, the echo of hands that, through stone, told forgotten stories. The mountains towering over the town were not just mountains: they were a heart of marble, beating with life, with tales of generations who had carved, created, and shaped the material. Every block, every vein, every facet seemed to whisper something different—a secret waiting to be unveiled.

The next day, as the sun rose high over the peaks of the Apuan Alps, Isabela set out for the marble quarries. She didn’t know what to expect, but the air she breathed was different—denser, filled with an energy she had never felt before. The path to the quarries was rugged, scattered with stones and dust, but the landscape that unfolded before her took her breath away. The hills stretched like a mosaic of olive groves and vineyards, while in the distance, the marble mountains seemed to breathe in silence. Yet, behind the beauty of this landscape, there was another sound—a—deeper, almost imperceptible vibration—that Isabela felt as a presence.

Reaching the quarry, Isabela’s heart stopped. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The immense slabs of marble lay scattered like fragments of an unfinished sculpture, abandoned by history. Each block seemed to call out from a distant past, while the sound of hammers and saws filled the air, transforming every movement into a dance. Here, it wasn’t just work; it was a rite repeated over centuries, and Isabela had become part of it without even realizing it.

An old artisan, his hands marked by time, approached her. He looked at her for a moment with eyes that seemed to know stories without telling them, then invited her to follow him. Isabela followed without speaking, as though her legs already knew the way. The old man showed her how marble was extracted, how the blocks were freed from the mother rock. It wasn’t just a craft—it was an act of intimacy, a dialogue between man and stone that transcended any notion of art or labor. It was a ritual, and Isabela had become part of it.

Every day, her heart filled with new understanding. She was no longer just learning to sculpt marble; she was learning to see the world through the eyes of an artisan. Her hand began to feel the stone differently, as though it were an extension of her soul. It was no longer just a block of marble—it was a promise, a potential waiting to be freed.

It wasn’t enough anymore. Carrara could not just be a place to pass through; it had become the center of a journey that Isabela could not interrupt. She continued working with the artisans, but also exploring the landscape that surrounded her. Every corner of this land told a story, every step a breath of stone.

And yet, one morning, while gazing at a block of marble she had just begun to sculpt, Isabela realized that she could never finish this journey. There was no end. The journey itself was the sculpture. Marble wasn’t just to be shaped; it was to be listened to, awaited. Her art was becoming a continuous dialogue with the world, with the landscape, and with history.

Isabela decided to stay, not because she wanted to become a great sculptor, but because she had understood that, in Carrara, every day was a new beginning. The stone, like her heart, never stopped being sculpted.