Hidden Behind

Article by Davide Ronco
The NXT Magazine: Transformations of Care

For me, this is an occasion to write and share my own transformation – to uncover what lies behind my practice as a visual artist: the anxiety, the struggles, the things hidden behind the cover. A flow of consciousness, blended with diary notes and reflections.

I am late.

At the time of writing this text, the deadline has passed. I am late sending it to Madeleine. She already reminded me twice. I am writing now.
Why am I late? Because I was doing other things. I was working, travelling, driving. I was doing things I wanted to prioritize because they made me feel good. I prioritized myself.
The theme of this publication reminded me to take care of myself. One way of doing that was, paradoxically, by not writing. Strangely enough, not writing was the right thing to do. I need to follow my needs, my wishes, and what my body tells me—the real wishes, not those imposed by my profession, my practice, or the norms that surround them.

Two and a half years ago, I left a relationship that was toxic for me. This is the first time I am openly writing about it. During that time, I sacrificed my own practice and career goals. I genuinely found meaning in supporting my partner as we built our family life together.
In the end, I was left hurt, and I felt that all that sacrifice had been useless. I decided instead that I would place myself first – both as a person and as an artist. The following year was, in fact, the most flourishing of my career. I thought that my life, along with my career, was just going to get better. It didn’t.

Shortly after, while on holiday, I got injured. What came out of it was a chronic condition. I never expected to face something chronic in my life, but everything changed with that single event, which happened in my 30th year.
Since then, I’ve had to slow down. It was hard at first. I hoped it would get better, that things would return to how they were before. They didn’t. I still hope they might.

I got depressed. Not in a way severe enough for society or others to recognize as depression. Everything felt as if it had a thin, dark veil over it. It still does – especially in the morning, when I wake up and the pain is there, confronting me with my own fragility in a way I had never experienced before.

I grow.

I had to change my approach to my body, my life, and my work. I had to learn to take care of myself in new ways. Strangely, I ended up liking some of the changes that were required.
I don’t like the pain, but I am learning to accept it, to embrace it, and to transform with it.
It took me two years to begin reshaping that pain, that accident—and it will take many more. It has become a reason to change, to listen to my body, and ultimately to take more care of myself.
When I work, I listen: I slow down, I am patient, I stop.

I care.

Photo: Davide Ronco / Taattisten Tila

---

Diary entries from recent weeks – transformation continues to unfold in daily life.

24/06/25
The car broke down. It made me think – a lot.
The car could still drive, but the nearest mechanic was two hours away. I was alone, on a road with almost no other cars.

One of my thoughts circled back to this very contribution: how much the events happening around me influence me, for better or worse.
This breakdown made me angry, anxious, doubtful of my choices. I shouldn’t have taken the car from a friend. I should have rented one from a company, like everybody else. I only borrowed it to save a little money, to be smart. And in the end, it caught up with me.

That evening, in the tent, I wrote while feeling sad and anxious about the repair bill, convinced it would ruin my holiday. Little did I know the mechanic would fix the car on the spot – for the same price my friend had charged me for the rental. They asked for nothing more. The car was fine. Everything was fine.

25/06/25
Before heading to the mechanic, I stopped at a cliff to watch birds and take in the landscape. It was morning. I was alone. Yet I couldn’t enjoy it. My only thought was the car. I felt so responsible.

It wasn’t my fault—things happen. Even my friend said so on the phone. Still, I felt guilty. Why does my mind spiral so quickly into the worst scenarios?

Driving to the mechanic, I found myself thinking about my chronic pain, my breakup, my struggles, my misfortunes. Was this not caring enough for myself? I realized I often care more about others than about myself – their possessions, their problems, their wellbeing – while neglecting my own needs.

It feels noble, even honourable, to read myself this way. But I know I should place myself a little higher – at least above material things like a car.

06/07/25
I am back in Copenhagen, teaching.
I like my job. I love what I do – both my studio practice and my teaching.

But I don’t like precarity. I don’t like not having a place that feels truly like home. I want my own home, even just an apartment. I look at others and I feel envy.
Why do I always have to remind myself of my achievements in order to feel happy? Why is it never enough?

Artists, creatives, designers – we are always asked to talk about our practice.

At first, I thought I would do the same when I was invited to write this contribution.

I am a person before I am an artist—outside the studio, outside the workshops.

It took me a long time to realize this, to internalize it, and most importantly, to prioritize it: to care more for the person in me than for the artist.

On paper, my life seems to lack nothing. But what about what isn’t on the cover?

I came to Denmark nine years ago. I am still trying to find my place here – both ideologically and physically – to build a home. I realize that to care, I need to focus beyond my work, allowing transformation to flow between personal and professional life.

When I was asked to contribute to this publication, I knew immediately I wanted to write about myself as a person – not just as an artist. About how my sense of care has transformed.

07/07/25
Now that the deadline has passed, I get anxious. I think about it every day.
Does that mean I care about it?

I do. This text is very dear and personal to me – even as I resist writing it.

I don’t want to compromise my personal life for my professional one. I once thought this tension was specific to artistic careers. A friend reminded me that it isn’t. It applies to everyone. I realize now that it was narcissistic of me to think otherwise. Still, artistic careers do carry precarity and identity-related pressures at their core.

It is important to state that, with my background and heritage, I know I am privileged to choose this life. I know that at any moment I could find a more stable job, a simpler life. And I am deeply fortunate to have a family who would welcome me back and support me if needed.

I don’t want to write. I actually do want to write.
I don’t know where to start. But I have already started. Good. I have much to write.

My life – with its structures and deadlines – steps in. My anxiety steps in. And they stop me from writing. The life I chose. The life that brought me to my profession.
The life that, after all, asked me to write this text.

---

DAVIDE RONCO