Fragments of Light: The Eclectic Art of Milena Scarcella
- Florènia Magazine
- Jul 16
- 11 min read
Milena Scarcella is a Roman-born polymath whose creative journey began with a degree in Fashion Design and Illustration from the European Academy of Fashion and Costume in Rome, where her excellence was recognised early on. Over the years, she has passionately explored diverse materials—from salt dough dolls to polymer clay jewellery—before finding her soul’s expression in intricate mosaics crafted amidst the olive groves of the Sabine countryside.
Inspired by the luminous grace of Gustav Klimt, Milena synthesises humility and luxury, weaving gold, platinum, and vibrant hues into each tile to tell a story that bridges tradition, nature and imagination. Through her eclectic artistry, she invites viewers into a soul‑stirring dialogue with colour, form and the emotional resonance of handcrafted beauty.
Do you remember the first time you saw a piece of art that made you feel something deeper?
I was a little older than a child, and in front of me was an image of Gustav Klimt’s The Tree of Life, just a simple postcard in a frame. It wasn’t even a real painting, but it was enough: the gold, the entwined figures, the decorative patterns... everything spoke a language that reached straight to my heart, even before my mind could grasp it. I didn’t yet understand the technique, but I felt a deep connection to that image.
I believe that’s when I first sensed that art could be a way to express the invisible, emotions, desires, and connections. Klimt opened the door to a world where material, colour, form, texture... can become sacred, symbolic, alive. Since then, that imprint has never left me. I find it again every time I create, especially when I work with gold, reliefs, and seek that balance between instinct and harmony.
Your aesthetic is eclectic, yet there’s a quiet harmony in how you combine elements. What draws you to certain pieces? Is it instinct, memory, or energy?
Each one of them, without exception. Let me explain: I’m guided by instinct, yes, but it’s a layered, complex instinct. It’s never just an impulsive choice for its own sake, but rather a deep, inner sensing that arises from a web of tactile memories, lived or dreamed atmospheres, fragments of inner journeys, and emotions that have settled over time.
Every piece, every shard I choose carries a unique vibration, and I listen closely, waiting for that subtle moment when its energy resonates with mine. It’s a silent dialogue, almost a ritual, that repeats itself each time.
I’m often drawn to elements that may not hold any objective or recognisable value in the conventional sense, but to me, they carry a personal narrative: a crack, a patina, an imperfect reflection.
These are the details that truly speak.....the ones that say more to me than a thousand words. That’s why I keep those imperfect pieces over time... because I know that, eventually, my gaze will fall on them at just the right moment. When I manage to compose something that brings all these vibrations together, that quiet harmony you speak of emerges, not something I seek out, but something that comes naturally, like a balance between memory, material, and intuition.
Before you created EcletticArt, what kind of art and spaces lived inside your imagination? Were you dreaming of interiors before you had clients?
For over two decades, I worked with polymer clay in the world of jewellery, exploring every one of its possibilities: textures, shine, layering, and precious irregularities. It was a language that spoke directly to the skin, to the body, but also to the identity of the person wearing those pieces. At a certain point, though, I felt the urge to let that language expand. I wanted those micro-narratives to evolve into immersive, inhabitable experiences. In my mind, the jewellery began to grow larger...... it unfurled into surfaces, mosaics, architectural details.
That’s how EcletticArt was born: from the need to inhabit emotion on a broader scale, to bring the same care, the same sensory intensity, from the intimate space of the body to the wider space of the home. The interiors I imagined weren’t just places to furnish, but environments to evoke, rooms bathed in light, where every wall could become a story to be touched, to be walked through.
When you begin designing, what’s the first thing you listen for?
I listen to the silence. That’s always where everything begins. Within that silence, I search for the emotional tone of the project: joy, melancholy, stillness, tension, light, shadow. Before even thinking about materials or forms, I tune into that subtle, inner rhythm.
It’s a process that feels more musical than visual, a deep listening that happens through the body as well, and sets the score for the piece. My studio is surrounded by nature, and its constant presence...... the movement of the leaves, the shifting light throughout the day, the slow breath of the seasons, quietly enters into every project.
Sometimes it’s a particular shadow on the floor, other times the sound of rain on the roof that suggests a tone, a colour, rhythm, a material. Nature is never just a backdrop: it’s a living part of my creative process, like an echo that weaves itself into my emotions and becomes form.
Do you see yourself more as an artist or a designer — or do you resist that distinction altogether?
That’s a beautiful question, because it touches on something I feel very deeply. In truth, I reject the distinction between artist and designer... but I do so gently, without rigidity.
When I create, I am an artist: I follow intuition, I make room for mistakes, I trust the emotion and the material as it speaks. At the same time, I need to translate all of this into a concrete project: something that works in a lived space, that endures over time and responds to real needs. That’s when I step into the role of the designer.
But it’s precisely at the point where these two identities meet, overlap, and influence one another that my most authentic voice is born: poetic yet grounded, emotional yet functional. I can’t separate aesthetics from meaning, form from experience. For me, creating means building inhabitable beauty, giving shape to sensations that can be lived in daily life, touched, and moved through.
In the end, I don’t choose between being an artist or a designer... I inhabit that boundary as a fertile space, a place of freedom where I can fully express my vision.
What role does imperfection play in your work? Are there elements you deliberately leave raw, unexpected, or emotionally “unresolved”?
Imperfection is what brings a work to life. It’s the crack that breathes, the edge that vibrates, the asymmetry that invites us to listen.
Absolute, flawless beauty, too polished, too resolved.... unsettles me. It feels closed off, distant, as if it has already said everything there is to say.
I prefer a crooked corner, a fragment that juts out, a tiny bubble in the colour of a tile, because it’s in that irregularity that there’s room for the human touch, for emotion that shifts and evolves. An imperfect mosaic invites the eye to pause, to search, to feel. A detail that seems out of place, a piece rougher than the others... can become the most intimate point of access to an emotion.
Some forms need to breathe with the people who live with them, to carry the movement of life within them. In the end, I believe it’s imperfection that holds the soul of things, the part you don’t see right away, but that reveals itself slowly, over time.
Is there a particular material, tool, or object you find yourself returning to? Something with personal meaning?
Yes, there are two elements I return to again and again, almost like a ritual. The first is an old (very old!) craft knife, with a worn blade and a handle marked by time. It was the very first one I used when I began working with polymer clay. Over the years, I’ve bought many others: newer, sharper, more technical.....but when I need to refine the most delicate tiles, the ones that demand sensitivity, care, and respect, I always come back to that one.
There’s something in its memory of use that makes me feel at home. As if it already knows what to do. As if my hands and their blade speak the same language. And then, of course, there’s polymer clay, the material I discovered more than 25 years ago and that still moves me today.
It won me over because it allowed me to go beyond technical boundaries and express myself with total freedom: no rigidity, no imposed rules. It’s a material that transforms, that welcomes impressions, pressure, and gesture. It follows me, challenges me, and reflects me. It even makes me angry sometimes, because occasionally, it decides for me how it wants to take shape, and there’s no way to fight it! It’s my material of choice, and the heart of everything I create. Together, that little knife and the clay are like my creative compass: silent, faithful, full of memory and possibility.
You don’t just design — you create atmospheres. What makes an atmosphere unforgettable to you?
An atmosphere becomes unforgettable when it makes you breathe differently, almost in a new way. When time seems to slow down, to stretch out, and every moment takes on a special quality. It’s as if the air around you changes: its temperature, its weight, its rhythm..... and the light, whether natural or artificial, brushes against you gently, surprising you again and again.
It’s not something you perceive only with your eyes or your mind, but first and foremost with your body: a deeper breath, a calmer heartbeat, a sensation of wellbeing that wraps around you.
An unforgettable atmosphere is a space that sees you, listens to you, and welcomes you without needing words, where every detail helps weave a subtle dialogue between the space and your soul. It’s a delicate and precious balance of light, materials, colours, and the story of those who live within it. For me, creating atmosphere means exactly this: designing a work that becomes a refuge for the senses and the mind, that allows a place to tell both intimate and universal stories... evoking emotions that are genuine and enduring.
How do you help clients connect emotionally with your art — especially when it’s still in the process of becoming?
I guide my clients mostly through storytelling. I share drafts, photos of the tiles in progress, and invite them into my “mental studio,” where ideas take shape and evolve. I want them to see not just the final piece, but the entire creative journey behind it, the choices, the challenges, and the emotions that inform every detail.
At the same time, I listen deeply. For me, it’s essential to understand the life experience of those who commission a piece to grasp their emotions, their deeper desires, as well as their practical needs. It’s never just about creating an object or a decorative element; it’s about building an emotional bridge between their world and my artistic language.
That said, I’m very clear and firm about one thing: I never alter my distinctive style to accommodate requests that don’t reflect its essence. My work is rooted in a strong and recognisable identity, built on specific forms, materials, and atmospheres. For this reason, I say no to many requests, especially those that lean toward figurative work or other expressions that don’t align with my vision. Not because I’m unwilling to be flexible, but because I believe authenticity is the key to creating works that truly speak and stand the test of time.
This way, I create a space for sincere collaboration, where both the client and I can recognise ourselves and work together on a foundation of honesty, bringing to light something unique and deeply felt.
What’s the most touching or unexpected feedback you’ve ever received from someone experiencing one of your mosaics?
One of the most touching pieces of feedback I’ve ever received came from a woman who wrote to me after seeing a mosaic I had created for a friend of hers, in her friend’s home. She told me that as soon as she stepped into that space, she began to cry..... not out of sadness, but because of a deep sense of peace and belonging that moved her profoundly.
Her words stayed with me: “It was as if the space was saying to me: you are safe.” That sentence captures everything I wish to convey through my work: not just decoration, but a true emotional refuge, a space that can hold, protect, and speak to the heart. In that moment, I realised even more deeply how art can go beyond aesthetics, and how it can connect people and places on a profound and often unexpected level. It was a powerful confirmation that my work is not just about form and colour, but also about care, presence, and relationship.
That experience reminded me that every mosaic, every tile, is a small gesture of welcome and humanity.
Are there days when you feel more like a poet than a professional? If yes, how would you describe that feeling?
Yes, absolutely! And those days are sacred to me. Reality feels lighter, as if its sharp edges blur. Time slows down, my movements become gentle, and every fragment I touch seems to turn into an unspoken word, a silent syllable finding its place in the mosaic. It’s a kind of sweet suspension, where I no longer follow a linear or productive logic, but an inner rhythm that guides me from within. It’s like walking inside a poem without needing to fully understand it, just feeling it, letting it flow through me.
In those moments, I don’t always produce more, but I certainly create more authentically. There’s a serenity that emerges only when I allow myself to release control, planning, and the need to “make it work.” What is born on those days feels deeply like me: fragile, intuitive, eclectic, and dreamy.
Do you have creative rituals — before beginning a project, or when you need inspiration?
Maybe they’re not exactly rituals.... I’d call them more like cosy habits. I like to put on music: Tori Amos’s piano, with its intimate, raw sound that seems to dig deep inside me, or the ethereal, suspended tones of Ajeet, which carry me into a state of deep, almost meditative listening.
These sounds aren’t just background noise; they’re an essential part of my process, as if they help me tune in, aligning me with a subtler, more authentic rhythm. I light a diffuser with natural scents..... I love the fragrance of broom flowers and sandalwood. Often, I prepare a cup of tea, a small gesture of care and presence. Other times, I need to walk in silence, maybe around my studio or through the nature that surrounds it, to clear my mind and let something emerge spontaneously, perhaps picking some flowers or watching insects at work.
I never start abruptly. I need a breath, a gradual transition between the outside world and my creative space. Only then can I truly connect with what I’m about to create.....and with myself.
What is beauty to you, in this phase of your life? Has your definition changed over time?
Today, beauty for me is depth. It’s no longer about appearance or perfection, but about resonance. It’s what touches you silently and stays with you even after you’ve looked away. It’s not a dazzling spark, but a presence that accompanies you, speaking softly and slowly settling within. It’s that feeling of “off-key harmony” you recognise in a detail, in a surface worn by time, in a light that caresses a crack instead of hiding it.
Once, I sought beauty in composed forms, in clean gestures, in visual balance. I was fascinated by the idea of perfection as control. But over time, and perhaps through life, my idea of beauty has shed many layers of pretence. Now I find it in what vibrates, even if it’s slightly out of tune. In what tells a lived story, not a polished one. It’s a beauty that welcomes, consoles, and reveals itself only to those who truly pause to see.
At this stage of my life, beauty has also become an ethical act: creating something that doesn’t shout, but supports; that doesn’t seek approval, but connection. It’s something that moves you, leaving a trace... small, perhaps, but real.
When someone steps into a space featuring your art, what do you hope they carry with them — in their body, minds, hearts, their mood?
Above all, I hope the viewer feels something in their body, even before the mind. A release, a deeper breath, that subtle sensation of being in a place that demands nothing, but welcomes everything. I hope they feel calm, lightness. But also intensity, a gentle intensity..... like an emotion that arrives quietly and stays there, without asking to be explained.
I would love for them to leave carrying a feeling without a name. Something that lingers beneath the skin: a small knot in the throat, a sudden smile, a memory that surfaces without quite knowing why. A luminous trace in everyday life. Like when you look up at the sky and, even though you quickly return to your tasks, something inside you has shifted, ever so slightly, but irreversibly. I don’t aim to astonish or impress. My desire is that people feel closer to themselves after experiencing a work I’ve created. That moment, however brief, becomes an “other” time: suspended, intimate, real. If a work manages to do this, even for an instant, then it has completed its journey... and so have I, as an Artist.
