BY GIULIA CASALINI
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Giulia Casalini is an independent curator-artist and transfeminist community organiser based in London. Her current Ph.D. research at Roehampton University (Techne-funded, 2019–23) analyses queer-feminist live art from transnational and anti-colonial perspectives. Co-founder of the non-profit arts organization Arts Feminism Queer (aka CUNTemporary 2012–20), she sits on the advisory board of Mimosa House gallery and is a live art associate, United Kingdom. Selected projects: EcoFutures (festival, London, 2019); Still Burning (Varbergs Konsthalle, Varberg, 2019); Transitional States (Project Space Plus, Lincoln; Peltz Gallery, London; Labs Gallery, Bologna; CCCB, Barcelona, 2017–18); and Transformer (Richard Saltoun Gallery, London, 2014).
BY GIULIA CASALINI
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Giulia Casalini is an independent curator-artist and transfeminist community organiser based in London. Her current Ph.D. research at Roehampton University (Techne-funded, 2019–23) analyses queer-feminist live art from transnational and anti-colonial perspectives. Co-founder of the non-profit arts organization Arts Feminism Queer (aka CUNTemporary 2012–20), she sits on the advisory board of Mimosa House gallery and is a live art associate, United Kingdom. Selected projects: EcoFutures (festival, London, 2019); Still Burning (Varbergs Konsthalle, Varberg, 2019); Transitional States (Project Space Plus, Lincoln; Peltz Gallery, London; Labs Gallery, Bologna; CCCB, Barcelona, 2017–18); and Transformer (Richard Saltoun Gallery, London, 2014).
BY GIULIA CASALINI
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Giulia Casalini is an independent curator-artist and transfeminist community organiser based in London. Her current Ph.D. research at Roehampton University (Techne-funded, 2019–23) analyses queer-feminist live art from transnational and anti-colonial perspectives. Co-founder of the non-profit arts organization Arts Feminism Queer (aka CUNTemporary 2012–20), she sits on the advisory board of Mimosa House gallery and is a live art associate, United Kingdom. Selected projects: EcoFutures (festival, London, 2019); Still Burning (Varbergs Konsthalle, Varberg, 2019); Transitional States (Project Space Plus, Lincoln; Peltz Gallery, London; Labs Gallery, Bologna; CCCB, Barcelona, 2017–18); and Transformer (Richard Saltoun Gallery, London, 2014).
BY GIULIA CASALINI
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Eco-poetic storytelling practice via drawing-sensing-listening
at Hermitage Sykaminea, Lesbos, May 2026
This eco-poetic exercise comes from days of observing and staying with the land of Lesbos, and the non-human presences that inhabit it. During the two weeks of the residency in the north-east part of the island, facing Turkey, I have been walking up and down the mountainous paths to reach the sea and the above village whilst observing attentively what was happening around me – greeting plants and insects whilst collecting herbs or flower petals for myself and the other residents, for food and for dyeing textiles. On the last day of my residency, I walked those paths again – this time stopping at three specific spots I felt were charged with storytelling – and started sketching the ‘scene’ by focusing only on a few elements (or ‘protagonists’). After my quick sketch, I walked whilst free-talking into my voice recorder, expressing what emerged from my encounter with the ‘scene’. The morning after, I edited the transcripts. The result is the following poetic, eco-intimate and kinky micro-stories.
Cars and chamomile
These little white flowers like it rough.
They emerge from uneven soil - from the middle and the sides of the tracks where wheels run.
Does chamomile have a sympathy for its own destruction? To be crushed, squeezed and smelled of sweetness?
Maybe chamomile likes its own taste. Or just to be submissive.
Maybe chamomile is tired of being pretty every day, so she doesn't mind knowing that it's time for her to go, and to become something else.
And as chamomile goes towards its own death, it emanates the sweetest smell. A smell that makes you sleep as much as it awakens you.
Is chamomile the flavour of death?
I want my death to taste like her.
Oregano and butterflies
Oregano's essential oils intensify as the weather gets drier and warmer.
Two by two, its leaves climb up the stem, ending up in geometrical bouquets of tiny white juicy flowers that attract all sorts of insects, especially butterflies - the ones with brown wings and a dark circle on top.
Their attraction makes them spin around the clusters of oregano, creating a vortex of juicy desires.
They are sucking so hard I can almost hear them sipping. Flower by flower.
Hungry butterflies - they would only stop when it's time for the sun to set.
Poppies and thorns
The red of poppies is a signal.
Near fences, they attract my attention and the one of many other beings. They like to be protected, but they also like to trick.
I pick their bright red leaves by gently stroking them - if it is the petals' desire to fall into my hand, I would grab them.
But one needs to be very careful when caressing poppies as they like to surround themselves with thorny plant friends.
And inside, in their small but soft chambers, they harbour nesting insect partners - or lovers. They might be resting. They might be fucking. Or both. Sleepy, long, insect fucks.
How close can you get to poppies?
Giulia Casalini is an independent curator-artist and transfeminist community organiser based in London. Her current Ph.D. research at Roehampton University (Techne-funded, 2019–23) analyses queer-feminist live art from transnational and anti-colonial perspectives. Co-founder of the non-profit arts organization Arts Feminism Queer (aka CUNTemporary 2012–20), she sits on the advisory board of Mimosa House gallery and is a live art associate, United Kingdom. Selected projects: EcoFutures (festival, London, 2019); Still Burning (Varbergs Konsthalle, Varberg, 2019); Transitional States (Project Space Plus, Lincoln; Peltz Gallery, London; Labs Gallery, Bologna; CCCB, Barcelona, 2017–18); and Transformer (Richard Saltoun Gallery, London, 2014).