When you think of Rome, you picture ancient ruins, espresso bars, and Vatican spires. But beneath the postcard layers, there’s another Rome-one that moves in shadows, whispers in galleries, and lives in the spaces between tradition and rebellion. This is the Rome of Silvia Dellai.
Who Is Silvia Dellai?
Silvia Dellai isn’t a household name, but in the circles that matter-contemporary art, experimental performance, and underground Rome-she’s a quiet force. Born in Verona in 1987, she moved to Rome in her early twenties, not for the history, but for the friction. She wanted to work where the past didn’t just sit on a pedestal, but bled into the present.
Her work doesn’t hang in the Uffizi. It doesn’t get featured in tourist brochures. Instead, it appears in abandoned bathhouses near Testaccio, in pop-up rooms above a trattoria in Trastevere, and in darkened basements where only those who know the code can find it. She uses rust, old film reels, broken mirrors, and the voices of people who’ve been forgotten by the city’s grand narrative.
The Art That Doesn’t Ask for Permission
Dellai’s most talked-about piece, “La Città che Scompare” (The City That Disappears), was installed in 2023 inside the disused Acqua Acetosa water treatment plant. Visitors entered through a narrow steel door, stepped into total darkness, and then heard whispers-real recordings of Roman workers, immigrants, sex workers, and retirees-talking about what they lost when Rome became a museum.
No signs. No labels. Just sound, damp concrete, and the smell of old pipes. One visitor described it as “the city’s subconscious speaking.” The piece ran for 17 days. No press release. No social media push. It spread because people told their friends. And then their friends told others.
She doesn’t use Instagram. She doesn’t sell prints. Her gallery is the city itself, and her audience is anyone willing to get lost on purpose.
Rome’s Edge: Where the Real Culture Lives
Rome’s edge isn’t in the nightlife clubs of Ostiense or the late-night parties near Piazza Vittorio. It’s in the places the city forgot to clean up. The alley behind the old textile market in San Lorenzo, where spray-painted fragments of Renaissance frescoes now mix with graffiti from a 19-year-old Syrian poet. The abandoned cinema in Monti, now a sound lab run by a retired opera singer and a group of algorithmic musicians.
Dellai doesn’t make art about these places-she collaborates with them. She’ll spend weeks living in a squatted building, eating with the residents, listening to their stories, then turning their voices into a 12-hour audio installation. One project, “Sotto il Vaticano”, used recordings from basement apartments directly beneath the Vatican’s service tunnels. The sound of laundry being washed, children playing, and a priest humming a hymn-all layered into a single piece that played on a loop for three nights in a hidden chapel near Piazza Navona.
These aren’t performances. They’re interventions. Quiet, stubborn, and deeply personal.
Why This Matters Now
Rome is changing. Airbnbs have replaced family-run shops. Tourist traps have replaced local markets. Even the Trastevere dialect is fading. But in the cracks, people like Dellai are keeping something alive-not the Rome of emperors, but the Rome of the overlooked.
Her work isn’t political. It’s human. She doesn’t protest. She listens. And then she gives that listening back to the city, raw and unedited.
In 2025, she began a new project called “Le Voci che Non Vengono Chiamate” (The Voices That Are Never Called). It’s a series of 100 anonymous audio letters left in public libraries, bus shelters, and church pews across Rome. Each one is a 90-second recording of someone speaking to a person they’ll never meet. A grandmother to a refugee. A sex worker to a Vatican guard. A retired teacher to a teenager who just moved here from Nigeria.
No names. No dates. Just voices. And silence after.
The Edge Isn’t a Trend-It’s a Lifeline
If you want to see the real Rome, skip the Colosseum line. Skip the gelato shops with fake “original recipes.” Walk into the backstreets of San Giovanni. Find the yellow door with no number. Knock three times. If someone lets you in, you might hear a whisper. You might hear a song. You might hear Silvia Dellai’s Rome.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s real.
Who is Silvia Dellai and why is she important in Rome’s art scene?
Silvia Dellai is a contemporary artist based in Rome who works outside traditional galleries, creating immersive, sound-based installations in abandoned or overlooked urban spaces. She’s important because she gives voice to marginalized communities and captures the emotional undercurrent of modern Rome-something official cultural institutions often ignore. Her work is not for tourists; it’s for those who want to feel the city’s hidden pulse.
Where can I see Silvia Dellai’s art in Rome?
You won’t find her work on museum maps. Her pieces appear in temporary, often secret locations: disused water plants, basement chapels, squatted cinemas, and alleyway pop-ups. The only way to find them is through word-of-mouth, local art zines, or by asking people who work in independent bookstores like Libreria delle Donne in Trastevere. She rarely announces openings-she lets them happen organically.
Is Silvia Dellai’s art political?
Not in the traditional sense. She doesn’t hold protests or make slogans. But her work is deeply political because it challenges who gets to be remembered in Rome’s story. By amplifying the voices of sex workers, immigrants, retired laborers, and forgotten locals, she forces the city to confront its own erasure. Her art doesn’t demand change-it simply insists that these lives existed.
Can I buy or collect Silvia Dellai’s work?
No. She doesn’t sell anything. Her installations are temporary. Her audio pieces are not recorded for sale. She believes art should exist in the moment, not as a commodity. If you experience one of her works, you carry it with you-that’s the only ownership she allows.
How does Silvia Dellai’s work compare to other contemporary Roman artists?
Most contemporary artists in Rome work within galleries, use digital media, or reference classical motifs. Dellai rejects all of that. She works with decay, silence, and real human voices. Where others decorate the past, she digs into its wounds. Her closest peers aren’t in Rome-they’re in Berlin’s underground scene or Lisbon’s forgotten industrial zones. She’s part of a quiet European movement that values intimacy over spectacle.
Her Rome isn’t the one you’ll find on a postcard. But if you’ve ever felt the city’s weight-its beauty, its loneliness, its stubborn survival-you’ll understand why her work matters.
