Rosa
Pierri

The first thing I ever drew was my dad's red '97 Ford truck. I wanted to play outside with him, but instead, he handed me a notebook and a pencil and told me to draw. Looking back, that moment changed everything. I was probably five or six years old, and from then on I drew constantly — anything that caught my attention, sparked my curiosity, or simply felt beautiful.

Art has always been how I make sense of the world. In high school, my work explored social and political structures, creating conversations around the systems we live within. Years later, after the chaos of COVID, my work took a different turn. My paintings became an exploration of imagination, consciousness, and emotion — a place where my mind could wander freely beyond fear, uncertainty, and expectation.

Today, my creative practice lives in two very different worlds. My paintings are loud. They're intuitive, expressive, and deeply connected to my inner child. They arrive in bursts of colour, movement, and emotion. My ceramics are quieter. They ask for patience, observation, and discipline. Clay humbles me daily. At the same time, there's something incredibly playful about it — the way a simple lump of earth can transform into something functional, beautiful, and completely unexpected.

My studios couldn't be more different either. Painting usually happens in my living room with my cat, Gloria, nearby, while Afrobeats, Latin music, jazz, piano, or The XX fill the space. The lighting stays warm and dim so that when I finally switch on the big light, the colours reveal themselves like a surprise. Ceramics happen in a private studio tucked away in a back alley. The music changes daily, espresso is constantly being pulled, and my German mentor is usually rolling a cigarette while we work. There are beautiful plants everywhere, runners passing by outside, and every surface seems to be covered in some combination of clay dust, tools, sketches, and glaze buckets. By the end of the day, you're almost guaranteed to leave looking like you've been working on a construction site. Between the laughs, the deep conversations, and the constant learning, it's become one of my favourite places to be.

One of the questions I'm asked most is whether there's a piece I could never sell. With ceramics, I'm usually okay letting things go because I know I can make them again. Paintings are different. They're tied to a specific moment, emotion, or version of myself. There's one piece called Painfullythat feels like being lost at sea. Every time I look at it, it says something new. If there's one thing that might surprise you when you explore my work, it's that I don't really have a niche. My pieces can feel chaotic and calm, wild and structured, playful and serious — all at once. They're reflections of whatever I am experiencing and exploring at that point in time.

When someone brings one of my pieces into their home, I hope it does more than decorate a wall or sit on a shelf. I hope it makes them feel alive. I hope it sparks conversation, challenges perspective, and encourages curiosity. I want my work to laugh loudly, cry openly, question reality, and celebrate the beautiful absurdity of being human. These pieces aren't meant to blend into the background. They're meant to live.

And that's really what House of Pierri is about. More than a business, it's a home I've built for parts of myself that didn't always have room to exist. I grew up quickly, and House of Pierri feels like giving little Rosa permission to create, explore, experiment, and play without shame. These days, home isn't a place or a destination. Home is me. It's creating because I can. Following curiosity wherever it leads. Diving deeper into my own soul and inviting others to do the same.