Lizzy Sainsbury has lived in the woods of Montalbano in Tuscany  since 1992 and makes her artwork and installations mainly with clay,  wood,  organic and scrap material. 


Lizzy Sainsbury abita dal 1992 nei boschi del Montalbano e lavora principalmente con la creta,  il legno,  materiali organici e oggetti trovati. 


One-woman shows 


La Soffitta, Colonnata

La Casa di Dante, Firenze

The Chantries, Cambridge

The Black Barn, Ely

Palazzo Pretoriale, Montelupo.

Thin Air. Podere Ciliegi, Vinci



Group shows and site-specific installations



Varcune, Here, Cavallerizza, Turin

Cley 17, Cley, G.B

Alberi Torreggianti, Istantanee, San Casciano



Entropie - Cavallerizza, Torino

Tradewinds - Fornace Pasquinucci, Capraia Fiorentina

Homes - Istantanee,San Casciano



Via Asti - Torino

One Boat - Istantanee San Casciano

Alberi - Il Giardino dei Ciliegi, Firenze



Parole - Il Giardino dei Ciliegi

Parole -  Biblioteca di San Giorgio, Pistoia

Centro Sereno Regis, Torino

Scambi di Memoria, Crespina



Diladdarte - Porta San Niccolò, Firenze

Winetown -  Loggia del Grano, Firenze

Mobilecard - Simultanea, Firenze

Nature and Man - Panzano

Passages - Zeri





Wart, - Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, Firenze

Diladdarte - Firenze

Il Giardino dei Ciliegi - Firenze

Winetown - Palazzo Non Finito

Wart - Casole d’Elsa  

Suite -  Biblioteca Comunale di Pontassieve 

Musiche della Natura -   Palazzo Uzielli, Vinci








I Like


Winter I like

because the earth

is there, bare.


No frills,

no pretty


green curls.


The earth has a curve

I can cup with my hand,

like the skin of a pot

I have turned.


Winter's colours

have distilled

to their crystalline essences.


And the sun

on my face

is a gift.






on the edges of my life

are the ones that can cut

to the core,


more than my own kind.


Village women.


Their names I do not know,

just their sad kitchens

and their lives unchosen.


And the unshared that

stands between us,


the unfair.



Thin air



Invisible each to

other, we inhabit

the same woods.


A circle of calls

from the white

night birds enclose

us all on cold evenings.


A nightingale sings at the tip

of a pine lower down the hill

each June. I wait to hear it.


And all those many

other birds in rooms

above my head

are there,

lacing their fine threads

of song, layer upon layer


up into the thin air.






He morphs:





He has the slow soar

that is the buzzard,

his length of limb,

strength in the arm,

clenched-claw feet.


I breathe the

pelt, the pores

in the damp crease at the neck, armpit, belly.


I pull the sparse hairs,

finger the wild whorl

at his crown,

take his hair print.


I know the pattern his bones

make on the tomb floor.

I can mould the shape of his ribcage,

mirror with my hand his warped sternum,

spoon the twist to his hip,



I can feel

his old pain, mapping

the wounds,

the shattered bone,

the scars

white at shin

and shoulder.




he came up

out of the bathwater

like a sleek black seal,

slant eyes glinting.


And the frisson of fear

in my knowing,not knowing


is still there.