Lia Rumma

I kept going towards a shore that I still hope I haven’t reached

Photography & Words: Lina Stefanou

Our appointment is at her flat in the Palazzo Donn’Anna, a historic 17^th-century residence and a landmark in the area at the beginning of the Posillipo coast. I am awaited at the entrance by Annapaola and Lidia, with whom we have exchanged several emails and text messages to organise this meeting. I admire the house, which seems like a refined gallery. I look at the rare artworks, and my gaze keeps swerving towards the sea. Where the imperial balcony with the cacti and the colourful sculptures ends, the eye is free to take in as much blue as it wants. I am thinking that this conversation between manmade art and the works of nature is also an interesting conversation with time as well as triggering endless cerebral wanderings.

The woman who soon appears before me is as striking as her surroundings. Petite, in a simple, elegant black dress, a high Cossack hat and a golden, sculpture-like brooch on her chest, Lia Rumma is a personification of authentic style. Her restless, intense presence imposes a different time upon the space and suddenly everything revolves around her. A dynamic, awesome, utterly alluring and fascinating woman – just like the stories she told me about her eventful life. For it was she and mainly her husband who established the presence of Arte Povera on the world scene, with a historical exhibition organised for them by curator Germano Celant at Amalfi in 1968. Well-known collectors both of them, they got to know the greatest names of the previous century’s world of art. When he died at the age of 25, Lia Rumma decided to open a gallery to make a living. Thus she travelled in Europe and America and met some major collectors, gallerists and curators. Over the years she has supported many emerging artists and has worked with Joseph Kosuth, Haim Steinbach, Gino De Dominicis, Reinhard Mucha, Alberto Burri, Thomas Ruff, William Kentridge and Marina Abramović, among others. These days, with two galleries in Naples and Milan, she represents artists like Vanessa Beecroft, Marina Abramović and Anselm Kiefer, while she herself is seen as a legend of the art world.

How easy was it for you to sell works that you were attached to and particularly loved?
I’ve always felt more like a collector than a gallery owner. Even today, it’s very hard for me to sell a piece I love. When I choose a work or support an artist, it’s because something about it resonates deeply with me. So when it was time to sell, I would often feel so bad, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Life forced my hand. My husband died suddenly—he and I organized the now-famous Amalfi exhibition in 1968 when we were just 23. Two years later, he passed away. At that time, Italian law gave most of a husband’s inheritance to his family if the couple had no children. I was left with nothing and had to find a way to survive. That’s when I decided to open my gallery. But I still couldn’t part with the works I truly loved. Eventually, I closed the gallery and began travelling the world.
During those travels, when I came across a piece that moved me, I’d call my collector friends and tell them, “Buy it. This artist is important.” At some point, I realized that selling art felt like selling a part of myself—my ideas, my vision. I eventually reconciled with the art market and reopened the gallery. But I still made mistakes.

Once, a collector requested a work by Joseph Kosuth that I had bought years earlier. It had been stored in a crate, unopened for a long time. When I finally opened it to prepare for delivery, I saw the piece again and fell in love all over. I didn’t want to let it go. I even told my assistants, “Let’s say we loaned it to a museum, and now it can’t be found.” But the collector didn’t buy the story. He told me, “Lia, if you don’t give me that work, you’ll be my enemy forever.” And because I always keep my word, I gave it to him. Today, that work is in a museum in Busca. In the end, I’m happy about that.

Do you choose your clients?
Absolutely. That’s very important to me—I don’t sell to just anyone. I only sell to passionate collectors, people who truly love and care for the art they acquire. That way, I can be sure the works won’t end up in auctions. If I’m not convinced a collector is the right person for a piece, I simply won’t sell it. Unfortunately, today many collectors, particularly in the U.S., buy for speculation. A few years later, everything ends up in the auction houses. It’s a trend I try to avoid.

What makes an artist truly great?
Art is the idea of an idea. An artist becomes great when their work perfectly embodies the thought or concept they intended to express. When they succeed in fully realizing that vision, the result is art. Picasso said, “I do not paint what I see, but what I think.” His work was always aligned with his thoughts. When an artist achieves that level of clarity and coherence, they touch something universal.
Of course, great artists also revolutionize language. Think of Arte Povera—using unconventional materials to challenge and expand the boundaries of art. Duchamp did the same. By moving an object, he transformed it. Joseph Kosuth said, “Art as idea as idea.” That principle still connects many artists around the world. At the heart of it all is the idea.

When was the last time a work of art moved you?
About a year ago, I saw Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring again. I stood in front of it for hours, mesmerized by that enigmatic, luminous face. The mystery of art was fully present in that moment.

Picasso once said, “Art has neither past nor future, only the present.” Vermeer, too, is contemporary. If you ask me to name my favourite contemporary artists, I’ll tell you: I’m a gallerist. It’s like asking a mother to pick a favourite child. As the character Filumena Marturano once said, “All children are beautiful to their mothers.” (laughs)

Do you think Arte Povera is still relevant today? Does it retain its freshness?
Absolutely. Arte Povera was a radical movement—not just for its ideas or materials, but because it took root globally. That gave it permanence. It rewrote the language of contemporary art and will remain eternal, just like the Renaissance or Impressionism. These movements are the foundation upon which future innovation is built.

Is there an exciting new movement in art today?
True movements reflect a broader renewal—in life, design, fashion. They mark a cultural shift. Today, while we’re witnessing enormous changes—particularly with technology and AI—it’s still too early to say what direction art will take. But I travel constantly, and I see many promising artists. Maybe something is about to emerge, but it depends on a deeper transformation of life itself.

Do you think artificial intelligence makes artists more isolated?
Not at all. AI is a tool—an opportunity, depending on how it’s used. But art is deeply human and mysterious. No technology can replace that. The artist won’t disappear. The question is whether AI can be used in a brilliant, meaningful way. We don’t know yet. Art remains the ultimate mystery of our lives.

Does the current structure of the art market trouble you?
Yes. When I opened my gallery in 1971, I was invited to Art Basel, one of the most important fairs. By the 1980s, I saw the market becoming more dominant than the artwork itself. So I did something bold. At Basel, instead of hanging artworks in my booth, I put up a banner that read: “I am no longer a dealer, but a collector of new culture.” Basel banned me for 20 years. Years later, the new director visited my gallery and invited me to reapply. I did. I designed a stunning pavilion with Haim Steinbach, covering it entirely in glass. The commission couldn’t refuse me. I exhibited works by Kounellis, De Dominicis, early Pistoletto, Abramović—pieces from my own collection, now donated to the Capodimonte Museum. Since then, I’ve been back at Basel every year.

You mentioned Kounellis. Did you know him well?
Very well. He came to Amalfi in 1968. He became a friend—not just to me, but to my husband, Marcello, who played a key role in Southern Italy’s cultural scene. Marcello had incredible insight into art. He later became a publisher.

How difficult was it to open the gallery at 27?
Extremely. I was a young woman in a world dominated by male dealers. Collectors didn’t take my advice seriously. Many later admitted they should have listened. (laughs) But I had mentors like Ileana Sonnabend, a major figure in New York and Paris. And I kept going, like a little boat navigating waves—still sailing, still not at the shore.

When do you hope to arrive? You’ve done almost everything.
I never stop dreaming—and I try to make my dreams come true.

What’s your next dream?
To live as long as I am now, just like this. I donated my Italian collection to the Capodimonte Museum, and they gave me a magnificent building to house it. It needs renovation—hopefully in two years it will be ready. My dream is to see my collection installed there. And when that happens, I like to imagine Caravaggio, Vermeer, and Titian judging it! (laughs)

Since we’re speaking of Kounellis—what was he like?
He was very Greek—sensitive, enigmatic, fascinating. He didn’t speak much, but his presence said everything. He was a powerful, intense figure. A great artist.

Do you have a memorable story from that time?
Yes. I’ll tell you about Gino De Dominicis and the German dealer who wanted to work with him. Gino was one of my favourite artists—brilliant but difficult. Generous with those who understood him, impossible with those who didn’t. I was the only gallerist who managed to collaborate with him. One day, a famous German dealer asked for help connecting with Gino. I agreed—but on one condition: I wanted to work with Anselm Kiefer, one of his artists. So we made a “devil’s pact.” I tried persuading Gino, but he refused. He didn’t like to travel. He said, “I know everything in the world.” He was like Jules Verne, who imagined places he never visited. Eventually, Germano Celant invited Gino to an exhibition in London. King Charles even stopped to look at his work. That gave me the chance to convince Gino to cross the Channel to Cologne. We arrived late at night, and the next morning we visited the gallery. Gino saw the large columns in the space and said, “These must be removed.” I thought he was joking. When the dealer enthusiastically welcomed him and asked about a possible exhibition, Gino replied, “Yes, but first take down those columns!” The dealer was furious. I was mortified. But Gino, unfazed, said, “Lia, I want to visit Kiefer’s studio.” We called, and Kiefer kindly agreed. Gino insisted on renting a luxury car—a Rolls or Jaguar. We settled for something elegant, and when we arrived, Kiefer was struck by our appearance—me in a fur coat, looking like a rabbit, and Gino dressed entirely in black. Kiefer later recounted the story in a book by Gabriele Guercio. Gino told me, “You must work with Kiefer.” I replied, “But who’s going to speak English?” Gino said, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” He asked Kiefer, in Italian, “When will you come to Naples for an exhibition?” Kiefer looked at me and said, “Whenever Lia Rumma wants.” I said, “Immediately!” That was the beginning of a beautiful collaboration. Kiefer later visited Gino’s studio too. Today, we’re preparing a major exhibition at Palazzo Reale in Milan, timed with the Winter Olympics. When Gino died, Kiefer was deeply saddened.

One last question—about love. Was there room for it in your life?
Love is most important thing in my life – not only love for another person, but love for life, for others, for everything. It’s fundamental. To imagine, to create, to realize something—each act is a rebirth, a return to life. Creation is a circle. It generates something out of nothing. That’s the essence of love.