Still Becoming: On Beauty, Doubt, and the Art of Ageing

Giuliana Matarrese in conversation with Isabella Ferrari

All photography by Ben Taylor, styled by Ramona Tabita

The word diva has Latin origins: it is the feminine form of divus, a term used to describe someone whose physical presence and force of personality seemed closer to the heavens than to the earth. In earlier times, it referred to supernatural beings, figures suspended above the ordinary, entrusted with an elevated aura—dating back to Homer’s Iliad, whose opening invocation famously calls: “Sing, O Goddess, the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus.”

In more recent history, the word came to define women artists whose singular magnetism—often exercised with an almost elegant unconsciousness—made them capable of shifting even the firmest wills, with little more than a glance or a few seemingly simple words, behind which others would endlessly search for hidden meanings or deeper truths (sometimes they existed, sometimes they did not).

Of course, the term also carried its own côté: the mythology of inaccessibility, of caprice, of impossible demands and cultivated trouble, all justified by the exceptional nature of the figure itself. And yet, to be a Diva originally had less to do with earthly excess or vanity than with a certain elective proximity to the sky—and to those imagined to belong to it.

In a time when social media and algorithms demand speed, reject waiting, and cultivate mystery only when paired with an imminent reveal—preferably marked by a virtual countdown—it seems there is less and less room left for Divas.

Today, armed with social media managers, agents, assistants of every kind, and devoted yes-men supposedly tasked with shielding them from the ugliness of the outside world, actresses and singers often feel like replicants engineered in a Silicon Valley start-up. They are trained to follow a single script, one designed to secure success while avoiding missteps, scandals, and the ever-threatening shitstorm, because the internet is far harsher than any critic ever was. Above all, it feeds on other people’s misfortunes with a certain schadenfreude, grinding them into views, clicks, and engagement—until the bubble bursts, or everyone forgets it ever existed.

In this sense, Isabella Ferrari (born Isabella Fogliazza) remains a rare exception. A career that began, not entirely by her own choosing, at just sixteen—between beauty pageants and films that would later enter the mythology of Italian popular culture, such as Sapore di mare—was followed by four decades spent navigating the frictions of an industry long accustomed to treating young women with paternalism, if not outright force. Across theatre, cinema, and the wider collective imagination, she gradually carved out a place entirely her own.

Throughout it all, she seems to have preserved a serene distance between herself and the noise of the world—between its ugliness and the exact space she chose to inhabit in her professional life, and inevitably, in the gaze of those who have followed it from afar.

A Mona Lisa smile—distant, composed, almost conspiratorial, as if she had discovered a secret still unknown to you—accompanies the long pauses she takes before answering the questions in this conversation. She speaks without the weight of fixed certainties, moving instead in tune with an inner rhythm whose pulse seems known only to her. She contradicts herself, drifts, digresses, and wanders with such disarming innocence that she leaves the interviewer momentarily unmoored, caught in a faintly lysergic confusion—which is perhaps the emotional terrain on which Divas have always been built.

Giuliana Matarrese — What has always been fascinating about your career—and about your experience of womanhood—is that you became famous very young. You won Miss Teenager, then recorded your only album already under your nom de plume, Isabella Ferrari. What does it mean to be a young woman, as you were when you first started, and to grow up under the gaze of others before truly knowing who you are, or what you want from life?

Isabella Ferrari — I fought every day. It’s true—my adolescence was split between beauty pageants at sixteen, then almost immediately moving to Rome for my first audition, and then my first film. Those are years when people often experience rebellion in its strongest form, but I can say that rebellion wasn’t really part of me. Partly because my mother strongly wanted me to enter this profession. Things happened, and I simply tried to stay within them, to move through them.

In the end, maybe it wasn’t even a traumatic adolescence. Looking back, there was nothing truly negative in what happened to me—I can say that now with a kind of awareness that came over time, also through years of analysis. Perhaps my mother instinctively felt that I could channel something through this path, even though I was just a young girl.

I often ask myself whether, as a mother today, I am capable of being equally as strong or decisive. For now, I feel very far from what my mother was for me.

G.M. — Looking at the industry today, what feels most different for you as an actress, and in the roles you continue to seek out?

I.F. — Today, we are dealing with different struggles, often much more simply tied to whether a film can even get made. But if I think about what I’ve experienced in recent years, I can say that since turning fifty, truly substantial roles—those rare gold nuggets hidden inside a strong story—have become fewer, and I’m always searching for them.

I’ve been fortunate enough to work with remarkable directors. There’s no need to make a list, but of course, it is a privilege to work with someone like Paolo Sorrentino, who can give you an image powerful enough to carry you somewhere else entirely. That’s what I love most. I love stepping into a role and bringing something back home with me—to have the chance, through cinema, to see something beyond myself, even if that something is monstrous. That, to me, is the purpose of art.

So yes, I’m grateful. But I’m constantly searching for the next gold nugget.

G.M. — Was there a character you found particularly difficult to let go of?

I.F. — Yes, absolutely. In that sense, Ferzan Özpetek’s A Perfect Day (2008) was one of the hardest. I approached that film with enormous tension. Before we started shooting, Ferzan told me he had been deeply unsure about casting me. He said he had chosen me because I carried something elegant, something chic, and while on one side there was this husband obsessively jealous of my physicality, on the other, I also had to be believable as a working-class Roman woman, exactly as the character had been written in Melania Mazzucco’s novel that inspired the film.

So I earned that role with my nails and my teeth. Then, once I was on set, surrounded by those scenes of violence, I ended up carrying that character with me long after filming. When I think about it now, I even feel a certain nostalgia, because I find that experience incredibly beautiful.

In a very different way, it also happened with the Italian TV series, Distretto di Polizia. I would arrive at the airport, and people would call me “Commissario” and wave me straight through security. But at a certain point, I had to leave that character behind, even though it brought me visibility and success. Being strongly identified with one role can give you popularity, but it can also erode your credibility. My way of protecting that credibility has always been to move to a completely different role from the last one I played.

G.M. — What advice would you give today to a young woman who is as young as you were when you started, and who wants to pursue this profession in 2026?

I.F. — It’s very different today. I almost found myself in this profession rather than consciously choosing it, but I do believe that being able to channel your passion should be a right. At the same time, when you choose this kind of work at twenty, you don’t really know how to do it yet. You need guidance—not only to shape your ambition, but also to understand how to carry your own fragilities.

I wouldn’t go back to being twenty. I was deeply afraid then, and my self-confidence only grew along the way. What I didn’t know at the time was that ageing could feel this simple. Is that a bad thing?

G.M. — No, I think it’s actually something very beautiful. And since it has become increasingly difficult even to make a film in Italy today—and this year, in fact, there wasn’t a single Italian film in competition at Cannes—have you seen anything recently that you particularly loved? At the David di Donatello, for example, Le città di pianura seemed to sweep everything.

I.F. — I vote for the David Awards, so I have seen practically all of them. But in truth, I had already watched those films in cinemas, because I really love going to the movies.

I won’t deny that I voted for Le città di pianura. I’m always looking for freshness, for something that may seem slightly wrong but feels deeply honest. What I love in cinema is experimentation. As an actress, I’m always searching for filmmakers who can push me towards that space, as happened with Bertrand Mandico, when I worked with him on Roma Elastica.

I have to admit, I didn’t know Bertrand before he wrote to me. Then I watched his films, I read the script, and I discovered this world—certainly Fellinian in spirit, but filtered entirely through his own vision as an auteur.

Maybe I’ve drifted a little in answering your question, but what I really mean is that art generates more art. I say that also because my daughter is a curator, and I often go with her to exhibitions. I’ve just come back from the long marathon of the Venice Biennale. I’m fascinated by experimentation. I try to understand it—or sometimes accept not understanding anything at all. But the desire is always the same: to be surprised, and to be left breathless.

G.M. — During such a prolific and successful career, were there ever moments when you felt exhausted by this profession—when you thought, enough?

I.F. — Of course. There were moments when I felt deeply restless, often because I hadn’t managed to get a role I truly wanted. As an actress, you live in a constant state of seeking approval—being wanted, being called, being chosen for the next role. That created a kind of agitation in me, an almost permanent anxiety, something I had to work through over time.

Then, becoming a mother shifted my focus. It took some of that urgency out of the endless pursuit—the chasing after career, after recognition—and, in that sense, many things became easier.

G.M. — What is a piece of advice—or even a lesson—you received from a director or colleague that has stayed with you?

I.F. — Some things people told me stayed with me deeply. I had to exorcise them somewhere inside myself. I worked with many masters, and years ago, there was a kind of verbal harshness that was almost normal on film sets. You barely noticed it at the time, but those words entered you.

Still, in my own experience, many of those encounters taught me something.

Ettore Scola had a remarkable lightness in the way he guided me into a scene, without overloading me with thoughts. He would often focus on posture, on a physical attitude that could help unlock the character. That role—Andreina in A Novel of a Poor Young Man—eventually won me the Volpi Cup.

Before one particularly long monologue, he placed a hand on my shoulder and asked me, “What was your mother’s name?” I said, “Maria Vinetti.” He looked at me and said, “Alright. You are Maria Vinetti.”

I walked into that scene with a lightness and a control over my body I could never have learned in acting school, which I never attended. That kind of instinctive understanding stayed with me.

In general, I learned a great deal from the directors who shaped me. Even when Dino Risi would shout through a megaphone, “You’re terrible,” did it hurt in that moment? Perhaps. I still remember it. But in some way, it also pushed me to become more truthful. Everything that happened with #MeToo was extraordinary—essential for younger generations, and deeply liberating for those who had lived those experiences firsthand. It helped dismantle forms of behaviour that wounded far more deeply than a single phrase ever could.

And in my own path, there were difficult lessons that, in the moment, felt harsh, but still led me where a character needed to go.

Marco Tullio Giordana, when he directed me in Appointment in Liverpool, used to tell me, “You mustn’t eat.” He kept me on a strict regimen. I wasn’t allowed to smoke. I had to remain fully concentrated inside the character.

So in the end, even if I never attended acting school, what taught me the most was meeting people who introduced me to this profession—and, through it, helped me understand who I was as an artist.

And perhaps this constant need I still have for others, this curiosity I feel towards them, remains one of the few things that slows ageing down.

G.M. — In recent years, you also seem to have entered the orbit of major fashion houses—not only Italian, but French as well—which is by no means an obvious path for an Italian actress. You attend shows, and you wear their clothes for major events. Fashion is a world of its own, governed by very different rules than cinema. What attracts you to this ecosystem, so theatrical and at times so excessive?

I.F. — I really love going to fashion shows—they are beautiful experiences. On one hand, I feel flattered that brands still want to dress me at sixty. On the other, I genuinely enjoy it.

My first connection with Saint Laurent as a house actually came through Parthenope, since Saint Laurent Productions supported Sorrentino’s film. My meeting with Anthony Vaccarello happened later. I had worn one of his dresses at the Venice Film Festival in 2024. I didn’t have a film in competition—I was really there as my husband’s plus-one, since Renato was serving on the jury.

So, with a certain nonchalance—which perhaps is also useful in life—I came straight from the sea, threw on this robe manteau, tights included, even though it was unbearably hot. But I’ve always loved listening to my stylist’s advice. And then—boom—he loved it. He wrote to me saying I was a“Saint Laurent woman”.

G.M. — Which, in many ways, you are.

I.F. — I had never thought of it that way. It wasn’t something planned or strategically built. It all happened quite naturally.

G.M. — And what about clothes themselves—what kind of relationship do you have with them? Is it an emotional relationship?

I.F. — Fashion interests me because people interest me—artists interest me—and that includes designers. I’m fascinated by how they do their work because, in some ways, it also helps me understand my own.

In everyday life, though, I don’t think much about buying clothes. That said, over the years I’ve built an extraordinary wardrobe, which I’m now trying to organise—with difficulty, but also with a great deal of affection.

There are pieces I simply cannot part with, because they hold memories of very luminous moments in my life.

I’m approaching it almost the way you would approach arranging a library—deciding whether to organise things by author, or by colour. I still haven’t fully figured out how to tackle it. But since one of my children has moved out, that room has become my refuge. (laughs) Going back through those things gives me pleasure, even if I’m not particularly nostalgic.

There was also a period when Prada made several custom dresses for me. Together, they feel like a kind of catalogue of my life. Now that I’m putting everything in order, I’m sure I’ll feel tempted to wear some of them again.

But going from shop to shop—that has never really been something I do.

G.M. — Beyond clothes, what kind of relationship do you have with your body today? Are you strict with it, or affectionate?

I.F. — Very affectionate. I really want to live well. I train, I eat well, and I insist to everyone I meet that we need to take care of our bodies. Everything is there. The mind can lie, but the body has needs you have to obey.

G.M. — I once heard something you said that I found very beautiful—very honest, and in some way also very tender. You said: “I was never worried about hiding my age, but I was always very worried about hiding my ignorance.” Do you still feel that way?

I.F. — I do. Never having had a formal education in this field—even though I learned so much from people along the way—means you constantly need dialogue, comparison, and exchange.

G.M. — You’ve always been very honest, almost severe with yourself, in saying that your beginnings were tied more to physical beauty than to acting techniques, especially since you never really had the time to go through traditional acting school. And yet not every beautiful young woman becomes Isabella Ferrari. Is there, if you allow yourself to recognise it, a merit in the way you have built and carried your career?

I.F. — Every morning of my life, I woke up and tried to earn that day—perhaps sometimes with too little irony. Maybe that’s why I often surrounded myself with ironic people, because I wasn’t.

Now that I’m sixty, I try to give importance to everything I do—and to do it well.

G.M. — And today, as an artist, do you feel fulfilled? At ease?

I.F. — Yes, I do feel fulfilled. But I’m still guided by curiosity. There have been several rare and luminous moments in my career, moments that truly mattered. But I’m still waiting for the next one.

You don’t have that kind of certainty that can make someone move through life without doubts. I am full of doubts. But this is my story, and I have no regrets.