Monica DeSalvo
- Anna Lilli Garai
- May 27
- 4 min read
Monica DeSalvo’s work sits at the intersection of memory, caregiving, and visual experimentation. Drawing from her background in design and her experience caring for her father, she builds collages using personal materials—his papers, notes, and fragments of daily life. What emerges isn’t nostalgic, but layered and present. Botanical forms, diptychs, and textures play a central role, giving structure to experiences that are both deeply personal and widely relatable. Each piece feels like a conversation across time, carefully built but never overexplained.
Q: What made collage feel like the right way to work through your dad’s story?
A: I had years’ worth of abstract fodder—older watercolor paintings, drawings, and monotype prints—that felt like beautiful scraps of wallpaper without a purpose. I began collaging onto cropped sections of them, very minimally at first. Some of the collage elements—mushrooms, shoes, bird parts, and lettuce, for example—made me laugh when paired with the croppings. They reminded me of my father’s psychedelic hallucinations and how absurd, surreal moments would weave their way into everyday life. In his haze of dementia, his remarks were often both hilarious and piercingly clear. By camouflaging some elements and creating dimension through layering others, I was able to evoke fragments of those stories and express ideas inspired by my father’s words.
Q: How did using his papers and files change how you made the work?
A: I approached my work a bit like an archaeologist—unearthing and preserving. The paper memorabilia is precious to me, especially items with his handwriting or the brittle imagery from his textbooks. But I allowed myself to use them and experiment with them, and this freed me up. They brought new life to my work, and I gave them new life by pulling them out of file drawers and into a creative process. I started printing and drawing onto them and incorporating them into my pieces, and a visual language began to emerge. It’s now a key part of my multi-step process.
Q: There’s grief in these pieces, but also humor and rhythm. How do you hold all that at once?
A: On one hand, it’s easy—especially when channeling someone like my father. His personality was a mix of silliness and profundity, and his tenacity throughout his decline was extraordinary. On the other hand, holding all of that successfully within a composition is challenging. But that’s my calling—I’m a graphic designer. Each piece is, in some way, an homage, so it’s got to be just right.
A funny example that captures both grief and humor comes from my piece "Preserving Loss"—in both the result and the way it’s been viewed. When I created it, I approached it like a memorial or a burial at sea, with its peaceful pink sunset over the vast ocean, fading into the horizon. My father, a hobbyist oil painter, was obsessed with the sea and ships. He painted countless land- and seascapes with lighthouses, so I often tuck a tiny lighthouse into my compositions—as I did in this one—as a quiet, symbolic way to honor him. After all that care and intention, an artist friend looked at the piece and said, “I see Margaritaville.” And that made me just as happy.
Q: Plants show up a lot. What do they mean to you in this context?
A: You’ve noticed the mushrooms and foliage! For me, mushrooms are these random, beautiful oddities emerging from the dirt. They carry a sense of resurrection or tenacity—but they’re also the stuff of fairy tales and children’s books. That probably reflects the playful, whimsical side of my father, and maybe even nods to his hallucinations.
Foliage became a recurring element in my work after a 2022 artist residency on the island of Skopelos in Greece. The route to the outdoor studio was up a narrow, hilly path engulfed by fruit trees. It was autumn, and leaves were wafting downward. In that magical setting, they took on new meaning for me: they became symbols of life’s preciousness, even at the end of their cycle. I began using them as stencils in my Gelli printing, and they’ve become part of my visual language ever since.
Q: You work in diptychs pretty often. What keeps you coming back to that format?
A: Diptychs create an instant grid, which is a comforting structure for me as a designer. They’re an effective way to explore the themes I’m working with: fragmentation and the longing for cohesion; the caregiving dyad; cognitive shifts; and the experience of straddling two worlds at once—which also feels relevant in the current climate in the U.S.! This format also allows me to make meaningful work from abstract fodder by playing with orientation, asymmetry, and differing proportions.
Q: When does a piece stop feeling personal and start feeling like something more?
A: It happens when people have an experience while viewing my work—and not just those who’ve cared for aging parents or had a loved one with dementia. Younger generations are discovering their own storylines in the work—they respond with curiosity and enthusiasm, wanting to know more.
Recently, I realized that some of my newer pieces inspired by sundowning—a term used to describe late-day agitation, confusion, and restlessness that many individuals with dementia experience—also resonate with the broader, collective confusion and fractured discourse we’re experiencing in the U.S. today. That connection excites me: responding to current issues while continuing to draw from the visual language I’ve developed with my father as my muse.
At university, we learned that design has three layers of meaning—the “attractive” surface layer, the metaphorical layer, and the soul. I’m trying to get to the soul. I think that’s where the work connects with people.
