For Sky Fusco, writing is a way to pin down what’s fleeting—the felt, the overheard, the anonymous. Each of these works, living in hotel notepads and arising without warning, embodies what Sky calls “a universal type of ephemera.” The Italian artist and writer, known online as Lordcowboy, reminds us that we are not fixed beings. We shift, lose our footing, and continually reshape who we are. Presence is something captured only in motion.
Tell us about the creative journey that led to these pieces. When did you first start writing them, and how has the process evolved over time?
The writing featured in these pieces started in journals. I’ve carried notebooks around with me for as long as I can remember. Often it starts as one or two lines that strike me like an arrow to the heart—maybe they come to me while meditating, or overheard in conversation. Sometimes I feel inspired to keep going and expand whatever wants to come through, other times it’s enough as it is.
What does your writing space look like when you’re working on these? Are you always physically “somewhere” else—or does the act of writing feel like the way you arrive?
I don’t keep to a specific writing space, which is why it helps to carry a notebook around. I try to be prepared for ideas, which often have no mercy. I feel untethered without a journal nearby, and especially so if I accidentally leave it somewhere. Writing at the beginning or the end of the day is how I come back to myself.
In a world so loud with distraction, where do you go—internally or externally—to actually feel present? Or is presence something you’re still learning how to reach?
Presence, or rather being aware of the present moment, is something I will always be returning to, likely until my last breath. There is no “reaching it.” Things that help me notice it: being outside, being in a body of water, being in my lover’s arms in the morning, being very cold or very hot, exercise, dancing, or movement, cooking, drawing.
What is it about hotel notepads that make you want to dig deep into the raw parts of the soul?
I think there is something very specifically human about this kind of ephemera. To me, the stationary carries a universal anonymity that taps into a sense of longing. Not to mention, the hotel notepads are also a dying art. They’re from the old world. Nowadays, you can check in and out of a hotel without even talking to a single person. Everything is digital and automated.
Some of your pieces almost feel like instructions. Are these for you to follow? Or are you writing to someone else?
I am always writing to myself, whatever it is I need to hear most, or remember again and again.
If someone found a note of yours left behind on a hotel desk, how would you hope or expect it to make them feel?
Seen.
