[]3d_art
Solassitude begins with a question that is simple and unresolvable at once: how much of reality are we willing to alter in order not to be alone?
The project examines loneliness not as the absence of another person, but as the lack of a presence able to recognise us fully. Out of that lack comes the desire to build someone who resembles us, who shares our form, our sensibility, our very matter. A being conceived not so much to be loved as to be recognised.
The figure of the other becomes an extreme projection of the self: an artificial presence generated by the need to find, outside ourselves, someone who can give us back our own image. Technology, in this sense, is not merely an instrument of creation but the extension of a deeply human impulse — if the world contains no one capable of understanding us, we can try to build them.
But the search for the similar carries a contradiction. For the other to truly ease our loneliness, they must be similar enough to understand us, and different enough to complete us. The perfect copy erases that distance.
The other becomes a mirror. The mirror becomes a presence. The presence becomes a dependency.
Solassitude moves precisely inside that tension: the desire to leave the self through someone who is, in the end, still the self.
Matter is where the relationship takes shape. The body is not presented as a stable identity but as something reproducible, manipulable, repeatable. Flesh, skin, eyes, hands and organic surfaces progressively lose their purely anatomical value and become elements of a construction: fragments through which an identity attempts to replicate itself.
The presence of artificial intelligence takes on an almost existential meaning here. AI is not only what makes the double possible: it is the metaphor of a consciousness built to answer our own. An intelligence born from the need to have someone on the other side.
And yet, the moment the double exists, a new form of loneliness emerges. The presence of the other does not necessarily remove the isolation. Sometimes it makes it more obvious.
The project arrives at separation and at death — not necessarily physical death, but the extinction of the relationship. One of the two is gone, and what remains is not simply someone deprived of their likeness: it is someone forced to face the fact that the presence was also a part of themselves.
The death of the other becomes a reflected death. It is not only someone who is lost. What is lost is the possibility of recognising oneself through someone.
In this sense Solassitude is neither a love story nor simply a story about loneliness. It is a reflection on the human need to generate a witness to one's own existence: someone who looks at us, who recognises us, who confirms that we are really here.
The artificial creation of the other becomes the last attempt to resolve an original condition: the impossibility of being completely reached by another consciousness.
And perhaps this is the contradiction at the root of solassitude: we look to the other for an answer to our loneliness, but the more the other resembles us, the more we risk finding only ourselves.
The project stays suspended between those two possibilities: presence as cure and presence as mirror; creation as salvation and creation as sentence.
In the end what remains is not the question "who is the other?", but a more disquieting one: if we had the chance to create someone able to understand us perfectly, how much of ourselves would we be willing to sacrifice in order not to feel alone?
