Artist Elizabeth Sargeant

The back row of a classroom in Pollenzo, long before Fritto Misto Comune had a name, a place, or a table. Since then, there’s been a kind of quiet understanding: when Sara calls, Elizabeth shows up, always making, gardening, and backing even the most hairbrained ideas with real commitment.

So to say she was “invited” to be part of the postcard project doesn’t quite feel right. Her art and way of seeing are just as much a part of how Fritto Misto Comune came to life as Sara and Karin. This is simply one way of bringing that into focus.

Many meals have been shared, but this one held all the right elements: a table, food, a playlist (possibly 80s), and Karin (the third Fritto Misto wheel)  with her teenage daughter, both deep in their own creative play, camera and markers in hand. An Indian curry and dhal on the stove, wine on the table, and conversation moving between everything and nothing at once, with a lot of laughter.

It was in that moment, without much planning, that Elizabeth began to draw.

For her, Fabriano has always held something immediate even from her first whirlwind 48 hours here just over a year ago.

“I said it from the very first trip,” she tells us. “Fabriano feels good. It feels like a home.”

Having lived, studied, and worked across Italy (Torino, Bra, Greve, Maremma, Reggio Emilia) she describes Fabriano differently. Not somewhere to pass through, but somewhere to return to.

“There’s a certain kind of creativity I can only access when a place feels like home,” she says. “Fabriano has that.”

Her connection to the project, however, is simpler.

“To sum it up quickly: Sara,” she says.

Ever since Pollenzo, she’s been the kind of person who would show up for Sara for even the most questionable ideas… tools slightly inadequate,  backpack of ‘pocket espresso’ and fully committed anyway.

She laughs, but there’s truth in it.

“I’m not here because I’m an artist,” she adds. “I’m here because I believe in Sara’s vision of building community and creating real connections.”

That sense of trust carries into her work.

Elizabeth’s practice has always circled around the table, painting it, building it, growing the food for it, and creating the objects that sit on it.

“All of the best things in life happen around a table,” she says.

So when it came to the postcard, the direction was instinctive.

“I didn’t know exactly what it would become,” she explains, “but I knew it had to come together organically.”

She began with blind contour drawings, quick, intuitive sketches made while sitting at the table, capturing what was in front of her without overthinking it.

Wine glasses, plates, people, movement.

“It took about fifteen minutes,” she says. “And I knew I had what I needed.”

From there, the piece evolved slowly.

Her materials remained close to her — Fabriano paper, pencil, ink — and later, a process she hadn’t worked with before. Colour introduced through etching, built using oil pastels collected over time, from different places, different lives.

“I would love to tell you which brands,” she says, “but the truth is that my collection is a menagerie, and most of the labels are long worn off.”

Some pastels belonged to her grandmother, from when she studied art in Rome. Others were picked up along the way — Ottawa, Fredericton, Helsinki, Marseille, Firenze, Venezia, Alba, and beyond.

“I didn’t know how it would turn out,” she says. “And I think that’s the beauty of it.”

The process became part of the work itself, layering, building, not fully seeing until the end.

“You have an idea,” she says. “But the final reveal is still a surprise.”

What emerged holds that same quality, something observed, slightly warped, imperfect in places, but entirely true to the moment it came from.

For Elizabeth, that mirrors the way Fritto Misto Comune itself has taken shape.

“It began with a meal,” she says. “A loose idea, a feeling… and then it became something shared.”

When we ask what she hopes someone might feel when they receive the postcard, her answer is simple.

“I hope they feel thought of,” she says.

She pauses.

“A kind of joy… like fresh coriander on a lentil dahl.”

And if she were to send it to someone?

She smiles.

“I’d send it to myself,” she says. “In the past.”