EDITORIAL

A Space to Be: What One Classroom Taught Me about Art, Listening, and Inclusion

 
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EDITORIAL

A Space to Be: What One Classroom Taught Me about Art, Listening, and Inclusion

Giovanni Acquilino, 2025 Cohort Member, Global Leaders Institute

09-03-2025

When I entered the classroom that morning, I wasn’t there to teach. I was there to watch and to listen. But not with my ears—with my whole body. 

This was a Mus-e session at a public primary school in Genova, Italy, in a room filled with light, nervous energy, and about 20 children in motion. Some moved eagerly. Some hung back. Some followed Olivia Giovannini, the teaching artist leading the session. Others wandered in their own rhythms. Throughout it all, something subtle was happening: no one was being excluded.

Giovanni Acquilino. Photo: Andrea Mazzoni.

That was the moment I understood why art achieves what regular schooling sometimes can’t: it creates space for difference.

This experience was happening as part of my final project with the Global Leaders Institute, wherein I explored how arts-based practices support inclusion and emotional development in early education. My fieldwork took place within the Mus-e Italia network, part of an international initiative founded by Yehudi Menuhin in 1993 with the mission of bringing professional artists into classrooms in underserved areas. Their goal is not extracurricular entertainment but transformation—of a space, of relationships, of students’ sense of belonging. 

The teaching artist guiding the session brought in activities that seemed simple at first: rhythm games, movement, playful vocal explorations. But each choice carried something deeper: the quiet invitation to be present, to feel, to belong. 

What struck me most was not the activity but the quality of presence the artist brought into the room. She wasn’t correcting or commanding. She was listening—to words, yes, but also to gestures, silences, and hesitations. That kind of listening is radical. It told the students: “You are seen, as you are.” And in that message there is power.

One moment stood out in particular. A child who typically remained silent began mimicking a simple rhythm with her hands. Instead of interrupting or redirecting, the artist mirrored the gesture back and gradually layered it into the group rhythm—giving it legitimacy, attention, and form. This subtle, nonverbal exchange helped the student step into the collective activity without pressure or exposure. In this way, the artist’s presence was transformative.

A Mus-e classroom uses visual art to connect and express feelings. Photo: Mus-e Italia.

The artist’s adaptability continued to delight the room. During a storytelling segment centered on Beatrice Alemagna’s I cinque malfatti, a poetic tale of five delightfully imperfect characters, Olivia noticed two children mirroring each other’s movements in silence. One of them had previously struggled to engage with classmates. Without interrupting, the artist subtly slowed the group’s rhythm, creating space for the moment to unfold. The two children began building a shared narrative through gestures, discovering a wordless form of connection. This type of attuned facilitation—where silence is welcomed and meaning is shaped collectively—left a visible mark: the students began seeking one another out in subsequent group activities, something their teacher later said was “completely new.” 

Newness, difference, openness—these are no small goals. In Italy, as in many countries, schools are increasingly diverse, yet often unequipped to meet the emotional and cultural complexity that students bring with them. More than just offering “access to the arts,” programs like Mus-e model a way of being in the classroom that is responsive, relational, and alive. 

This approach is especially critical in a national context where public schools are facing growing disparities—between regions, between socio-economic groups, and between increasingly multicultural student populations and still-monolingual curricula. Practices that honor gesture, emotion, and presence as valid forms of communication become essential in these settings. In the session I witnessed, a newly arrived student with limited Italian was able to fully participate in the activity through shared movement. Over time, this kind of embodied inclusion builds trust, community, and a foundation for learning. 

This work doesn’t require the artist to be a therapist, or the teacher to be a performer. It requires something more modest (but no less powerful): the ability to create conditions where students feel they matter. 

As I left the session that day, I kept thinking: what if inclusion weren’t a checklist, but a posture? 

What if we understood education not only as instruction but as invitation—as an ongoing choreography between structure and openness, between curriculum and care? 

Art is not an add-on. It’s a form of knowledge, allowing us to hear what might otherwise remain unspoken. In doing so, it makes space for everyone, even the quietest voices, to take shape.

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