Come with me as I bring my self-published London street art book to the city where it all began!
Monday, November 17th
- Neighborhoods: Clapton, Mayfair, Soho.
- Footsteps count: 36,404
Good morning, London. I’m so thrilled to be here that my body decides sleep is optional and wakes me at four. Outside it’s still dark, the windows are fogged, and the street is silent. The cat I’m supposed to care for this week is awake too, though he keeps a dignified distance, as if trying to work out who I am and why I’m sleeping in his parents’ bed.
“Well, little one,” I say, “I’m Giulia, and I’m here to pitch my self-published book to London bookshops, find a place for a spring book-signing party, and hand copies to the artists featured in it.”
He blinks, unimpressed. Fair enough. I’m still grateful: getting to stay in this beautiful house, in my favourite London neighbourhood no less, is as good a deal as any cat-sitting arrangement could ever hope to be.
I don’t get to enjoy the neighbourhood today though; the schedule is already stacked. First stop: Clapton, where I’m meeting Sweet Toof for a coffee. He picked a beautiful spot called Tram Store, with plants climbing industrial walls and an impressive glass ceiling. It goes straight into my London google map, the one where I collect favourite places and street art locations in equal measure.
It’s our first time meeting in person. The interview in the book happened over WhatsApp, back when he was still living in Sweden. He shows up with stickers and a personalised tube map, which makes me absurdly happy, not just for the gifts but because it means he liked the book.
He even asks me to sign his copy, a gesture that still catches me off guard. While he signs mine, we come up with a challenge: to collect signatures from all the artists in the book. At the moment, we both have only RUN’s dedication and each other’s signatures. Let’s see who finishes the set first.
After coffee, we head to RUN’s studio, where I’m collecting the box of books for this week’s deliveries. RUN has been incredibly kind: his support has gone far beyond giving the interview; he’s been helping with practical steps too, such as letting me ship everything to his studio, and I’m grateful for it.
Back home, I sort the books, sticking post-its on each copy with the name of its intended recipient and the date of our meeting. Once the stack is organised, I’m off again, this time to Soho, to meet Remi Rough and give him his copy.
But first, a detour to Mayfair: I need a photo of Daunt Books for a meme about self-publishing that came to me after they sent me a spectacular rejection email. I found it so funny that I couldn’t not turn it into a meme.
With time still to spare, I stop by Ben Brown Art Gallery for Conor Harrington’s solo show. I promised myself I’d do one non-book-promotion thing every day. Naturally, this turns out to be the only day I actually keep that promise.
Then it’s time for Remi Rough. He’s chosen Bar Italia, a historic Soho institution I’ve somehow never visited, which surprises him greatly. We do something deeply un-Italia (order cappuccino in the evening) and exchange books. He gifts me his latest, Future Language of the Ikonoklast, which I had already added to my Christmas wish list. Remi has also been immensely supportive of the project, even helping me revise the history chapter. As someone who has been part of London graffiti scene since the 1980s, he lived the history I was trying to summarise.
After the (sic!) cappuccino, we walk around Regent Street to see the Christmas lights. The streets are overflowing with tourists taking photos and doing some late shopping. The lights themselves are… a lot. Each shop seems determined to outshine the one next door; each street tries to glow harder than its parallel.
I wanted to photograph Soho’s historic signs at night, but the whole neighbourhood is drowning in seasonal glare, ruining the moody palette I had in mind. So I give up, take the Victoria line all the way to the end, and head home.
I hope the cat will be affectionate this time…he looks incredibly soft and I would love to bury my fingers in that ginger fur. But no: he switches rooms every time I enter one, a small monarch making it clear that my presence, though tolerated, is not yet welcome.
Tuesday, November 18th
- Neighborhoods: Camden, Kentish Town, Chiswick.
- Footsteps count: 25,453
Another day of crisp air and clear skies, though I only find this out later. Once again I wake up a couple of hours before sunrise, so for a while all I see is the fogged window and the faint outline of the cat, who continues to behave like a landlord evaluating an untrustworthy tenant. The blue sky, once it finally appears, is perfect for my “book in the wild” photos. It’s freezing, yes, but the light is fantastic; my fingers may go numb, but the photos look great, and that’s what matters.
My morning appointment is at Camden Open Air Gallery. We had originally discussed hosting a book party there this week, but the plan stalled: the print-on-demand copies sold through my website are too expensive to allow a sustainable margin for the gallery. We needed time to find another printer who could deliver good quality at a lower cost. Now that I’ve found one (and I’m genuinely happy with the print quality) I’m bringing them a sample.
The team loves it. They immediately decide to order twenty copies. As it turns out, the gallery manager is friends with the daughter of the academic who wrote a very enthusiastic blurb on the first page of the book. 😁 Helpful coincidences do exist. We also lock in a date for a book signing event: April 17. I leave so delighted that I decide to celebrate by wandering through Camden Market, a place that meant everything to me when I first lived in London at nineteen. Back then it felt like a wonderland where I could buy black lipstick, eat noodles, find music that wouldn’t reach Italy for years, and generally feel like a more interesting version of myself.
In the twenty-something years since that summer, Camden Market has changed beyond recognition. It’s now packed with tourists and food stalls selling structurally improbable waffles. I abandon nostalgia and choose nourishment instead: lunch at a Vietnamese spot in Kentish Town I used to frequent during my last London stint. Plenty of vegetarian options, vegetables cooked to a perfect crisp…it’s all very yummy.
After lunch, I take the Mildmay Line to South Acton to deliver a book to Carrie Reichardt, who is waiting for me in her studio.
Before meeting her, I stop by her beautiful house (which is a chapter in the book) to take a few photos.
At the studio, which she happens to be emptying out this week, I find an American woman shopping for ceramics. The three of us end up chatting about London, each from a different angle, with Carrie bringing the voice of the authentic Londoner, having been born in that very same neighbourhood. I give Carrie her copy (and get mine signed).
Before leaving Chiswick, I walk to the pub near Carrie’s studio where we once took shelter from the rain during the street art walks that eventually became the book. It’s an old wooden pub with a tiny book-crossing shelf. Last summer, a Spanish participant and I each took a teenage romance novel from that shelf and promised to swap them once we finished reading. A few months later, we did. It’s one of those unexpectedly warm memories that accumulate when I explore a city with readers of my newsletter. So I go back, take a photo of the little bookshelf, and send it to her. A moment later, she replies “jajajajaja,” which makes me smile on the train home.
Home is an hour and a half away, and while crossing the entire city I absent-mindedly pick at the skin around my nails until my fingers bleed, a nervous habit that resurfaces whenever I feel overwhelmed. And I am overwhelmed. I’m scared I won’t have time to do everything I planned, especially taking enough photos and videos to keep posting fresh content about the book until I return to London. As we established today, that return will be in April 2026, which gives me five months of content to fill and only five days to shoot all the material.
But panicking is counterproductive. Panic produces rushed, pointless work. So I repeat to myself that it’s better to take fewer photos, but good ones…good light, good framing, intentional choices. Not just random snaps of whatever piece I happen to walk past while racing between appointments.
I’m also nervous about the vlog. What I want to capture is the behind-the-scenes of promoting a book, but I obviously can’t walk into a bookshop and film the owner’s face the moment I ask whether they’ll consider stocking it. The odds of a yes are already slim; showing up with a camera would collapse them entirely. Same goes for meetings with galleries and artists. Yet that’s exactly the story I want to tell this week, not “The Five Best Street Art Neighbourhoods in London,” which I wouldn’t have time to film anyway.
“Calma,” I tell myself, “just keep recording whatever is possible.” On the return flight, I’ll see whether the fragments can be shaped, through writing, into something cohesive. And if not, I’ll scrap everything. No need to panic now; it’s only day two. Of course I don’t have enough footage yet. And I haven’t vlogged since June, so I’m quite rusty. But I can do this. 💪
Wednesday, November 19th
- Neighborhoods: Dalston, Hackney, Bow.
- Footsteps count: 22,039
I woke up with the persistent thought that I miss living here. London has always been my happy place, and even with a week full of meetings and occasions in which I must put myself out there, I feel strangely at ease. Here I don’t feel judged, which makes it easier to reach out to galleries and bookshops, to ask for appointments, to take chances that don’t come as naturally elsewhere. It’s one of the reasons I started Blocal in English in the first place: I’ve always felt taken seriously in the UK, understood in a way that matches how I work and how I think.
A perfect example of this mood: on Wednesday morning I head to Dalston for a meeting at BSMT, one of London’s key urban art galleries. Greg greets me with warmth. Even before meeting me in person, he had already gone out of his way to help by putting me in touch with Cranio when I struggled to reach him about permissions for the book. It may sound like a small gesture, but gestures like that are, to me, quintessentially British: helpful, unpretentious, quietly generous.
Greg is genuinely impressed with the book and immediately offers to host a book party at the gallery in the last week of May. 🥳 And without launching into yet another ode to the endless possibilities of this country, I think my point is clear by now: people here are open, collaborative, and encouraging in a way that still feels slightly miraculous to me.
From Dalston I take a bus toward Mare Street Market, where I’m meeting Jimmy C to give him his copy. On the way, I see a story RUN posted about a new mural he painted somewhere along Mare Street and decide to squeeze in a visit before the meeting. What I failed to check is that “somewhere along Mare Street” meant twenty minutes away from Mare Street Market, so I ended up running the entire distance. But the mural…well, the mural is absolutely worth it.
After the impromptu jog, I met Jimmy C at the same place where we recorded his interview last summer. Back then it was warm and we sat in the garden; today it’s all about fuming coffee and cake. Jimmy C also self-published two books, which means he understands the struggle perfectly, and his reaction to mine is overwhelmingly positive. He loves it.
After he heads back to his studio, I stay a little longer on the freelancers’ couch where I wrote so many articles last summer, uploading a few Instagram stories for good measure.
Then I walk to Broadway Market (one of the spots Jimmy C recommends in our book) to grab something to eat at my favourite place there: L’eau à La Bouche. It’s a sort of deli, and one of the places where I actually wrote parts of the London book. Sitting at the same table with an overly cheesy raclette-and–caramelised-onion sandwich feels oddly triumphant. A year and a half ago I was drafting chapters here; today I’m holding the finished book.
Energised by that “I did it!” glow, I step into a nearby art bookshop I adore, where I bought several books last summer. They never answered my email requesting an appointment, but since they loudly claim online to “support independent culture”, I decided to try anyway. The girl behind the counter is lovely, but she isn’t the one who selects the books. She hands me a business card with the email I should write to. It is, of course, the exact same email I’ve already contacted twice without a single response. It isn’t her fault, though, so I smile politely and leave.
I need to leave anyway: at four I’m meeting Jonesy to give him his copy. He had also promised to show me the foundry where he works and where he creates the miniature sculptures that appear across London. Last summer I arrived too late to visit the workshops and only saw his studio upstairs. This time I got the full tour. I can’t take pictures (the foundry is full of works in progress for major contemporary art shows) but the experience is extraordinary. It feels like stepping inside the backstage of the London art scene.
Joining me is my longtime blogging friend, the founder of Inspiring City blog, who is helping me enormously with the book promotion. After giving Jonesy his copy (and receiving three gifts and many compliments in return) we head to my friend’s place to record an episode of his street art podcast and some video content for another video he’s preparing about As Seen on the Streets of London.
His wife has even cooked a delicious lentil dahl, and after the recording I stay for dinner, hugged by their kindness and sheer generosity. It makes me think that the street art community may be a niche, but it is a supportive one.
Since the book came out, I have had more than a few doors closed in my face (to be specific, they have mostly been bookshop doors), so having someone step in to help feels genuinely heartening. It is not only about the practical support, since Inspiring City is a major street art blog especially when it comes to London and the UK, but also about the simple comfort of knowing that someone is actually in my corner, rooting for me.
Thursday, November 20th
- Neighborhoods: Tower Hamlets, Shoreditch.
- Footsteps count: 31.081
Big day ahead. In the morning, I text the neighbour to ask if she can come feed the cat in the evening, as I have several gallery openings to attend. November 20 had also been a potential date for our book launch, and now I am very glad we did not go through with it, because the competition for tonight is intense.
I head to Brick Lane, mostly to take photos of the book in the wild, but also to meet a couple of bookshop owners. Again, I do not have an actual appointment, since nobody is replying to my emails, but I want to try anyway. I am in London only for this week, and getting the book stocked on shelves is my main goal. Jimmy C told me to try Brick Lane Bookshop. This is where I bought his self-published book, so I go in and show them that the book not only features a chapter on the Brick Lane area, but also includes a photo of their shop front. Sadly, they are unimpressed. They tell me they already have too many books and that I should write them an email with the info, and they will get back to me if interested. I avoid mentioning that I have already written several emails, all ignored, to the point that I had to take a plane to physically show up just to be acknowledged.
I have far too much to do today to let this discourage me, so I go back outside and start taking photos of the book in the wild, walking up and down Brick Lane. There is so much to photograph around here! At some point I stumble upon Louis Masai painting a piece that reads “not all vegans are snowflakes,” which makes me smile. Documenting the work is the founder of Street Art Atlas, whom I met at Look Up Portsmouth last year. We catch up while Louis dances and bounces to the music in his enormous headphones, then I leave to step into yet another bookshop and receive yet another no.
When it gets dark and I have to stop my photo session, I head to Columbia Road to visit Nelly Duff gallery, which is known for collaborating with many urban artists. (Their original prints are wonderful!) I show them the book and they love it. At the moment they are not selling books, but the owner says they may take some on again in the future, and in that case they would love to carry mine. He asks me to send them my media pack and photos so they can help spread the word about the project.
So yes, one more gallery owner who loves the book. I am starting to think I may have made a mistake in contacting bookshops, because galleries seem to understand the project immediately. Gallery owners know the artists featured in the book, they recognise the calibre of the work at a glance, and most of them already know my blog. It would probably have been easier to pitch the book to galleries from the start. It is something to keep in mind for the future. Being a non-fiction, niche book, generalist bookshops may not be the best fit.
After a beer in a cosy wooden pub around the corner, I head to Old Street for the first event of the evening: Mr. Cenz’s solo show. I meet my friends there, as they are joining me for the gallery-hopping night. Mr. Cenz is very friendly and genuinely happy about the book.
The event is packed, so he does not have much time to chat, although he promises he will read it at home and let me know what he thinks. At the event, I also meet a lovely couple of readers who even bring me a gift, a box of chocolates that will later become my dinner.
Next stop is Pure Evil gallery, which is now called Bunny Events gallery, in honour of Pure Evil’s daughter. This is where everyone seems to be, the main event of the night. Here I meet Jim Vision, Nathan Bowen and Mowcka, and I give each of them a copy of the book. When I ask them to sign mine, they tell me that Sweet Toof was already there and had already asked for their signature. It seems he is well ahead in our challenge, so I decided to cheat a little and ask Perspicere to sign my copy. He is not among the main interviews in the book, but two photos of his work are included, which makes it perfectly legitimate.
The gallery is packed, and it is very hard to actually see the exhibition, so I leave with Mowcka and a friend of hers, heading to Jealous Gallery for Stanley Donwood’s opening party. It is just around the corner, so the crowd is more or less the same. It is hard to glimpse at the artworks, but the atmosphere is great, and these gallery-hopping nights are one of the things I miss most about living in London.
Mowcka and I decide to walk to Brick Lane for yet another opening, my friend Keya Tama’s show at Stolen Space gallery. We walk all the way to Osborn Street, taking night photos and eating chocolates, only to arrive and discover that the gallery is already closed.
At this point I am cold and tired, so I head to Liverpool Street station and take the Weaver line train home. While I am on the train, I receive a message from my friends saying they are leaving Pure Evil gallery to go to a nearby pub, but I am already deep in Zone 3 and have to pass.
Back home, I finish the box of chocolates in front of Netflix, satisfied with a long day of mostly photoshooting and glad to be making progress with Wilko the cat, who is now on the same couch as I am, although at a distance and with his back firmly turned to me.
Friday, November 21st
- Neighborhoods: Walthamstow, Clapton.
- Footsteps count: 29.857
The reason I chose Wilko’s house is that it is in Walthamstow, my favourite neighbourhood in London. Yet I have been running around all week, so I have not enjoyed the area at all. Today I am finally going to do just that: a slow morning stroll through leafy Walthamstow, taking photos of the book in the wild and enjoying the many independent businesses and cafés.
First stop is Chocolatine, a sourdough bakery that makes exceptional croissants. I walk along Wood Street while eating mine and sipping my organic coffee, until I reach Images in Frames. It is a framing shop that doubles as an art gallery, showcasing works by many of my favourite street artists, including Phlegm, Sweet Toof and Conor Harrington, and they even have a Banksy piece. I have been in touch with Elton, the owner, as a potential location for our book party. The event did not come together in the end, as there was too little time to organise it properly, but I still wanted to stop by and say hi in person.
After our chat, I continued my Walthamstow wanderings, heading to the oldest part of the neighbourhood, known as Walthamstow Village. It is very cute, with pastel shopfronts, independent cafes, a local church with a picturesque graveyard (not the one featured in our book, though), and even a medieval house. This timber-framed hall house was first built in 1435, which makes it one of the oldest houses in London.
I keep walking toward Walthamstow Central, and the quaint medieval atmosphere slowly gives way to the buzz of Europe’s second longest market. Apparently the first is Porta Portese in Rome. Unlike Porta Portese, though, Walthamstow Market has not turned into a tourist trap, and the items sold here are still cheap and decidedly un-touristy. I walk through it, but eventually I am pulled into a charity shop along the road, where I buy two sweaters that feel, in my mind, very London style. Talking about them with Mowcka the next day, I describe my usual wardrobe as plain and simple, while my London style is bolder and more colourful (both sweaters proudly display floral patterns in bright colours).
After the shopping, I stop at God’s Own Junkyard, because no tour of the neighbourhood would be complete without a visit to this neon wonderland. I sit at the bar in the back and have a cup of tea with a scone. It is the first thing I eat after the morning croissant, so I enjoy it to the fullest.
As the sun begins to set, I realise I do not have time to go home and drop off the large shopping bag, since I have an appointment with Artik at RUN’s studio. So I go straight to the bus stop, secure myself a front row seat on the upper deck, which always makes me as happy as a child, and enjoy a spectacular sunset as we drive all the way to Clapton.
When I arrive, fashionably late, at RUN’s studio, I meet his mother, who is also an artist and is displaying her work in the shop. She tells me she has just arrived from Italy “with a suitcase full of artworks and parmigiano,” which makes me laugh. We leave RUN arranging things in the shop, which looks different every time I visit, even though I was here only four days ago, and Artik and I go to the pub across the street to have a beer and chat.
It is the first time we meet in person, although we have been in touch for a long time on Instagram, since the making of the Paris book. He is originally from Paris and we could spot his roller graffiti in both cities covered in our street art guides. We even photographed his glitched tag in Lisbon, the city of our next book. Given his ubiquity, we joke that he could become a recurring presence in the series, or as he puts it, a Where’s Waldo joke, and I very much like the idea. 😁
After a while, RUN pops in to say goodbye, as he is going home to meet his brother, who has also just arrived from Italy. Artik and I leave shortly after, since I need to start packing and Wilko must be fed.
Saturday, November 22nd
- Neighborhoods: Shoreditch, Spitalfields, Hyde Park Estate.
- Footsteps count: 24.552
After a whole week of bright blue skies, the infamous London weather makes a comeback on the one day I need to shoot footage for the book trailer, which you can already watch on Inspiring City’s YouTube channel. Once again, I am beyond grateful for the help he has given me in promoting the book. 🥰
Since I am leaving the next day, we do not have many options. We must shoot today. We decide to film under tunnels and anywhere with a roof, starting from the tunnel next to Shoreditch High Street Station and moving on to more Shoreditch tunnels, including the one with Ben Eine’s “SCARY” (which someone has transformed into “SCARD”) and the LUAP tunnel, which is my favourite.
Somehow, we manage to bring home all the material we need. It will be edited together with the scenes we filmed on Wednesday at his place, and below you can watch the final result:
Then I hand him my camera so he can help me film a scene for my own vlog, the one in which I go pitch the book to a bookshop.
Around lunchtime we meet Mowcka, who has prepared a set of posters for a paste-up mission we have been plotting for a while. I am genuinely excited, so I refuse to let the rain spoil the mood. Before the mission, though, we stop at Townhouse Spitalfields, a cafe tucked inside an early eighteenth century building that still retains all its old-world charm.
The place is also an art gallery and a bookshop, although the owner does not appear particularly impressed by my book and I leave with the usual business card with a contact that will likely lead nowhere. After warming up, we head outside and start pasting posters in the rain, which turns out to be great fun.
When we run out of glue, I tell the others that I have an appointment with Dorothy Circus Gallery near Marble Arch. They decide to come along, so we all head to the city centre.
It is my first time at Dorothy Circus in London, although I am a regular at their gallery in Rome. The owner’s son welcomes us in. His mother has already told him about the book and he wants to see it in person. He loves it and decides to order some copies for the gallery. Yet another London gallery appreciates the book. 😉
At this point it is clear that I made a mistake focusing on bookshops while overlooking art galleries. When Parisian bookshops ghosted me after I pitched them the Paris book, I thought the issue was pitching via email from afar. My idea to fix it was to show up in person, which is what I have spent this week doing in London. Sadly, the outcome has not changed. It makes me think that the problem is not the distance but the bookshops themselves.
In how many bookshops do I actually find street art books on the shelves? None. Except for Le Grand Jeu in Paris, which specialises in street culture and, indeed, proudly stocks both my books. There is no equivalent in London, so I had to pitch generalist shops, which may simply not be the right home for this project.
Galleries, on the other hand, have been a perfect fit. I couldn’t foresee this outcome, all of this is indeed very new to me, and without a mentor or even a friend in the self-publishing world, I do not have anyone to ask for advice. Everything I do is a trial, and as such I will either succeed or learn. (I wish I could claim that as my own wisdom, but I actually heard it in a podcast this week and it immediately became my mantra.)
After the positive reception at the gallery, I feel like celebrating. I say I want to go to one of those quintessentially London pubs with potted flowers outside and sport on TV inside. We are in a very posh and touristy area, but Mowcka finds a place that matches my description on Google Maps, and off we go. The pub is warm and busy, with fogged windows, wooden interiors and sticky floors, which is exactly what I was looking for.
After a couple of pints we part ways, as I need to go home and finish packing. On the train, I reflect on the week, on how much fun I had and on the many goals I managed to achieve.
But the biggest achievement is waiting for me at home. For our last night together, Wilko dares to climb onto my lap. That is how we spend the evening, with a packed suitcase looming in the background and an entire season of Schitt’s Creek to devour.
