“All remind me of the super-realism of cartoon.” That’s how Michael Holman—writer, musician, and host of the iconic radio show Graffiti Rock—once described the art of breaking: a liminal dimension suspended between the expressive freedom of imaginary forms and the raw force of real emotion—at times overwhelming, at times illuminating.

The breaking of Agnese Quinti, known as Agne, seems to reflect all of this: a stream of consciousness rooted deeply in hip-hop and a discipline that dances the fine line between sport and art. It’s in this intersection that B-Girl Agne has found both her existential rhythm and creative lifeblood.

Now a two-time Red Bull BC One Italy champion and ambassador for this weekend’s event in Florence, she doesn’t merely recount her journey—she reveals it. With rare eclecticism and disarming clarity, Agne lays bare her singular blend of historical knowledge, cultural reverence, and forward-thinking innovation—achieved only through a continual return to her origins.

Her story is an ode to contemporary breaking—and to the powerful feminine revolution currently reshaping its future.

Let’s start with the epiphany—that school trip to Rome, and the instant spark when you saw a group of breakers performing on the street. Looking back, what were the details, the messages, that captured your eyes and imagination in that moment?

“I was already immersed in the world of hip hop—it was the only thing in the air at home. So when I saw that street show, as we call it, something clicked. I thought: this is it. This is what I live every day, in a tangible way. Up until then, I had only experienced it through music—a more abstract dimension, because you can’t physically hold onto music. But it was always around me. That’s when my need for constant exploration began. That’s also why, when people ask me ‘When did you start?’, I never know how to answer… There was never a real beginning. It’s just something I’ve always done. Something that has always been part of me. Hip hop came naturally and has guided me through life.

Especially during the Covid years, it became a constant presence—like a therapist, honestly. Hip hop and breaking were my psychologists. They had a massive impact on me, also because I’ve always been drawn to art in all its forms—to human expression in every sense. Whether it’s how you dress, how you paint, how you create or hit—art, to me, is the purest act of expression. What I try to do, through what I create, comes directly from that. And it all starts with hip hop—with what it gives me, even in its contradictions. Sometimes breaking overwhelms me with emotions, even to the point of rejection. There are days I tell myself: I need to unplug. It can feel suffocating. But it’s exactly in that complexity that I find its power.”

You’ve often said your family played a major role in shaping your passion. Can you tell us how their musical background and approach to life have influenced—and continue to influence—your artistic and athletic journey?

“Let me start from the beginning. Both my parents—my mom and my dad—were the black sheep in their families, at least in terms of lifestyle. They were completely outside the box: progressive, ahead of their time, far removed from the traditional norms of their upbringings. We used to hang out in the living room with my sister, and listen to everything—from Missy Elliott and Beastie Boys to Giuliano Palma. It was a different era, but there was this special energy in the air. My dad was always sharing powerful, high-energy messages…

It was that beautiful kind of chaos—loud, alive, unforgettable. I have this vivid memory of myself jumping, spinning, dancing in the middle of the living room… but it wasn’t just me moving. It felt like everything around me was dancing too. The whole space was vibrating. Everything moved with me. Even now, when I’m dancing—at battles, on stage—people often tell me I look carefree, like I’m lost in some sort of trance. But the truth is, I’m searching. I’m chasing a feeling. I stare into nothing, but inside I see everything moving. It might look like I’m disconnected, but it’s the opposite: it’s a deep connection. First with myself… and then with everything else.”

Staying on this theme—how much has the scene in Grosseto, especially under the shadow of Palazzo Cosimini, shaped your breaker DNA?

“We call it ‘Standa’. Even before I was born, it was already a spot where b-boys and b-girls would gather. There used to be a supermarket there—Standa, that’s where the name comes from—and it just stuck. I actually started out in dance studios, growing up in what I’d now call a kind of luxury, because I didn’t even know places like Standa existed. Everything changed thanks to my teacher. He was deeply connected to hip hop culture and made it a point to guide me toward the real roots of what I was doing—toward the history.That place had nothing. Literally—just a corner, with a column in the middle. But for me, it instantly became a playground. That nothing turned into everything. 

During Covid, I stopped dancing in studios. I needed to find my own path. It was a huge risk, especially in a moment where nothing was possible. The only place left was the outdoors. Standa became my anchor. I’d go there five days a week, train there, and slowly, that’s where I began to build the version of myself I perform as today—my inner self. Everything I do revolves around expression. And in that little corner, split by a single column, I started to understand what my form of expression truly was. Even now, before stepping on stage, I always tell myself: ‘Imagine you’re there.’ 

Sadly, I don’t go as often anymore. In the summer, yes—but I’m also lucky now to have access to a dance studio, the same one where I teach. It’s amazing to see that, little by little, the people around you begin to recognize your worth and help you grow your passion. But back at Standa, it wasn’t like that. We were blamed for everything. If something broke, it was our fault. If the ground was dirty—it was on us. What people don’t know is that every Monday morning, it was us out there, cleaning that space with a bucket, water, and a rag. That was our home. And we treated it like one.”

Your story, in many ways, seems to reflect the current state of breaking itself—a discipline suspended between two worlds. On one side, there’s the increasing institutionalization of breaking, as it evolves into a formal sport. On the other, its deep connection to underground culture and the streets remains unshakable. How do you navigate this ‘in-between’ space?

“That’s a really powerful reflection. In a way, I compare breaking to disciplines like karate. I have a friend who practices it, and I remember when he once told me: ‘I’m going to the Olympics—karate is finally an Olympic sport!’ I think something similar is happening with breaking. Personally, I still see it more as a discipline than a sport in the strictest sense. That said, I’m glad it’s starting to be recognized as a sport too—especially from the outside world. Why? Because that shift brings new opportunities: in terms of visibility, growth, and professional development. It opens up a future.

Of course, like anything new, it can be misunderstood at first. It’s normal for people to try to categorize it, even if those categories don’t fully apply. But I don’t take it personally. If someone calls it a ‘sport’ simply because they don’t know the culture behind it—that’s okay. It’s just a matter of ignorance in the most neutral, innocent sense of the word. Every new gaze is a new chance to tell the story. 

And that’s why I’m genuinely happy that breaking has entered the Olympic circuit. It’s given us an incredible stage—and real opportunities too, especially on the professional side, which is essential for anyone trying to live off this art. I’d love to follow that path. My goal is Sydney 2032 (since breaking won’t be part of the 2028 Olympics in LA, Sydney would be the next shot ed.). Even though I’ll be a bit older, I feel like it could be a deeply symbolic moment for me—not an ending, but a closing of the circle. I really love that image: the circle. To me, it’s not something finite or closed—it’s a shape that keeps moving, evolving.

So yes, the Olympics would be a kind of closure—but also the beginning of something timeless. When you reach a certain height, when you hit those milestones, you become part of the culture in a lasting way—you become almost immortal. That’s what fascinates me most about breaking: the idea that I’ll remain there somehow, embedded in the figure I’ve built over time, in the character I’ve shaped through years of training—even in places like Palazzo Cosimini. The micro-language of breaking—its codes, its symbols—will live on. And so will those who brought them to life.”

“Hip hop has shaped my life—it’s helped me see art even in the middle of monotony.” What kind of artistic lens has this culture given you? And what kind of art do you see in the everyday?

“The short answer is: I see play in everything. To me, play is a form of art in its own right. It’s about interaction—about building a relationship with the world around me. I’ve tried to define this way of behaving, to fit it into a box… but I haven’t found the right one yet. All I know is that for me, over the years, play has become art again. And that changed everything.

Take my friends, for example—so many of them, especially back home, have no idea what I actually do. They don’t know what breaking is, or the world I come from. And that’s perfectly fine. Sometimes it’s nice to unplug from it all. When we go on trips together—like a ski holiday—I let go. I dance on the snow, do handstands, weird moves that make no sense. They’re always like: what is happening?! But to me, it’s natural. It’s like the snow invites me to play. It reconnects me to that childlike part of myself I never really wanted to let go of. And it happens everywhere. I see a pole—I climb it. Or I talk to it like it’s a character in a story. Every object becomes an ally, a companion. A curb, a stair, a crack in the pavement… They’re all part of a bigger journey I call self-expression. I don’t stop where most people stop. I play. And that play, it gives me joy.

Of course, people often ask me what I’m doing. I never know how to answer. It’s just a need, a drive. And then there’s the music. Music is always in my head. When I walk down the street, city sounds turn into beats—they get into my body. Suddenly I want to turn every sound into movement. What I’m describing goes way deeper than it might seem. It’s a little crazy, I know. And maybe it is. This damn breaking, this beautiful, cursed hip hop… It’s become a kind of sweet sickness. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because it lets me have fun even in the middle of monotony. It helps me see bumps, hills, curves—where everyone else sees a flat plain. And that’s… magical. Truly.”

“I’m constantly exploring with my breaking. I take a lot of inspiration from ‘mistakes’ and unnatural movements.” What sparks and fuels your evolution as a B-Girl? And what are you trying to express through your relationship with space and movement?

“I let myself be inspired. Everything I create is born out of flow—something spontaneous, completely outside the box. A moment of madness. Something that, to most people, might look like a mistake. I call that moment—what others might label a ‘mistake’ or a ‘fall’—my purest form of freedom. Because when you let yourself be carried by the force of what you’re doing, you enter a space where nothing makes sense, where everything is instinct.You might fall. But that fall, that so-called error, is actually the most authentic, valuable moment. It’s yours. Deeply yours. 

A few years ago, I’d rewatch my videos and think: ‘Ugh, I don’t like that. I need to fix it—everyone else does it differently, and it looks better.’ Then I started to understand: if in that moment of flow, of freestyle, of improvisation… my hand moved that way, then maybe that was my signature. So I began chasing those weird angles, those flashes of chaos that happened once in a thousand tries. And I trained to make them mine. I started choosing expression over perfection. Now, I love those little imperfections: a slightly crooked hand, a foot lifted a bit too high… They’re unique marks. Not copies. They’re the product of deep work with my body—of learning to trust what belongs to me. Our bodies know. They’re supposed to guide us toward what’s true. But out of insecurity, we copy—we replicate forms we’ve already seen, already approved. And yet, something you think is ugly today might be the most beautiful thing in breaking tomorrow. Or it could inspire someone else. 

That’s the danger and the beauty of breaking—it’s always changing. What works today might seem outdated tomorrow. And vice versa. But that’s exactly where its richness comes from. You need the courage to come back with something ‘ugly,’ something imperfect—something people might not get yet. Because maybe… tomorrow, it becomes a trend. That’s what everything revolves around now. So—create your own trend. Live in your trend. If you’re the first to believe in it, to elevate it, to carry it with conviction… Then you’ve already given it meaning.”

Your creative identity shows a strong aesthetic sensitivity—not only in terms of movement, but also in how you engage with space. At the same time, there’s an openness toward photography and visual culture. How have parallel artistic disciplines like photography, architecture, or fashion woven into your journey as a B-Girl?

“My passion for photography started with a totally improvised shoot. It was pure play—once again. A friend of mine, a photographer, simply asked me to have fun. And through her, I fell in love with it. She taught me that photography isn’t just about the subject—it’s about the connection, the flow between you and the person behind the lens. A photo is never just an image—it’s an interaction. I remember her words so clearly: ‘Magic only happens when the photographer and the subject meet halfway.’ But the real lesson she gave me was even more powerful: ‘Do whatever the hell you want.’ That was liberating.

And then, things just started to unfold. I began getting some small gigs—photo shoots for local clothing stores, bigger projects, and eventually even Red Bull. That collaboration came through Mauro Puccini, whom I’d already worked with on Weave magazine. Working with him is always a pleasure—he’s constantly fueling this visual fire inside me. People like him have taught me to see the city differently. Urban life, the street, architecture—I now see them as design. Every wall, every corner can be part of a visual composition. That shift in perspective has deeply influenced the way I dance, too. In the end, everything is connected: body, space, light. Anything can become a stage—if you learn how to see it.”

Let’s talk about your sparkling Red Bull journey—which took you from representing Italy on a global stage to becoming a Red Bull BC One ambassador. What are the standout snapshots in your memory? And how has your life changed since?

“I try to stay grounded—to keep my feet firmly planted. Technically, I’ve grown a lot. But on the inside, I still experience everything with a sense of simplicity. I used to watch the Red Bull world from the outside. When I started dancing around 2013, I didn’t even know Red Bull BC One existed. I’d watch different sports on Red Bull TV with my dad—and one night, completely by chance, we stumbled upon the BC One World Final live. From that moment on, it became a ritual. Even the national finals. I’d order pizza and watch them with my parents.

I never thought I’d be part of it. Not even once. It wasn’t part of the plan. But then came the next chapter. It was 2023, I had just started university and finally had a bit more time. One day, my dad found out the Italian qualifiers for Red Bull BC One were open. He told me he wanted to take me to the one in Bari. I was terrified. I hadn’t battled in a while—I was almost done with breaking altogether, my focus had shifted. But his stubbornness got me on that Red Bull floor. I passed the qualifier and made it to the National Final, repeating to myself: You’ve already won just by showing up. I decided to have fun. To play. To dance. And it went great.

After that win, though, I struggled to feel like I belonged. At the World Final in Paris, things went terribly. I fell into a sort of monotony. And I felt the need to find myself again. I always compare that moment to a dog’s growth phase: as a puppy, it’s adorable. Then comes the awkward stage—everything’s out of proportion. Then finally, it matures into something beautiful. That was me. I was in that weird middle phase. In February 2024, out of nowhere, I broke down crying with my dad. Two months later, something shifted. I was in Grenoble for a battle, I called him and said: “Babbo, I get it.” He said, “Get what?” And I replied: “I don’t know… but yeah. I get it.” I came back to Italy—and two months later, the comeback happened.

It felt like reliving my first year, but with a new kind of hunger. The year before, I had won with lightness, with zero expectations. This time, I needed to prove something—to myself, not to others. I told myself: I want to win, and I want to have the courage to say it out loud. And I did. I won again. I’ll never forget what my mom said to me, hugging me in tears: “You are for real!” It’s moments like these when you feel the full weight of your roots—your story. I wasn’t alone. There were other important people with me—like Alessandra, or ‘Alessandrina’. We became close through Red Bull BC One. It was pure magic.”

You’ve said that within the new generation of breakers, you’re seeing more and more girls step forward. How important is promoting this cultural shift in what you do? And what are your short- and long-term goals as a b-girl?

“I’m super proud of the girl power we’re seeing right now. And I’m honestly so happy to witness how much the female level is rising. It fuels me to see some of the guys start to feel a little… intimidated. Recently, I decided to enter an open battle—facing men. It was my first open event in Italy in years; the last time I did one, I was eight. I placed second out of 35 participants—and I was the only woman. It was a powerful feeling, because they faced me with respect. No one diminished me. I felt truly equal. And that was such a powerful thing to experience.

As for goals, one of my biggest dreams is to make it back to the Red Bull BC One World Final—this time with more experience. Last time, I didn’t have a solid international background. But now, thanks to Red Bull, I’ll take part in The Notorious IBE Live for the first time—an event I’ve always dreamed of.  I’ll also be returning to Outbreak, again with Red Bull BC One by my side. My goal for these events? At least Top 8, maybe semifinals. I’ve consistently made Top 16—but I know I can push further. Then there’s the bigger dream: stepping outside of the Italian comfort zone. I want to show who I am beyond national borders—to share my expression abroad, and do it authentically. I’m learning how to do that, slowly but surely. Of course, the Olympic dream is the ultimate long-term goal.

Another big goal is to step into the world of shows—maybe even fashion contexts or runways. I did a show with Nike alongside other dancers, and I found it amazing. I love witnessing the synergy between people moving together—there’s a collective energy that only comes alive through shared motion. I want to explore that direction too, while also continuing my academic journey. 

I’m currently getting my degree in Sport Sciences, and one day, I’d love to open my own school. But not just any school—a place rooted in play and raw expression. A space where teaching comes from the heart, not from rigid systems. My degree will give me the technical foundation to focus on athletic preparation for breaking—but I don’t want to stop there. I want to study other styles, too: ballet, contemporary, Latin dance… I want to understand the dancer’s body in every form, and help each performer function at their best—in their own style, in their own truth.”