Today, however, you no longer work in restoration - why is that?
After 2007, the antiques sector went into a severe crisis. This was partly due to changing trends, but probably also to the bursting of a speculative bubble: 17th- and 18th-century furniture had reached unsustainable prices, and the market collapsed. Within a matter of weeks, I found myself without work - every client called to say they had nothing left to commission.
What did you do then?
I never considered changing profession - I simply continued doing what I knew how to do, but differently. I had just bought a house, so I began by making furniture for myself, using almost exclusively reclaimed wood I had accumulated over the years: old floors, beams, barrels, wine vats. I used what I had, with simple techniques and a pared-down style. From there, little by little, requests came from friends and acquaintances, word spread, and over time I began to develop a more personal language. I reactivated skills I had acquired through restoration but had never yet applied to my own pieces: traditional cabinetmaking techniques, classic joinery, marquetry. I started creating furniture that felt more truly mine, working instinctively.
How does one of your pieces come into being?
My workshop is at the edge of the forest - the last house in the hamlet; beyond it there are only trees. Nature is certainly my primary source of inspiration. I’m interested in the forms of trees, but also in human intervention in these settings: stone houses, roofs, the details of rural architecture integrated into the landscape. I also find inspiration through travel - I’m thinking, for example, of the Walser constructions in Valsesia - and more generally I’m drawn to anything that arises from the meeting of natural elements and human intervention, as long as there is rigor, coherence, and sensitivity.
Do you start from function, form, or material?
I almost never start from the material: I first imagine a form, a dimension, and then choose the most suitable wood based on grain, texture, and color. At the moment, I’m very interested in the overall chromatic vision, in contrast - or even the absence of contrast - between materials. As for functionality, it is never my primary criterion, but it remains essential. I’m not interested in completely useless objects. Even if small or minimal, an object must serve a purpose.
Does this strong aesthetic research relate to your passion for graphic design?
Yes, probably. In my work I try to combine the rigor of graphic design - made of modules, repetitions, patterns - with more natural, organic, almost anthropomorphic forms. My inlays are composed of small repeated elements set alongside more organic volumes. It’s a combination that fascinates me.
What draws you to graphic design?
It’s a passion also nourished by my background in restoration. I worked for a long time on Baroque furniture from the 17th and 18th centuries, objects with a very strong decorative component - a kind of bold, almost overpowering graphic language, very different from contemporary design. In a sense, I “stripped down” that almost punk-like language, retaining its main lines and turning it toward something more essential. I then became interested in textile patterns - houndstooth, herringbone - and applied them to forms that echo the Baroque. These are seemingly distant elements that seek balance in my work.
This year you were among the protagonists of Doppia Firma, Fondazione Cologni’s project that brings together design and craftsmanship: how did the exchange with designer Arthur Arbesser enrich you?
Dialogue, exchange - these are things I’m naturally inclined toward. Working with Arthur was very positive: his graphics and patterns are incredibly interesting. We didn’t talk much, but we truly listened to each other. From that dialogue came the small cabinet Scacco Matto. It wasn’t easy to make - translating a two-dimensional design into a three-dimensional object involves many technical complexities - but it was stimulating, and also fun. For me, enjoyment is essential: it’s precisely in that space, between design and making, between rigor and freedom, that the work truly takes shape.
