Author: fondazione

ANDREA BOUQUET: AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS

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In the Pinerolo valleys, in a workshop on the edge of the forest, Andrea Bouquet shapes wood into refined, distinctive small pieces of furniture inspired by the natural landscape and rural architecture. After many years working in the restoration of antique wooden objects, the cabinetmaker embarked on a personal path, developing an original language that combines mastery of traditional techniques with an innate graphic sensibility and a keen attention to material. On the occasion of Doppia Firma 2026, he spoke to us about his craft and artistic research, which unfolds in a liminal space – much like his workshop – between technique and instinct, contrast and balance, rigor and play.

Andrea-Bouquet-ebanisteria-torino-ritratto

What has your professional path been?
I wanted to be a woodworker from a very young age. I don’t come from an artistic family, but as a child my father often took me to the workshops of artisans in the valleys where I still live. He would visit friends, and I would wander around, observe, tinker. Then, during middle school, my parents sent me to work in a workshop over the summer. I had decided to enroll in an art institute far from home, where I would have to stay all week, and understandably they wanted me to be sure of my choice. That experience confirmed it: I attended art school, specializing in woodworking, and later took advanced courses in wood restoration, which at the time I considered the most fascinating field. For about ten years I worked in several workshops, restoring furniture and even complex wooden structures, and eventually, in 2004, I opened my own restoration studio.

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.

ANDREA BOUQUET
Borgata Ciardossina, 10
Villar Perosa (TO), Italy
+39 339 8211315
info@andreabouquet.it
www.andreabouquet.it

RENATO OLIVASTRI: THE KNOWLEDGE THAT ENDURES

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In the heart of Florence, among streets that for centuries have safeguarded an extraordinary concentration of crafts, Renato Olivastri’s workshop still preserves the rhythm and atmosphere of traditional artisanal work. A restorer and marquetry artist, Olivastri has built his career through hands-on practice, moving across cabinetmaking, restoration, and teaching, in a continuous dialogue between tradition and the transmission of knowledge—an approach that earned him, in 2024, the title of MAM – Maestro d’Arte e Mestiere from the Fondazione Cologni dei Mestieri d’Arte. Specializing in the restoration of Boulle furniture, he has developed a deep knowledge of materials and techniques, combining his workshop activity with many years of teaching experience. Today, alongside the rigor of restoration, he explores a more personal and expressive dimension, where marquetry becomes a field of creative research.

Maestro, can you tell us about the beginnings of your artisanal life?
I don’t come from a family of artisans, but I started working with my hands very early on: at fourteen, I was already in a a bespoke cabinetmaking workshop, a structured environment yet deeply rooted in traditional techniques. I devoted about ten years to this craft. Then, out of passion but also a bit by chance, I approached restoration. It was the 1980s, and thanks also to meeting the woman who would become my wife, I discovered Florence and its schools. At twenty-four, I decided to change my life: I moved here to study restoration and began working in the workshop of my master, Amleto Cipriani.
From then on, my path developed entirely in this field. I soon became involved in teaching as well, at the Palazzo Spinelli school, and by the age of twenty-eight I found myself passing on what I had learned. Today I can say that my professional life has unfolded between the workshop and education.

What relationship do you see today between theoretical training and workshop practice?
Today, becoming a restorer requires a highly structured theoretical path, through schools and universities. This is an important framework, but it risks leaving direct workshop experience in the background—which, for me, was fundamental. When I arrived at school, I already had years of manual work behind me, and that helped enormously. I knew well the generation of artisans before mine: they were extraordinary people who sometimes had little theoretical knowledge but could do incredible things.

To whom will you pass on your workshop and your knowledge?
My son tried to follow in my footsteps: he worked with me in the workshop for three or four years, he was passionate and truly skilled. But today, to continue, a formal path and qualifications are required, and at a certain point he chose a different direction.
In truth, it won’t be my workshop that survives me. I see it clearly: along this street I’ve already seen many workshops close. What will endure is knowledge. Over many years of teaching, I have trained many young people, some truly outstanding, who have gone on to open their own businesses. I think, for example, of Takafumi Mochizuki, a Japanese craftsman of extraordinary talent who became well known in Florence under the name Zouganista: here he found fertile ground to nurture his passion and developed a unique sensibility, becoming, in my view, a true “goldsmith of wood.” This is the most important passage: not so much leaving behind a workshop, but transmitting a craft. Even today I continue teaching, here in the workshop and at school, to Italian and international students who arrive with the desire to learn.

You specialize in the restoration of Boulle furniture, a very rare and complex field. What does it mean today to work on these objects?
Boulle furniture involves a very particular technique, as it combines different materials—metal, mother-of-pearl, resins, and in the past also tortoiseshell and ivory—and requires in-depth knowledge of each. Every element must be prepared, shaped, adapted, and then assembled with the others. It is a long process, which is becoming increasingly rare, also due to the crisis in the antiques market: both the objects themselves and major restoration projects have decreased. Restoration has also changed: it used to be more radical, whereas today the approach is more conservative, intervening as little as possible to ensure the stability and legibility of the piece. In many cases, the aim is to halt deterioration rather than return the object to a “perfect” condition. Creative freedom is limited—unless one moves to another level, closer to design, where it becomes possible to reinterpret the past and give new life to objects.

After many years in restoration, did you feel the need for a more creative space?
Yes, it’s a need that has grown over time. About fifteen years ago, I began creating something of my own, for pleasure, and gradually I realized I was too bound to the frameworks of restoration—to a very strong cultural background, but also, in a sense, a limiting one. Today I feel the need to “loosen up,” to step beyond those boundaries and seek greater expressive freedom. I am not a designer, but I am deeply fascinated by contemporary language: I often find more inspiration in contemporary art and design than in the antiques world, which was my world for many years.
My field of experimentation has become marquetry: I try to move beyond traditional schemes, to make the work freer and more personal. In recent years, I have also begun mixing different materials—for example, combining wood with cathedral glass from stained-glass windows—in order to push beyond the boundaries of the craft. Ultimately, what I seek is an emotion: something that truly feels like mine and that can resonate with others.

What future do you see for Florentine workshops?
When I arrived, there were fifteen workshops on this street; today, only three remain. It’s a clear change, one that reflects how much the context of craftsmanship has evolved.
Florence has always been a capital of crafts, with an extraordinary concentration of knowledge. Perhaps more could have been done to accompany this transformation and support artisanal work, also by making it more sustainable from a bureaucratic and fiscal point of view. Ours is a profession grounded in the hands: it cannot follow the logic of mass production. It requires time, care, and continuity.
And yet, interest has not disappeared. I can say this with conviction: many young people approach it with passion and a desire to learn.
I am glad to still represent a presence on this street. My workshop has remained as it once was: a lived-in space, marked by time. Sometimes I think about changing it, modernizing it, but then I realize it would lose something. It would no longer truly be a workshop.

RENATO OLIVASTRI
Via dei Velluti, 21R
Firenze – ITALIA
+39 329 2581297
renato@olivastrirestauri.com
www.olivastrirestauri.com

Tommaso Pestelli: balance between nature & artifice

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A fourth-generation member of an important Florentine goldsmith dynasty, appointed MAM – Maestro d’Arte e Mestiere by the Fondazione Cologni dei Mestieri d’Arte in 2020, Tommaso Pestelli has forged a personal path that has enabled him to broaden the horizons of his family’s historic workshop. He began with himself and with his innate vocation to seek, in objects, the balance between nature and human craftsmanship: that magic he admired, as a young student, in the great Medici collections.
In his workshop every creation – from the simplest jewel to the grand objet d’art inspired by the Renaissance and Mannerist tradition – passes through his hands. It is a choice, even before it is a form of control: each piece must embody his gaze, his idea, his responsibility. And yet, he tells us, the workshop could not have become what it is without his father, who supported his inclinations; without his wife, who works by his side; and even without his son, who directs him toward the future.

Your training took you through the workshop, the Academy and the Opificio: how did you find your own personal path?
I owe a great deal to my father and to his intuition. He quickly understood my need for self-expression, my desire to create something of my own, and he knew I would feel constrained within the sole dimension of jewelry, if understood in the traditional sense.
He first supported my wish to study sculpture at the Academy of Fine Arts. The true revelation, however, came from the opportunity to admire the great Medici collections, where jewelry is also sculpture, furnishing object, technical marvel and pure fantasy. From there came the idea of allowing me to pursue restoration studies at the Opificio delle Pietre Dure: it was an extraordinary school, which taught me respect for materials, for their history and their fragility. Step by step, I found my own path, also following a particular predilection for hidden details, for those creative solutions between technique and aesthetics, for those “caprices” that are typical of the great Florentine tradition.

In your work the word “balance” recurs frequently. What does it mean to you?
I have a natural inclination toward balance, nurtured by the study of the classics. In particular, I love all those objects from the past that, at first glance, convey a sense of perfect equilibrium between nature and artifice. I am thinking of works in which shells, corals and hardstones converse with gold, with metals, with human invention. Sometimes, what creates harmony is precisely an element that appears dissonant.

In your practice you engage daily not only with the Florentine tradition but also with your family’s heritage. What role does the Pestelli archive play in your creative process?
It is a private archive that represents an inexhaustible source of inspiration. We preserve thousands of silver models, drawings, fragments, parts of ornamental objects. I often find myself admiring them and thinking they are made better than I would be able to make them. I am deeply fascinated by the freedom with which, at the end of the nineteenth century, different styles were blended: classical, Renaissance, naturalistic. I love that capacity for hybridization. The archive is not a repertoire to be copied, but fertile ground where ideas intertwine and transform.

Your clientele is highly diverse: great Florentine and international families, tourists, luxury brands with whom you collaborate. How is this reflected in the workshop’s production?
Naturally, production varies according to the commission, but there is one constant: every single object that leaves the workshop passes through my hands. It is a form of control, certainly, but above all it is an assumption of responsibility. It must represent me, my name, my gaze.
My objets d’art, those closest to the late Renaissance and Mannerist tradition, always originate from my own idea. Often everything begins with a falling in love: with a particular stone, a shell, a coral, an ostrich egg. Imagination, combined with experience, gradually guides me toward the final form. It is precious when I meet a patron with whom there is a shared sensibility: a shared pleasure arises, forming the basis of genuine human relationships, even before commercial ones.

Your wife also works alongside you. What kind of dialogue develops between you?
I met Eva during my studies, and everything would have been different without her at my side. She is an established artist working in graphic design, and she brings into the workshop her entire world – shaped by a different gaze and an extraordinary creativity. She not only carefully manages client relations, but also contributes during the design phase and, given her skills in engraving, in decoration and finishing as well.

Your son represents a possible future for the workshop. What is his role?
My son Paul is twenty and studies product design. He strongly stimulates me in the field of innovation: tools, technologies, new processes. I believe these processes must be integrated into artisanal practice, yet always remain complementary to manual work, because only the human gesture gives an object a life that goes beyond technical perfection. He also pushes me toward products with a cleaner, more contemporary taste and toward collaborations with designers, which greatly interest us. We are currently working, for example, on the “Doppia Firma” project of the Fondazione Cologni dei Mestieri d’Arte, to be presented at the next Milan Design Week, which will see us engaged in the creation of an object designed by an important name in the design world.

Looking back at your journey, what do you feel you have received, and what would you like to pass on?
I consider myself very fortunate. My family believed in my dream; they gave me trust and space. They allowed me to carve out a non-linear path, to study sculpture and restoration, to enrich my skills organically and to see my personal inclinations supported. It is something I wish for all young people: to have the time and the freedom to truly understand who they are.

PESTELLI CREAZIONI
Via del Sole, 22R
Firenze (FI) – ITALY
+39 055 2302488
info@pestelli.com
www.pestelli.com

Mustras: Objects That Rediscover Meaning

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Architect and designer Fabrizio Felici and contemporary art manager Martina Carcangiu are the founders and artistic directors of Mustras, a project born in Sardinia in 2019 and developed through the contribution of a collective of artists, architects, designers, and artisans engaged in an investigation of the idea of dwelling. By weaving together theory and practice, tradition and design, in just a few years Mustras has given life to more than ninety unique objects. These works emerge from an interdisciplinary dialogue that allows them to move beyond everyday use and enter a more extraordinary sphere—one in which objects can once again be recognized as bearers of meaning, from a contemporary rather than nostalgic perspective. At the heart of the project lies the role of Sardinian artisans, true custodians of the essential bond between material, territory, and tradition.

How do the objects of the Mustras project come into being?
Mustras is an evolving container. Some projects originate from our own direct initiative, while others come from outside, proposed by designers or architects with whom we enter into dialogue. In every case, we follow the entire process—from the initial idea to its realization—identifying the artisan best suited to translate the project into a tangible object. Over the years, Mustras has grown through dialogue, gathering proposals, reflections, and works that become part of a constantly evolving body of research.

What role do artisans play?
Artisans are at the very core of the project, because they embody a deep connection with the territory, with tradition, and with a form of knowledge that adds depth to objects—a sort of “third dimension.” This is a heritage we have seen gradually fade over time, and Mustras was also conceived as an attempt to restore value to this immaterial legacy, which tends to lose its balance when artisanal production focuses primarily on tourist-oriented goods.
We are convinced that the mingling of skills generates mutual growth: designers and artists learn from artisans, and artisans, in turn, engage with new ways of seeing. We ourselves were the first to learn from what we observed and absorbed in the workshops.

Can you give us some examples of this “third dimension”?
Historically, many objects closely tied to domestic life constituted a true language. Objects were not merely functional: they told stories, relationships, and ways of living. The carved wooden madie (storage chests), for example, were rich in symbols and decorative elements that, depending on their arrangement, narrated the history of a family and the relationship between the bride’s and groom’s families.
The very name Mustras comes from sa mustra, the preparatory sketch that carpenters used to carve these chests. Each workshop jealously guarded its own mustras, which functioned as a local code, a shared lexicon. The same applies to certain textile traditions, such as the carpets of Nule, rich in religious or natural references that worked as visual narratives.
As these practices have gradually disappeared and our daily lives have changed, this language also risks being lost. Our goal has never been to reproduce it directly—that would be anachronistic—but rather to identify a line of continuity: to remain fully contemporary while seeking a thread that connects us to those elements of tradition. This approach takes different forms each time, depending on the project.

Is Mustras a project exclusively tied to Sardinia?
Our choice to work with Sardinian craftsmanship is linked to our origins, but also to the specificity of that context. Sardinian craftsmanship is a true continent—a nebula of techniques, materials, and possibilities. Insularity has certainly helped preserve strong aspects of identity. This character is our point of departure, set within a contemporary framework marked by strong cultural and architectural homogenization.
That said, Mustras is not a closed regionalist project. Its approach is transferable. Our aim is not to build fences, but bridges: to start from a local heritage and engage in dialogue with a broader, contemporary, and open horizon.

Could you tell us about some creations that have emerged from the project?
Among the works that best represent Mustras is Q.R. Quanta Res, a pibiones wool textile designed by Fabrizio Felici and Alberto Olmo. The project stems from an investigation into the concept of memory in relation to dwelling, specifically in dialogue with the territory of Seulo and the waterfall of Sa Stiddiosa, a symbolic place for the local community. The “pixelated” degradation of the weave recalls the dripping—su stiddiu in Sardinian—of water, and resonates with the idea of the QR code as a container of memory and data.
Another project, Offshore by Marco Loi, addresses the issue of production decentralization in a more explicitly critical way. Starting from labels of industrial products sold in supermarkets—made abroad yet referencing local craftsmanship—the designer transformed them into textiles produced in Sardinia. A gesture of reappropriation, both artisanal and conceptual.

There is also a more intimate work: an embroidered tablecloth designed by Martina Carcangiu and based on a text by Ernesto Nathan Rogers, published anonymously in Domus in the 1940s. The text, reflecting on the notion of dwelling, was embroidered on linen using a 1950s pedal-powered machine. The colors derive exclusively from natural dyes obtained from raw materials from southern Sardinia, demonstrating that the bond with place can pass through the choice of materials as much as through technique.

What lies ahead for the Mustras project?
Today, Mustras comprises around ninety pieces and has been selected for several prestigious exhibition contexts. The attention received from magazines and institutions came unexpectedly, like an echo that quickly traveled beyond the local sphere. Our hope is that this work can also have a tangible impact on artisanal workshops, because a unique piece—no matter how meaningful—is not enough to economically sustain a practice.
We are currently working on a commercial development that can preserve, on the one hand, the foundational value of craftsmanship and, on the other, the importance of design-driven reflection. We believe that certain objects can move beyond everyday use and enter a more extraordinary realm, where they can once again be recognized as bearers of meaning.

Patrizia Ramacci: the Immortality of Masterful Hands

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Hands that care are not only those of medical professionals or body practitioners. More broadly, they are the hands of artisans — hands that tend to the material of the world, mastering the very technique of beauty. With this belief, Patrizia Ramacci, master craftswoman in plasterwork and founder of the Bottega d’Arte Gypsea in Gubbio, has created a poetic and ambitious project, constantly evolving: the Archive of Masterful Hands, a collection of plaster casts of the hands of outstanding Italian artisans from every field. A tribute intended to grant them a form of immortality, but also a celebration of the intimate joy of making that those hands embody.

Patrizia, to begin with, can you tell us how you became an artisan?
I did not come from an artisan family; my background is in art and restoration. When my husband Vittorio and I decided to open our workshop, Gypsea, in the historic centre of Gubbio, we imagined reviving a craft that had disappeared from our area—plasterwork—where ceramics and wrought iron had always prevailed. We became an Art Workshop, even though it took me years to acknowledge it, even to myself. Seeking new paths has always been a constant in our lives. We dedicated ourselves both to restoration and to contemporary creation, offering original solutions: ceilings faithfully reproducing traditional structures—beams, joists and terracotta tiles—yet made entirely in plaster; or blown-glass spheres adorned with stucco decorations. We dared unusual combinations, mixing brass, wood, fabrics, in a continuous, fertile cross-pollination.

How did the Archive of Masterful Hands come into being?
When my husband suddenly passed away, I had to manage everything on my own, giving up part of the work that belonged to his repertoire. Even though we had always worked side by side, I was not able to carry out some of those processes myself. I found myself asking what I wanted to do next, knowing for certain that I still wanted to work with my hands. And so I questioned precisely this: what happens to the hands of artisans?

And that is when you decided to create a project entirely dedicated to them?
Exactly. The first hands I chose to render immortal, by taking their cast, were those of the last traditional thrower in Gubbio. Then came those of his son, who had returned to the workshop, allowing the tradition to continue. I then travelled to Florence to “capture” the hands of the artisans participating in Artigianato e Palazzo. I did not simply fix the hands in plaster; I fixed the multitude of stories I heard, and the essential connections those hands expressed. This is why all my casts are “mortised”: the internal connecting structures are visible all around, metaphorically displaying their bond with the world. They are casts that may seem imperfect, yet by representing the here and now with absolute fidelity, they stand as credible, tangible, and unique witnesses of skilled making.

How was the project received?
After a small initial exhibition in Gubbio, displaying just sixteen hands, came the major showcase at Palazzo dei Consoli in 2024, visited by nearly twenty thousand people, with more than 100 casts on display. It was a great success—partly because we allowed visitors to touch every hand in the exhibition, an unusual approach in the art world, and partly because they could listen to the voices of the artisans themselves, recounting their own time of making.

Who is included in the archive today?
Our archive is a collection of encounters, stories and testimonies. We have sought hands for many reasons—sometimes focusing on individual talent, other times on broader aspects such as the longevity of certain trades and workshops. Recently, I went to Venice to take the casts of artisans from legendary ateliers such as Barovier & Toso, Orsoni, and Bevilacqua. We have also welcomed artists who, as soon as I described the project, immediately wished to be part of it—Michelangelo Pistoletto and Ugo La Pietra among them. The archive today holds more than 200 hands, and it continues to grow and evolve.

What, for you, is the project’s deepest meaning?
In my view, there are two distinct yet equally vital dimensions. One concerns immortality: the desire to leave a personal imprint destined to endure. It reflects the deeply human need—for artisans as for everyone—of attention and recognition. The second is an anthropological dimension linked to the intimate pleasure and sheer happiness of making, an aspect still little known and seldom explored, regardless of the economic framework of the craft.

What is the relationship between an artisan’s skill—symbolised by the hands—and beauty?
For me, beauty is comfort: being in a place and feeling well within it. I think of walking through Venice: you are surrounded by beauty, yet to truly make it your own, you must first understand it. Artisans know the technique of beauty profoundly—its body, its essence, its materiality. Beauty lies in people, in making, in community; it is the care invested in every detail. In short, beauty is feeling—and care.

The Association of the Archive of Masterful Hands has now been established. What are your goals?
The next step is to protect the entire archive and to identify a proper exhibition venue, as all the casts currently reside in my workshop. Displaying them permanently—in a living, active way—would allow us to kindle in visitors that desire to make, which hands naturally evoke. And today, reclaiming our humanity is more necessary than ever, to distinguish ourselves from what is no longer human.
In terms of growth, our numerical goal is highly ambitious, and reaching it will require the support of both public and private institutions, including the Fondazione Cologni dei Mestieri d’Arte: we want to reach one thousand hands!

Bottega d’Arte ​Gypsea di Patrizia Ramacci

Largo del Bargello, 1 – Gubbio (PG)

Tel. 075 9271016 – Cell.: +39 338 2832388

patrizia@gypsea.com – www.gypsea.com

 

Lorenzo Foglia. From technique to art: the liberated form of silver

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Since 1935, Florence has been home to a goldsmith’s workshop specializing in silverwork that has gradually established itself as a true academy of the craft. The founder Carlo Foglia first, then his son Giuliano, and for many years now his grandson Lorenzo have all helped write the recent history of the silversmith’s art, creating extraordinary objects and training chasers who have taken their expertise not only throughout the city but around the world.
Today, the works of Lorenzo Foglia—named a MAM, Maestro d’Arte e Mestiere, in 2018—are the mature fruit of an absolute command of traditional techniques, a broad historical culture, and an expressive freedom which—much like in the finest Renaissance workshops—elevate his sculptures and all his silverwork to the status of high art. In his words, one senses all the awareness and passion of a craftsperson who looks to Cellini and Leonardo as guiding spirits.

Maestro, can you tell us how your story began?
It all began with my grandfather Carlo, born in 1910. He was not Tuscan but Lombard, from Erba. After graduating from the Brera Academy of Fine Arts in Milan, he decided to move and open his first goldsmith’s workshop in Florence, which he considered—even more than Paris—the heart of the tradition of this craft. My father Giuliano joined him, and then I arrived: at just fourteen I decided to leave school and enter the workshop to draw, chase, and hammer metal. To me, it was the most beautiful game in the world! If I later went back to studying—first in high school and then at university—it was to look at the craft from a more detached perspective and to understand, first and foremost, myself.

Did such an early and hands-on training become a limitation or an advantage?
Although entirely familial—one might say made in Foglia—my training was not lacking in theoretical depth; on the contrary, it was like an academy. My grandfather, whom I knew for only a few years, and my father passed on to me the enormous importance of the foundations that must accompany practice, and in those years a great many Florentine chasers trained in our workshop. I have never approached a sculpture without first studying its theoretical development and proportions. But I had the immense advantage of fully experiencing the workshop: an irreplaceable school in the dimension of reality, one that not only allows for constant dialogue but also lets you “steal,” with your eyes, the secrets of the craft.

Stylistically, what has the Foglia workshop contributed to the silversmith’s art?
My grandfather introduced to Florence a Baroque-leaning style, made of powerful repoussé work that was foreign to the Florentine tradition—typically more precise and delicate but also more cerebral, at least in silverwork. The forcefulness of the Baroque was, instead, part of the Lombard heritage.
I have always tried to learn as much as possible and to acquire the highest level of technical mastery, knowing that training does not create artists but skilled artisans, just as a conservatory does not necessarily produce great musicians but good music teachers. Technique is a starting point; mastering it is a doorway to expressing oneself freely.

And in which direction has your creativity evolved?
In the early 2000s, the silvermaking sector was in crisis. Wealthy families—the natural clientele for objects crafted in precious metals—were no longer interested in reproductions of Baroque service sets, which they already had at home for generations. Mass production began, which trivialized silver and was also environmentally unsustainable. Buying a silver object should be like going to a good delicatessen, choosing the finest product, and having it sliced to order. There should be no single-serve portions packaged in plastic! It is a luxury, and as such it is born of desire, not necessity.
I decided to take a leap into the void, starting to design in a completely free manner, unbound by stylistic or technical limits. I avoided letting my experience constrain my creativity—pushing me to choose certain solutions only because they were the ones codified by the perspective of know-how. I freed myself from function, devoting myself to sculpture, seeking to create objects people could fall in love with, and only afterward worrying about how to make them.

What is your vision of the relationship between artisan and artist?
The artisan works within the bounds of their training; the craft is the more academic component. To evolve, one must violate certain stylistic norms, introducing an element of novelty. It is the artistic component that takes on these violations—or variations—which may later become codified themselves and thus fall back within the realm of craftsmanship. It is the passage from minor to major art, the one accomplished by geniuses such as Benvenuto Cellini in sculpture or Leonardo in painting. The Renaissance was born precisely in the Florentine goldsmiths’ workshops, where wealthy patrons entrusted trusted artists with the precious materials needed to create something new and extraordinary.

You collaborate with designers and major companies. Do you enjoy cross-pollination?
Yes, it is essential to break canonical, academic balances. Some companies come to me to disrupt the overly mechanical representation of one of their objects, to invent a detail that interrupts seriality—a pseudo-perfection that is not truly perfect. The market tires of automatism; it wants the irregularity that creates perfection. Humanity is not a matter of being or not being, zero or one, as in binary code—it is everything in between. A machine would produce identical statues, whereas identity is born from the sum of imperfections.

For years now you have also been teaching. Do you enjoy passing on your know-how to younger generations?
One is not a Master unless there are pupils. It is a shared growth, because when you teach you discover reality through the eyes of the learner, who is like a child discovering the world. It is a responsibility, because what you teach will become, for the student, something like an axiom. You must seek answers within yourself and convey them with due delicacy. Having trained many foreigners who come to Florence, I have “children of the craft” all over the world, and it is moving to find in their work the traces of what I have taught them.

Daniele Mingardo: visions of contemporary craftsmanship

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Born into the craft, Daniele Mingardo is a young yet established master of metalworking who, at a very early age, transformed his family’s successful business into a thoroughly contemporary project. Passionate about design and naturally drawn to challenges, at just 25 Daniele shifted the perspective of the metalworking company founded in 1970 in Monselice (Padua) by his father Ilario. Alongside commissioned work, he introduced a collection of handcrafted objects with an elegant, minimal style, designed by a network of international designers under the guidance of an art director and produced in limited editions. A successful idea that did not sacrifice but instead enhanced Mingardo’s artisanal soul, giving rise to a new brand that embodies the essence of contemporary craftsmanship.

At only twenty-five, you began transforming the family business. How did you manage that?
My father Ilario founded Mingardo Metal Carpentry in 1970 in Monselice, in the province of Padua. He dedicated his life to it, working with extraordinary commitment and passion, every day from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m., always taking on the challenges posed by clients and trying, as a true craftsman, to deliver whatever was asked of him. I joined the workshop at just 18, eager to learn but also to contribute. I had a passion for design and a different mindset—more assertive and more inclined to take on challenges. Within a few years, I proposed a new perspective alongside traditional commissioned work: I wanted us to be at the center of the creative process, deciding what to produce and how. So, in 2012–2013 we presented our first furniture pieces, developed with Aldo Parisotto as Creative Director and a first group of designers called on to interpret our style. From there, several collections followed, involving both emerging and established designers, and sometimes even collaborations with professionals from outside the design world, such as photographers and stylists.

How did the market react?
The most surprising outcome was the strategic benefit we saw in terms of communication and the company’s image. Our product catalog showcased the range of processes we were capable of, opening us up to new and unexpected opportunities not only in product design but also in custom services. Today, we operate in both areas. Mingardo products embody our elegant, minimal style and serve as a ground for cross-pollination and dialogue with the various designers we invite to collaborate, all within a clear artistic direction. Custom work, on the other hand, spans a wide spectrum—from bespoke kitchens to sculptures, depending on clients’ requests—and finds in our products the best possible catalog: a guarantee for the client that we can deliver whatever they ask.

What is the goal behind the recent opening of the Mingardo Gallery in Milan?
We wanted a place to bring clients and architects, to show that we can not only create objects but also design entire environments with great flexibility. When we are entrusted with an interior project, we act as the lead for the entire process: we can select the most suitable architect from our network and manage collaborations with other artisans for additional work—glass, wood, etc. Initially, we thought about opening the Gallery in Monselice, but it would have quickly become a chaotic extension of the workshop, overwhelmed by the creative frenzy. So we chose Milan, the perfect city to engage in dialogue with the thousands of architects and designers who live and work there, or who visit during major events.

Does manual skill remain central even in a craft activity that makes wide use of tools and technology?
We’ve moved past the traditional image of the blacksmith hammering iron. Today, certain processes require not only manual expertise but also advanced machines and technologies. That said, in craftsmanship what truly makes the difference is still the hand—the human touch—even in the use of machines and tools. I believe this is the right vision of contemporary craftsmanship.

What advice would you give to artisans seeking a more contemporary approach to their craft?
I’ll give you an example. Some time ago, if asked to weld brass with a TIG welder—a tool that ensures an especially clean, residue-free finish—my father would have said it was impossible: brass requires a blowtorch. That’s it. Artisans often say “it can’t be done.” They rely on their great experience—and rightly so—but they close themselves off to new possibilities. I, on the other hand, gave it a try. I spent nights experimenting until I succeeded. Now I can weld all metals with TIG. My advice to artisans is to dare, to embrace the new, to keep learning, to share their secrets and know-how without being protective. The right mindset is: it can be done—you just have to find a way.

In 2020 you received the title of Master of Arts and Crafts. What does this recognition mean to you?
In Italy, when it comes to craftsmanship, we have many extraordinary excellences that, unfortunately, are at risk of disappearing. I feel enormous gratitude toward those who, like the Cologni Foundation for the Métiers d’Art, have long been defending and promoting this immense heritage with great dedication. And I am honored to have received the title of Master of Arts and Crafts.

Lanificio Leo: textiles as a narrative surface

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Emilio Salvatore Leo, architect and designer, may not be a master of the arts in the classical sense, but he is undoubtedly a master of lateral thinking—a perspective that has allowed him to reinvent his family’s historic wool mill, transforming it into a creative hub with an international outlook, open to a variety of influences and narratives. By experimenting with intangible assets—history, brand identity, relationships—he reconnected Calabria’s oldest textile factory not only with the territory where it was founded in 1873, but also with the rest of the world. He achieved this by shaping the project with a clear political vision, even before an entrepreneurial one: our land, our people, and our art are the very essence of Made in Italy.

Can you tell us the story behind Lanificio Leo’s rebirth?
The mill’s long history was rooted in a rural society that, by the 1970s and 1980s, had all but disappeared—or at least changed so much that the business could no longer continue as it once had. Even the breeds of sheep raised locally were no longer the same. In effect, my family was left with an empty shell, with very little production capacity: a small, secular cathedral where the old machines were kept running by my father, the last person who knew how to operate them. I was an only child, born to a father in his fifties, and it seemed I was the last one who could carry the business forward, despite being surrounded by uncles and cousins—on paper, far more suitable than me to take on the task.
I initially enrolled in engineering, then switched to architecture, and started to develop expertise in the contemporary landscape, becoming increasingly aware that the revival of the wool mill could not be based on a purely economic strategy. What was needed was a cultural turnaround. If we couldn’t bring the mill back into the world, we had to bring the world to the mill.
Fuelled by the boldness of youth, in the late 1990s I launched Dinamismi Museali, a festival of contemporary thought featuring electronic music, performance art, and boundary-pushing design. For ten years, we brought international voices and perspectives to the mill in the heart of the Sila mountains—an approach I’ve never abandoned—asking designers to experiment by interpreting the work of the old machinery and its newly reimagined productive capacity.

Rather than youthful folly, it sounds like a bold and clear-sighted contemporary vision.
I have to smile when I think that my father gave me the middle name Salvatore (which means “saviour” in Italian): perhaps it was all part of his master plan. In the beginning, pure experimentation was our way of staying true to ourselves. No business plan could have led us to where we are today. The vision wasn’t just about using cultural tools instead of economic ones, but also about avoiding nostalgia. From the outset, I rejected the idea of turning the mill into a museum, putting the old machines on display and handing over a set of brass keys to a caretaker.

What is Lanificio Leo today?
It’s a contemporary laboratory, a creative hub open to external input and perspectives—even radically different ones. The mill operates much like a publisher, giving voice to individual designers and highlighting the idea that textiles are a key domain of Italian design—a surface of expression that still holds much to be explored.

Where does the artisan soul of the project lie?
In the high quality of the product, which often borders on uniqueness, and in our choice to craft it to the highest standards. I’m not interested in luxury as a status symbol—it’s a concept I find alien. What matters to me is the longevity of a product’s life, the sustainability of its production, its accessibility, and the message it conveys. Even machine production can be approached with an artisanal mindset: for example, we’ve done extensive work around the imperfections produced by historic, worn machines—highlighting their beauty and uniqueness.
That said, I’m not in favour of orthodoxy. Our approach has always been one of hybridisation, of blending craftsmanship and technology—an essential reserve of competitiveness for a company like ours.

How do you approach communication?
Historic companies tend to lean on reassuring communication that emphasises heritage and tradition. In our case, communication follows the many projects we’ve undertaken. There’s still room for us to grow in this area, and we know we could be more strategic. One change we’ve already made is to our company logo: we moved away from the lion—a clear symbol of strength, tied to our family name—and chose instead a lamb, which later evolved into a stylised sheep. It’s a more contemporary, and somewhat ironic, choice.

What role does the local territory play, and how is it reflected in the mill’s creations?
The territory has always been central to our experiments. I’ve never wanted to exploit it opportunistically, and I’ve always maintained a direct relationship with the area—choosing to live in this “periphery of the periphery” instead of moving to Milan, where building a network would be far easier. There’s still much to be done in terms of production: we need to anchor more stable skills locally so that the Lanificio’s story can be decoupled from mine. I’m not an artisan who takes his secrets with him when he leaves.
My Calabria—and the South in general—is also central to our content experiments, often viewed through an ironic and contemporary lens, as with the Tipicoatipico series of objects decorated with hand-applied rust printing using woodblocks. Ultimately, the territory, the people, and our art are the very essence of Made in Italy.

LANIFICIO LEO

Via Cava, 43 – Soveria Mannelli, CZ

+39 0968 662027 – info@lanificioleo.it

www.lanificioleo.it

Fabio Ottaviano: what lies behind a cameo

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“It’s hard to make people understand what lies behind a cameo.” That’s how our conversation with Fabio Ottaviano began—marked by a sense of pride and a hint of mystery. Ottaviano is a master artisan of miniature shell cameo engraving based in Torre del Greco, close to Naples. Son of Pasquale—himself a student and heir to Giuseppe Scialanga, one of the great Neapolitan cameo masters of 19th-century —Fabio spoke to us about the daily joy of creating beauty with infinite precision and passion. He also shared the deep satisfaction that comes from seeing his sacrifices recognized, and the challenges of working in a system that, in Italy, still struggles to properly support and protect its artisans.

Let’s start with Torre del Greco. How did it become the world capital of cameo carving?
Cameo engraving is an ancient art, well known in the Hellenistic era and Ancient Rome, but also present in various Eastern cultures. Its true origin is shrouded in history and legend. What’s certain, however, is the role played by the French—especially Queen Caroline Murat of Naples—in establishing the Neapolitan tradition, particularly in Torre del Greco. Napoleon’s sister was an avid admirer of cameos and, according to some accounts, brought skilled engravers from France during the French occupation of Naples. At that time, ships docking in Torre del Greco were bringing in coral and shells, and local craftsmen had the know-how to handle the initial cutting of raw materials. So Neapolitan engravers gradually relocated to the area—let’s say for convenience—and began practicing their craft there. Over time, the skill of these artisans and the appreciation of their work grew to the point where Torre del Greco became the undisputed world capital of shell cameo engraving. Today, it remains a vibrant and dynamic hub, with dozens of active workshops and an important school dedicated to passing down this art.

What makes shells so special?
Cameos can be engraved on various materials—from hard stones to coral—but sardonic shell offers a unique combination of color, structure, and expressive delicacy. It’s a living material with a luminous, almost transparent quality that gives it a visual charm far beyond even more precious stones like lapis or agate. Skilled cutters can extract multiple cameos from a single quality shell through a process called scoppatura. Typically, two or three high-grade cameos come from the most rounded and prized section, and another few of medium quality. Even the lower-grade parts are used, usually for simpler, more commercial pieces.

What are your favorite subjects to carve?
Shell lends itself beautifully to many themes, but it’s especially suited to the classical subjects of the Italian tradition—unsurprisingly, these remain the most iconic motifs in this craft. Personally, I favor those same classical themes—think of Botticelli, for instance—but my workshop places no limits on creative direction. In Torre del Greco, there’s a wide variety of styles: some specialize in floral designs, others in traditional profile portraits. Often, the subject also depends on what the client requests.

Ottaviano Art works with major international luxury brands. What’s the key for artisans aiming for this kind of collaboration?
For over fifteen years, I’ve been crafting cameos for the dials of a historic Swiss watchmaking house, which even has a line dedicated to the Queen of Naples. To take on commissions like these, you need to deliver absolute precision, ultra-refined dimensions, and at the same time preserve the soul of a one-of-a-kind, handmade piece. That’s what luxury brands are looking for. Technology plays a role here, too. It allows us to combine the uniqueness of craftsmanship with the flawless accuracy these brands demand. These collaborations are deeply meaningful; they help artisans like us gain recognition—not just in Italy, but around the world.

Are there countries where your work is especially appreciated?
The interest and admiration we encounter abroad are remarkable. I’m thinking of Russia, China, and Japan—places where handcrafted work isn’t just admired but actively supported and, most importantly, protected. Sadly, in Italy, public institutions offer little in the way of recognition or support. It’s thanks only to the admirable efforts of foundations and private patrons that we receive any real visibility or acknowledgment. Their support gives us the strength and motivation to continue creating, generation after generation.

You’ve inherited your father’s legacy—who will carry on yours?

My father is 87 years old and still works in the workshop. My children are still young, but I’m hopeful! What’s essential is that they understand this craft requires sacrifice and a great deal of passion. It demands both study—ideally not only engraving school but also the Academy—and lots of hands-on practice. It’s not easy in the beginning, especially since we’re working with materials that are both precious and fragile. One mistake can be very costly. For that reason, I rely only on the most trusted collaborators, even for the preliminary work that precedes the actual artistic engraving. As I said at the beginning, it’s hard to convey what lies behind a cameo.

OTTAVIANO ART
Viale Ascione, 59 – 80055 Portici (Na) – ITALY

info@ottavianoart.com

www.ottavianoart.com

Slow gestures and universal stories

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A profound sense of unity and completeness defines the work of Andrea De Simeis, engraver and papermaker from Salento, and founder of the Cubiarte Association. A unity between craftsmanship and artistic intent, between vocation and life, between past and present, between self and other. Working with nature and its seasonal cycles, he tells us, is a constant lesson in balance: if embraced with care, it can teach us that our practices can be not only sustainable, but also deeply attuned to the environment.

You came to papermaking after studying art, with a focus on printmaking and graphic design. Has the craft become a functional part of your artistic practice, particularly in relation to engraving?

At first, my passion for paper was something of a side pursuit—an unexpected adventure. But I soon realized that in printmaking, the quality of the paper is anything but secondary to the work itself: just trying out different sheets is enough to understand how they shape the expressive qualities of the work, depending on the interaction with the printing surface. In the end, the artistic and artisanal practices complete and elevate one another—they are complementary dimensions of the same creative process.

What role did your mentors play in developing this awareness?

I’ve had a number of important teachers, but one stands out above all: my printmaking professor at the Academy of Fine Arts, Glauco Lendaro Càmilles, a close friend of Pier Paolo Pasolini. It’s hard for me to describe what he taught me about slowness—it’s like trying to talk about the wind. He created a special path for me, one of such intensity that I would sometimes come down with a fever after his lessons. But it was a fever laced with passion.

After him, I encountered other mentors, in a kind of à rebours journey that eventually took me to Japan. When I began producing washi paper, a Japanese delegation came to assess my work. Not only did they recognize the quality, but I was also invited to work with two masters—Yamamoto Sensei and Suzuki Sensei—both officially honored as Living National Treasures. That invitation, marked by the profound rituality typical of Japanese culture, remains one of the most awe-inspiring moments of my life. It confirmed that I produce the finest washi paper outside Japan—an art that has been part of UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage since 2006.

What role does slowness play in your work—and in your life?

I live in Salento and have adopted the rhythm of this peripheral land, which harmonizes beautifully with my craft. Above all, working with plants teaches one to live by the cycle of the seasons. Lifestyle and vocation become aligned, generating practices that are not only virtuous, but also more efficient—paradoxically—precisely because of their slowness. Today, more than sustainability—a term that’s often overused—we need to speak of genuine balance with nature and place.

Would you say that the journeys through space and time depicted in your works express a sense of universality that transcends individual stories?

Absolutely. For example, I worked on an illustrated monograph about the Battle of Hattin—one of the bloodiest defeats of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, at the hands of Saladin—during the Iraq war, following the 9/11 attacks. Through my engravings, I seek to express the recurring patterns of history and to awaken a sense of universality—something the paper itself helps bring to life. Prejudice, the refusal to see the other, has always been the first ingredient of every conflict.

Speaking of cycles, how do you relate to apprentices, such as the intern you hosted as part of the Cologni Foundation’s “A School, a Job” initiative?

I welcome many young interns and apprentices from Italy and abroad with great enthusiasm. It’s a joy to witness their hunger for knowledge, and my studio has no secrets—I allow myself to be completely consumed by their curiosity. The bond I formed with Daniela Fumarola, who spent six months with us last year, felt more like an adoption than an internship.

Still on the topic of transmission and cycles: is it true that your very first apprentice was a rather unusual one?

When I started papermaking, about twenty years ago, many friends thought I’d gone mad. I had given up a secure, well-paid job in graphic design to pursue an ancient, slow craft that seemed doomed to disappear—just like the books people then predicted would vanish. I found understanding not among peers, but from my grandparents: theirs was a generation raised in harmony with nature’s rhythms, attuned to slowness. And so, they began helping me. In many ways, my grandfather Gino was my first apprentice.

Cubiarte di Andrea De Simeis

Via Roma, 71

Caprarica di Lecce, LE

+39 346 5232827

cubiarte@gmail.com

www.cubiarte.it