After centuries of constant acceleration, expansion, and growth, we’re now approaching an era of slowing down.

“Degrowth” will go from being a theoretical concept to economic reality. This is the end of the world as we know it, and the beginning of a completely new era.

The typically slow lifestyle of Emilia-Romagna, the culinary heart of Italy, is in many ways already aligned with this coming development.

To visit the region is to experience how life will look like in the future. The ideals of the slow food-movement – organic cultivation, holistic approach to farming, and small-scale production – are perfectly synchronised with the region’s existing approach to food.

The slow culture of Emilia-Romagna serves as an inspiring case study for a more sustainable approach to life and to business.

In just a few years, it will be necessary to develop new business models, as the number of consumers will decline.

The end goal of a business, whether it’s a vineyard, a restaurant, or a design practice, won’t be endless expansion. And it will make more sense working in ways that also give back to nature, instead of treating it as an endless resource.

This economic, cultural, and societal slowing down will change everything from what we wear and how we decorate our homes to what we eat and how we travel.

We will eat more organic food and wear more natural fibres.

The future will in a way resemble the historic past, but it will not be a return to “simpler” times, because we’ll keep the technological advancements already in place. In this way, the future will be both fast and slow, but with reduced pollution, less plastic, and less noise.

This issue is both an exploration of one of the most fascinating regions in northern Italy and an overview of the coming shift.

It serves as a guide but also as a source of inspiration for what is already happening in many places around the world: A renewed respect for nature, a resistance to industrial production, and a more balanced way of living.

Find it in a store near you or order it online here

Or, if you prefer a digital version, you can purchase it here.

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Latronico’s novel is based on Georges Perec’s classic “Things – a Story of the Sixties” but updated and adapted to contemporary times, and subsequently moved from Paris to Berlin.

Perec’s novella is a scathing critique of what he perceived as a soulless, consumerist society, where people defined themselves and others by what they own, where they live, and which clothes they wear.

Both books are written from a more (Perec) or less (Latronico) explicit Marxist perspective, where objects are tied to an unjust and hierarchical society. In this world, objects are manifestations of power.

A more poetic approach to things can be found in Andrew Harvey’s “A Journey in Ladakh”.

In a seminal scene, Harvey visits one of the remote parts of the world – the highest, least populated region in India, cut off by snow for six months each year – where monks are preparing for a holy ritual. As part of the preparations, they charge different objects – like papers, fabrics, and jewelry – with strong energy, so that they can bring fortune and good luck to the people who use them.

This is done by praying together, tenderly touching the objects, and being close to them for several days, in the sacred rooms of a local monastery.

In Buddhism, objects are not merely symbols of status but alive, full of godly energy that affects the people who use them in their daily lives.

The energy of a chair, table, or artwork can influence a person, both positively and negatively. That’s why, according to this philosophy, it’s important to take interior design seriously; to consider which energies one is surrounded by.

Recently, I lost a silver bracelet I had bought more than twenty years ago. It’s one of the things that I’ve owned the longest, and the loss made me so anxious that I contacted a psychic to ask where it was.

Not to worry, he replied, it was still nearby and eagerly waiting for me to find it.

And just a few days ago, while packing to go to the annual Mercanteinfiera in Parma, I found it, resting under the passenger seat in our car.

I wore it to a cocktail reception the first night of the antique fair, and a woman complimented it. I told her the story of the psychic, and while she listened, she became visibly moved. Afterwards, she said she couldn’t stop thinking of the lost object, how it had been waiting in the dark, longing to be reunited with its owner.

For almost 50 years, Mercanteinfiera has been the largest event in Europe dedicated to the world of antiques, modern design, and collecting.

Housed in Fiere a few minutes outside of Parma, the fair, with its approximately 1,000 vendors, is enormous.

This year –today is the last day – it occupied three large halls, two dedicated primarily to antiques and ancient art, the third one focused on 20^th century design, which also included fashion, jewelry, and designer handbags.

Walking around as a visitor is a dizzying experience.

In my mind, I went bankrupt several times over, as I saw tables, sofas, and chairs I hadn’t realized that I needed before. I thought of how our house could be redesigned – did I want to live in a Baroque-styled paradise or did I prefer the minimalism of the 1960s? I saw ancient chandeliers, berber rugs, and stylish 1930s bed-tables.

There’s something beautiful in the act of owning – or rather, in maintaining for future generations – things that in the past used to belong to someone else.

In line with the Buddhist perspective outlined in Harvey’s book, I think of all the things that have happened around these pieces of furniture. Children have come of age, people who love each other have shared an everyday life, while pets have rested on the carpets and curled up in the corners of the sofas and armchairs. These events have left a mark on the objects. The energy of the past help shape the vibe of the present.

Walking around the Mercanteinfiera is not just about looking at objects, it’s about seeing fragments of history, of looking at the things that people in the past have surrounded themselves, and which brought beauty to their lives.

One of the most famous stories on this theme is about the mirror that once stood in the farmhouse where Hotel Angst later was built, in Ligurian Bordighera. The farm’s owner didn’t want to sell, but one day it mysteriously burned down, and only the mirror remained.

The mirror was moved into the new hotel, for a few decades the most luxurious in the world. But the former owner had put a curse on the mirror and during the First World War, the building was turned into an army hospital. Later, it fell into ruins.

Recently, Hotel Angest has been restored to its former glory and today, it’s full of luxury apartments. The cursed mirror is (thankfully) long gone. Perhaps the new owner of the hotel is a Feng Shui enthusiast: According to this Chinese philosophy of how to decorate one’s home, second-hand mirrors should be handled with caution, as they might retain the energy of the previous owners.

At Mercanteinfiera, I didn’t see any cursed mirrors (that I know of).

I did however notice many proprietors of antique shops. This is where they come to find new inventory.

It’s organized annually, so if you want to fill your home with objects that can tell a story, prepare to go to Parma in October next year.

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Paxos is a tiny island in the Ionian, south of Corfu, one of the seven main Ionian Islands (also called the Heptanese).

According to Greek mythology, the island (together with Antipaxos, an even smaller island not far from Paxos) was created by Poseidon.

The sea god struck the southern tip of Corfu with his trident, to carve out a private sanctuary for himself and his lover Amphitrite.

The result was one of the loveliest islands in Greece, with turquoise water, plenty of small coves, and rolling hills covered with large olive trees.

Paxos doesn’t have its own airport, which works in its favour.

The easiest way to get to Paxos is to fly to Corfu, and then taking the ferry, meaning you will probably have to stay one night in Corfu town.

For years, this has meant that Paxos is a quieter place than most other Greek islands.

But recently, something changed.

The Netflix soap opera “Maestro in Blue” shows a musician travelling to Paxos to organise a music festival. It made history as the first Greek TV series to be acquired and broadcast globally on Netflix.

Unfortunately, it has also attracted tons of TV fans to the small island.

The narrow alleys of the main town Gaios are now so full of people that they’re difficult to walk in, even off season.

Traffic is worse than before and water, always a scarcity on small islands, is at times dangerously low in supply.

Paxos is also making its rounds on social media and in travel articles, recently being named the most Instagram-worthy of all Greek islands.

The Agali Hotel on southern Paxos, just outside Gaios, has recently undergone a complete makeover.

Previously a budget-friendly family hotel, it’s now a lifestyle resort for adults only.

With its private beach, terraced garden with plenty of sunbeds, and on-site restaurant (boasting a “from island to table-philosophy”), it’s a stylish option (and also a good illustration of the recent effects of the K-shaped economy, which we wrote about last week).

All rooms come with their own private terraces, often overlooking the sea.

Every morning you have the option to begin your day with yoga or pilates (you can also choose to just sleep in).

The hotel offers all the amenities you need, meaning there’s no need to submit to the crowds of Gaios.

At the other (northern) end of the island, Lakka is a tiny fishing village, centred around a minuscule harbour.

You learn to find your way in a matter of minutes, as the town centre is very small.

It consists mainly of a few restaurants, the occasional clothing store or olive oil shop, and some mini markets.

You don’t go to Lakka for its buzzing nightlife (because there isn’t one) but to unwind, slow down, and enjoy the scenery.

Its main hotel is Amfitriti (named after Poseidon’s partner, who was also the goddess of the sea), perched on a hill above Harami beach.

The taxi will drop you outside of its gates, as the driveway is too steep to enter.

As you slowly make your way down the hill, you wonder how this kind of entrance could be legal. But after a few days, you’ll learn to navigate the steep slopes.

The rooms haven’t been updated in decades, which is part of the charm. Everything is functional but nothing is new.

We have been coming here for approximately ten years, and in that time, nothing has changed.

The hotel has its own swimming pool and pool bar, but the main draw is the location, a five minute-walk from town and with the beach just below.

Sunbeds are included in the very reasonable price, so days are typically spent on the beach, with the occasional trip into town, or playing cards on your balcony.

The hotel doesn’t serve breakfast, but there’s a hotplate and water heater in your room, so it’s easy to make some instant coffee and boil a few eggs (sold at the most central mini market, from free range chickens living in the outskirts of Lakka).

It’s a kind of trip that is completely without frills, but this is also the charm of Amfitriti. It’s one of the hotels that we’ve returned to the most times in the entire world.

Once you’ve been to Lakka, it’s hard to resist the urge to return.

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She’s not wrong.

The concept “K-shaped economy” explains how the economy currently is shrinking in the middle and expanding at the top and the bottom. Essentially, it’s diving consumers into two very different groups, the “Haves” and the “Have-Nots”.

The former – the “Haves” – experiences asset growth (from climbing stock markets); added spending power (which drives luxury commodities); and job flexibility (usually remote-capable, tech-driven or high-demand knowledge professions). Their shift away from the middle class is an ascension, into either the upper middle class (or even higher).

The latter – the “Have-Nots” – suffer from inflation pressure (as costs increase for groceries and rent), financial strain (depleted savings); and job vulnerability (tied to their work in volatile industries).

To briefly summarize, in the last few decades, societal and economic development has pushed much of the former middle segment into one of these two groups, thus reshaping the foundation of society.

The middle class is not disappearing, but it’s shrinking. This has had a significant impact on consumer culture.

A few days later, I met another acquaintance, who works as an artist:

“The middle class aren’t investing in art the way they used to, so I have to think in new ways. My gallery is now targeting the wealthiest instead of the merely affluent. But there are only so many walls in a home, even if you live in a castle or if you have several homes. It’s more difficult now to sell larger paintings these days, so I make smaller paintings. Honestly, I see a drastic shift in the contemporary art world, where it’s currently merging with other lifestyle sectors, like fashion. Art isn’t the investment it used to be, the market is changing because of the middle class becoming weaker.”

My artist friend was concerned, not only for himself personally but for art in general, and wondered how he and other fellow artists would manage this societal change.

Only a decade ago, companies in fashion, travel, and other lifestyle segments were marketing their commodities using aspirational language and imagery. The goal was to make their goods and services appealing to the middle class, who were hoping to climb the societal ladder (while simultaneously fearing a descend into poverty).

But around the time of the pandemic, the economy slowed down. AI has made many white-collar jobs superfluous. When this development started to become noticeable, companies adapted their pricing and communication.

Some began targeting consumers with less disposable income, deliberately lowering their market position. For example, already in 2019, Calvin Klein dropped their most prestigious line, Calvin Klein 205W39NYC, to instead focus on more affordable underwear and denim.

An example of a brand moving in the opposite direction is Chanel, whose handbags have increased with 300 percent since 2010.

This division into either luxury or low-cost, abandoning the middle segment, is also noticeable in travel.

Because of rising airfares, higher fuel costs, and increased prices for food and tours, travel is becoming more expensive.

For a few decades, starting in the early 90s, travel was a democratized industry. Members of the middle class were getting used to living like the wealthy elite, going on international weekend trips or spending the summer on a far-away continent.

That behavior is no longer as widespread as it once was.

This brings me back to what my friend – a typical creative director living in a European capital – was complaining about.

People still travel, but as the economy changes, so do habits.

The comfortable middle position, defining consumer culture since the post war years, is decreasing as companies are choosing new strategies, either becoming ultra-luxurious or targeting budget travelers.

Luxury has been redefined, and budget options have a new relevance.

Hotels are transformed into destinations – “check in to check out” being the motto of places so refined that the guest will have no desire to leave the compound – or they’ve become merely a place to sleep.

In my case, I travel less, and more selectively. I don’t travel as far as I used to.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, just different.

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We took this opportunity to sit down with her, to learn more about her approach to art and design, and her best tips for a visit to Milan.

Can you explain your professional trajectory, or phrased differently, how come you do what you do?

I suppose I had my ‘Eureka’ moment as an intern at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice when I was at university. Spending so much time with Giacommetti, Magritte, Picasso, Calder, and so many others in those beautiful galleries suffused with light on the Grand Canal, and in the company of a very lively and interesting crowd of fellow students from the USA and all over Europe, I understood then that I wanted to work with 20th century art, in some form or another, for the rest of my life.

I started out in the music industry, doing press for EMI Classics, which I loved – we used to get tickets to every performance by every living artist who had ever recorded with the label – but I realised after two happy years there that I belonged elsewhere. That part of the music industry, at least as it was then, was all about marketing. I wanted to work in a more creative way, and the anarchic pull of the art world was very strong. I became an exhibition organiser then curator at the South London Gallery. That was my baptism of fire into the immediacy of contemporary art.

After five years there, a charity auction we organised to raise funds for the gallery led to me being invited to become a specialist and head of sale at Christie’s auction house in post-war and contemporary art in London.

It was quite a shift – from sometimes being paid out of a brown paper bag by a well-intentioned patron when times were tough at the gallery to valuing art collections worth millions and travelling the world – it was a steep learning curve!

After seven intense and fascinating years there, where amongst other things, I became a sort of talking head for contemporary art in Russia at a time when people there were deeply sceptical at best about its merits - those trips were a rollercoaster ride - I left to become the director of a commercial gallery in Mayfair.

I missed working closely with artists and there I was able to bring new artists into the programme. It was during that time that I had our three children, our daughter, Julia, and then our twin boys, George and László.

When the boys were a few months old, I was approached to establish a partnership with Jay Jopling at White Cube in London and Hong Kong.

I think he wanted me to sit in a room with laptop and a phone and just trade art, but as part of the deal was the gift of the Mason’s Yard gallery for a show at least once a year, I decided instead to identify artists whose best work I felt to have been either overlooked or forgotten about, or who perhaps simply had never been shown previously in the UK and to stage major exhibitions of their work.

There was lots of detective work, tracking down paintings in private collections, as quietly as possible, and then negotiating their acquisition or loan, which I loved. Günther Förg, Park Seo Bo, Dóra Maurer, Minjung Kim, Seung-Taek Lee, and Peter Schuyff were the artists I brought to the gallery, doing multiple exhibitions with several of them. Since 2020, after six happy years staging these exhibitions and supporting the artists, two of whom were taken on to be represented by the gallery,

I left to start working together with my husband, Carl Kostyál, running our eponymous gallery in London, Stockholm and Milan.

We had moved to Milan in March 2018, and it felt like the right moment to invest my energy in the family business.

One of the many great gifts of moving to Milan was discovering the infinite richness of Italian 20th century design, of which I had previously only a cursory knowledge of, and this became such a passion for me that, once I had filled our home with more objects than there was room for, I began to build collections of design and then complete homes for others, often long-time collectors of ours who were also moving to the city, to complement their burgeoning art collections.

How do you view the relationship between art and interior design?

I see them as separate disciplines with quite distinct characteristics. Art has no concrete function after all, but it is central to feeding our imaginative capacity, and to our understanding of our past, present and future. A design object has a function, first and foremost. It’s the inventiveness, the play, the pushing the limits of form and of material that allows those objects to be in an interesting dialogue with art.

I think if you start with the art as the point of departure, which is what I do, one can create a space where the design element and the art exist in a symbiotic, fluid relationship. I am deeply interested in colour, texture, form and light in art and in space, and, above all, in what lends a room or a house real character.

Finding that, drawing it out, reflecting the personalities and stories of the people who inhabit that space - that for me is the exhilarating part of working on any interior project. It’s story telling really.

I don’t believe in a puritanical approach to objects and styles. All the interest for me lies in finding a sympathy for style and function in different schools of design and across the centuries, which combine to reflect the people inhabiting that space.

What does your creative process look like when approaching a new project?

I spend as much time as possible in the space, at different times of the day, to understand the flow of the rooms, what should or could change, what should stay, be restored, given new life and most importantly, where and when the light falls. Then detailed conversations with the client. I like to understand what they imagine, what they need, what they like, how they will use their home.

How they feel about colour. It’s also important to understand if they have a clear idea of their own taste and style or if they prefer for me to create an interior with what I know of their personalities and with their lifestyle in mind.

Then I study their art collection and where the natural spots are to hang to specific works. I find working out that symmetry is absolutely key to the development of the aesthetic of the whole. I study specific key works and think about their content, meaning, mood, colour palettes, movement, form and so on, and from there I start to create a kind of art and design collage.

How would you explain the philosophy behind your interior design practice?

That’s a grand question. I wouldn’t say I have a philosophy as such. Every space is unique, so I like to begin by studying the specific characteristics of the house or apartment, its history, what elements there are to work with, where the light comes in, what original features could be brought out and so on.

I like to work with what I can see is already there. I think every room can tell you what it needs, if you let it. It just takes a little time.

I like to create a space that is warm, welcoming, subtly luxurious, above all harmonious. Not obvious in any way. There needs to be playfulness too.

A home shouldn’t take itself too seriously. I am not interested in the bland monochromatic approach. A home should have a personality, tell a story, get messy. Above all, whatever I contribute should allow for the occupants of that home to add their own spirit, over time. A house becomes interesting with the life that is lived in it, after all.

Is there something that unites your projects, a kind of trademark that makes people recognize your work?

I would say it’s the relationship between art and design, how they interact. At best it can be a subtly choreographed dance. A slight obsession with colour... and a great love of Italian 20th century design.

Is there a particular period, type of design, or specific designer that especially appeals to you?

I have quite wide-ranging tastes. As mentioned, I love Italian 20th century design – many designers and architects but Vico Magistretti, Ignazio Gardella and Luigi Caccia Dominioni are particular favourites. The restrained elegance of the Wiener Wirkstätte movement, Koloman Moser, Josef Hoffman and so on. I adore Italian Rationalism – particularly the work of Piero Portaluppi. Le Corbusier’s Polychromie Architecturale is my colour bible.

The Arts & Crafts movement – and its spirit – is an important source of broader inspiration for me. William Morris wanted to bring the natural world into every interior – he saw his designs as bringing art to all.

The democratic impulse of that, even if he was in truth mainly catering to the Victorian middle classes, holds great appeal. Interestingly, Luigi Caccia Dominioni, whose approach to architecture and design was extremely restrained, even if warmer and more fluid than his Rationalist predecessor Portaluppi, loved to use William Morris wallpaper, often in dressing rooms and more intimate spaces, in unexpected ways. I loved discovering that connection.

We lived opposite Portaluppi’s masterpiece, the Villa Necchi Campigli, for our first seven years here. It really gets under your skin, that austere yet decadent grandeur. Nathalie du Pasquier and her ingenious Mattonelle tiles, which offer endless possibilities for graphic combinations, I adore.

What drew you to this apartment that you live in now? What is the neighbourhood like?

It was the light and large open spaces. The high ceilings. It was a blank canvas but had good bones. The Palladiano stone floors. The highly polished parquetry. I love the area. We are spitting distance from the Basilica Sant’Ambrogio. Sant’Ambrogio is the patron saint of Milan.

Around the corner is the Università Cattolica, so the streets are always buzzing with students, and every corner and small side street is full of treasures to be discovered. You can see all the faces of Milan here, from the 13th century to the present.

Much of Milan was bombed by the Allies (the Brits, I’m sorry to say) in the Second World War, but the buildings were painstakingly restored, or, as in the case of the Caccia Dominionifamily palazzo on Piazza Sant’Ambrogio, brilliantly re-imagined for the 20th century.

How long have you lived in Milan, and what do you like most about life here?

We arrived here in March 2018 from London, where I was born and bred. My husband spent his formative years here and I used to come here often for Christie’s and other art related trips.

Twenty-five years ago, it seemed to me to be a phenomenally glamorous, wealthy, proud but rather closed off place, compared to the noisy vibrancy of Rome or the addictive, chaotic energy of Naples, cities I knew from childhood and which I love.

Over the last couple of decades though, something, on the surface at least, seems to have changed. The Expo here, then Brexit were significant catalysts of this change. There has been an influx of outside investment and waves of international people moving here. These factors have contributed to an indefinable shift in the atmosphere – a kind of new energy and ambition and a bigger mix of people that makes living here as a foreigner infinitely varied and fun.

What’s the art scene in Milan like?

It’s lively, active. International. The institutions are ambitious, both contemporary and classical – the Palazzo Reale stages extraordinarily interesting and ambitious exhibitions.

There’s always something good to see, whether at the Hangar Bicocca, Fondazione Prada, Fondazione Rovati or Pinacoteca di Brera, Galleria d’Italia, Museo Poldi Pezzoli... an embarrassment of riches, really.

Milan has often been referred to as the design capital of Europe, why is it such a creative place, and is this something you notice in your everyday life?

That’s a very good question. I have a personal theory that might appear flippant but it’s not to be dismissed. Think about the level of attention to detail it takes to make any Italian dish.

The time and care given to growing | rearing the ingredients. Think then about how obsessed the Italians are about their digestion!

Standing in the lunch queue at a gastronomia up the road from our old house, I used to love listening to the lively conversations taking place between the young, well-heeled, worker bees of the neighbourhood.

They weren’t talking about where they were going out that night or who was snogging who – they were deliberating the available lunch menu options and what would be easiest on the digestion given that they had a meeting at 2.30pm... (the veal usually won out over the risotto).

Then you wonder why every chair, every fabric, every jacket, every shoe, every mozzarella, every ball bearing or even every gas pipe is made to such perfection that the whole world wants them. It’s that level of attention to detail, that care, taken over centuries, millennia even, in inventive creation.

Coupled with the almost Lutheran work ethic of the North and, critically perhaps, the aesthetic severity of the city’s traditional architecture and its later, ever more austere and grand iterations, which are quite different from the ubiquity of classical beauty and the drama of the Baroque that exists in almost every other Italian city,

Milan is, and has always been, freer to create new forms, new design, new solutions. I suspect the answer to your question is a cocktail of many things. I think it would be impossible to pinpoint the many origins of the extraordinary creative output of this city.

What are some of your favourite places – restaurants, museums, hotels and shops – in the city that you would recommend to someone visiting Milan?

All of the above museums I wholeheartedly recommend. Also, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana in Piazza San Sepolcro. In the same piazza you can find a 12th century crypt beneath the Chiesa di San Sepolcro and in the police station around the corner, if you ask nicely, you can pop in and see Lucio Fontana’s magnificent ceiling relief ‘Vittoria’, as well as the Portaluppi tower where Mussolini gave his first public address...in that small square you can see every layer of the city’s history.

La Bettola di Piero is an excellent trattoria in Porta Romana run by a wonderful couple and serving up real Milanese fare. The riso al salto is a personal favourite and the spaghetti con cipolla is delicious.

For a lively, upmarket lunch I am fond of Paper Moon Giardino. You read the temperature of the city there. La Ribot near San Siro is excellent for a family Sunday lunch, or Bebel in Sant’Ambrogio – also La Fettunta – all classic trattorie. A Santa Lucia is a post-opera favourite, in via San Pietro all’Orto.

I love Forte Forte, a clothing brand by a brother and sister team from Florence. They have a flagship store near Castello Sforzesco. The colours and fabrics are subtle and beautifully original.

There are countless small specialty shops to be discovered, but as I have a terrible sense of direction and memory, I couldn’t begin to tell you how to find them! There is an excellent guide though, called ‘111 Places in Milan that You Must Not Miss’, which I found to be a treasure trove of information when we first moved here. Where to buy the freshest mozzarella, restore a sculpture, find beautifully handcrafted bags and the best vintage clothing stores – it’s all in there.

Could you tell me about the art collector’s home that you decorated (also featured in this issue)?

It’s a very charming two storey low-built white villa with clay roof tiles, built twenty-five years ago, nestled in the far corner of a large palazzo complex to the north of Parco Sempione. It has a guest house and a beautiful large square mature private garden – a great rarity in this city. I found it by chance just when the client was becoming disheartened by the lack of interesting property available, and we took it on the same day.

You have to pounce on the gems now, the competition is intense.

The client has an extensive art collection, including a number of works by the American superstars Alex Da Corte, whose ‘Big Bird’ sculpture graced the rooftop of the Metropolitan Museum for a year and who recently had a retrospective at the Louisiana Museum in Denmark, and Alex Israel, the quintessential Los Angeles artist who has exhibited widely internationally, including at the Astrup Fearnley museum in Oslo.

There are several of both of their works in the collection of Moderna Museet in Stockholm and the Louisiana Museum, donated by the client and other Swedish collectors with whom we work.

The house itself was a beautiful blank canvas, but with plenty of texture. It was built by an architect couple to echo the simplicity of layout of a Milanese Renaissance palazzo. Beolla Favalle flagstones, for centuries brought to Milan up the Ticino River for use in the classic ‘ringhiera’ apartment buildings with their continuous balconies, grace the floors of the kitchen and dining room and the stairs to the upper floor, then wooden floorboards in the living room.

There is a large fireplace which dominates that room and a Corten steel banister and railing which runs along the mezzanine balcony above it. Floor to ceiling French windows flood the rooms with light. An enfilade of 17th century Portuguese wooden doors lead you from kitchen to dining room to living room, adding warmth, depth and enormous character. It is deceptively spacious inside.

Continuing the topic of that project; what did the client want, and how did you make your decisions in response? What is the dialogue like between a client and a decorator, I imagine it must be a delicate process as you’re planning a person’s home.

He was moving to Milan from London with his wife. He has three grown up children, so there was a need to keep as many bedrooms as bedrooms when they visit, but also to have space for guests. He gave me free rein, which I loved, though there was sometimes quite a specific reaction to certain pieces of furniture or lighting and the colour of fabrics. I am grateful for the level of trust he placed in me, as it allowed me to free my imagination.

Each client is different, so there is no standard conversation, but I would say I do my best work when I have a large degree of artistic autonomy, once the parameters of the project have been agreed upon. In this case, I designed the home but also equipped it fully so that it was ready to move into, pretty much down to the toothbrush...there were endless deliveries. I had great fun tracking down the Willy Rizzo bar, coffee table and travertine dining table, endless Azucena lamps, a Carlo Mollino mirror, the Saporiti ‘Omaggi’ dining chairs and Vico Magistretti armchairs, stools and sofas, Niels Møeller chairs and tables, English Art Deco bedside tables, Sergio Mazza wall lamps and everything else, from all over Italy, France, Belgium and elsewhere.

Some needed a little restoration or to be reupholstered, but the original models are always the best structurally and the most beautiful. In later modern editions, the producers make small but noticeable changes that diminish their character, in my opinion.

How did you incorporate his art collection into the interiors? Or is it the other way around, that interiors are built around the art?

Exactly. I began with the art, once I had digested the house itself and what one could do with it. How to bring it back to life. Alex Da Corte’s work but also the works of Alex Israel, Cynthia Talmadge, Felix Treadwell, Basil Kincaid and Arghavan Khosravi all played starring roles in determining the palette, the patterns and textures I used for the fabrics and for the shape and form of the design objects I found.

The garden is visible from every room and is a gentle riot of vines, jasmine, roses, irises and a large pomegranate tree in the far corner, so I kept the textures and palette as natural and as earthy in tone as possible, to chime with the open, green expanse beyond as well as with the materials inside: stone, wood and steel.

Addresses to places mentioned

Hangar Bicocca, Via Chiese, 2, 20128

Fondazione Prada, L.go Isarco, 2, 20139

Fondazione Rovati, Corso Venezia, 52, 20121

Pinacoteca di Brera, Via Brera, 28, 20121

Galleria d’Italia, Piazza della Scala, 6, 20121

Museo Poldi Pezzoli, Via Alessandro Marzoni, 12, 20121

Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Piazza Pio XI, 2, 20123

La Bettola di Piero, Via Orti, 17, 20122

Paper Moon Giardino, Via Bagutta, 12, 20121

La Ribot, Via Marco Cremosano, 41, 20148

Bebel, Via San Vittore, 3, 20123

La Fettunta, Via Santa Maria, 19/a, 20123

A Santa Lucia, Via S. Pietro All’Orto, 3, 20121

Forte Forte, Via Ponte Vetero, 1, 20121

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Quantum physics challenge the notion of linear time.

Instead, it suggests that everything with the potential to happen has already occurred, and we are now continuously changing timelines, moving both forward and sideways in time and between dimensions.

Perhaps this is why some people seem better skilled at understanding the future; they know that it has already taken place.

About ten years ago, renowned trend forecaster Lidewij Edelkoort caused headlines in fashion media by claiming that traditional fashion was over.

For centuries, fashion had manifested societal ideas and ideals, but contemporary fashion was lacking cultural relevance, she claimed, in her oft-cited “Anti-Fashion Manifesto”.

Since then, she has continued her critique of mindless consumer culture, arguing that what society needs is a renewed interest in natural materials, craftsmanship, and general curiosity.

On October 10, her new exhibition, co-curated with her long-time collaborator Philip Fimmano, “Inner Child: Playing with Design” opens at Artipelag in Gustavsberg,

We met the two to discuss contemporary design, the future of fashion, and the need for optimism.

Listen to the conversation here.

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All images courtesy of Artipelag.

Often, it’s because of geographical issues, like topography, access to water and fertile land.

In Emilia-Romagna, the reason many towns – like Piacenza, Parma, Reggio Emilia, and Bologna, as well as Imola, Faenza, Forli and Rimini – seem to be placed along an almost straight line is the northern part of the Apennine Mountains.

Mountains are difficult to access, as vertical logistics make everything complicated.

For this reason, trade would historically take place in the area below the mountains, between the Apennines in the south and the Po Valley in the north.

Leonardo da Vinci defined Piacenza, not far from the border to Lombardy, as the “land of passage” because of how it connected Milan with Bologna, and the local culture is a mix of Lombard and Emilian.

Parma is the second largest city in Emilia-Romagna, and with a proud history (that has given the locals a bit of a reputation as snobs).

Its university is among the oldest in the world, it competes with Bologna about the title of Italy’s culinary capital, and the current city probably dates to (at least) Etruscan times.

Because of its strategic location, connecting Rome with Northern Europe through Via Francigena, many luxuries castles were built by the region’s prominent families in its vicinity.

Parma used to be the independent and sovereign Duchy of Parma and Piacenza, established in 1545 by Pope Paul II.

Through the years, it developed into a prominent cultural capital, ruled by three major dynasties – the Farnese, Bourbons, and Habsburgs – before being integrated into the unified Kingdom of Italy. Parma also doesn’t look like most other towns in Emilia, which usually have a more medieval look.

Napoleon’s second wife, Marie Louise of Austria, served as Duchess of Parma, and she heavily invested in the city’s aesthetic and public works, enlisting French architects and artists to reshape the city according to neoclassical ideals.

Internationally, Parma is more known for its connection to classical music; Guiseppe Verdi hails from nearby Busseto and Parma hosts a festival dedicated to the composer every autumn.

The town is small enough to be walkable, and most visitors come to see the Duomo, one of the finest examples of Romanesque architecture in Italy.

Teatro Farnese was almost destroyed in the bombings of 1944, but its 17^th century architecture was recreated in the decade following the war.

This type of reconstruction has often been questioned by theorists of architecture, claiming that it’s impossible to travel back in time and recreate something that has been lost. But is it better to pretend that time is always moving in the same direction? Isn’t time more like a tiger, leaping from one branch of a tree to another, going up and down, back and forth, rarely moving in the same direction?

A place that really sets Parma apart is the Labirinto della Masone, the world’s largest bamboo labyrinth, made entirely of bamboo plants.

Its pathways offer visitors refuge from the glaring sun but also creates the strange effect of being somewhere else, removed from one’s mundane routines, perhaps even in another dimension.

Not surprisingly, it was built on the recommendation of Jorge Luis Borges, famous for his fascination with mazes. He encouraged his close friend Franco Maria Ricci, an art publisher and designer, to build it just outside of Parma, in Fontanellato.

At the time of its construction, it was the world’s largest labyrinth (though this today is found in China).

Parma and Perfumes

My relationship with Parma has more to do with the idea of it, than with the actual town. Many years ago, I walked into a store that sold Acqua di Parma.

Soon, I became friends with the owner and within a few months I was working there, selling the perfume. I learned about its history, and how the production relies heavy on natural ingredients. Today, 95 percent of perfumes are synthetic.

In The Secret of Scent, perfume expert Luca Turin explains that many people today associate the scent of lemon more with cleaning products than with actual lemons.

Fake versions are replacing originals in the world of olfactory associations.

Chemists have developed such cheap substitutes that entire generations believe they know what strawberries should taste like based on how strawberry ice-cream tastes, even though there isn’t a single atom of an actual berry in it.

William Henry Perkin first developed the synthetic scents in the late 19^th century, when artificiality was seen as a sign of the future.

Electric light challenged the natural darkness of the night, industrial food production changed eating habits, and mass-produced garments laid the foundation for a fast-paced consumer culture.

In this context, and for me personally, longing for something more authentic, Parma became an almost mythical place, where perfume was still made in the traditional way, using nature’s gifts to add scent to our bodies and everyday lives.

Architecture of Death

Outside of Parma, a small crematorium has been built next to an ancient cemetery.

It might seem an odd thing to include, but often, the places where we remember and celebrate our dead are among the most beautiful, as so much attention and care have gone into their planning.

Designed by Paolo Zermani and Eugenio Tessoni, the temple is constructed to honour the dead.

The walls of the farewell room, made of exposed brick of the ancient type, are complemented by a row of regularly spaced columns that punctuate the space.

Their structure harks back to the material culture of the Romanesque parish churches that populate the province of Parma.

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For the 1878 World’s Fair, Paris made its first major foray into electric outdoor lighting by installing Yablochkov arc lamps along the Avenue de l’Opéra.

Three years later, the city hosted the International Exhibition of Electricity, where Thomas Edison first introduced the incandescent lightbulb and thus established Paris as “the electric capital of the world”.

The electrification of Paris and other major capitals around the world was an effect of industrialization and urbanization, both being accelerated by the century’s enormous population growth.

150 years later, cities are not only resisting the natural balance between light and dark, but also silence has also become scarce. In urban landscape, there’s always someone or something making noise, whether it’s from traffic, construction or just the city in general.

Silence acts as a vital reset for your brain, offering profound physical and mental benefits.

Silence also lowers stress hormones like cortisol, reduces blood pressure, and even stimulates new cell growth in the hippocampus – the area of the brand responsible for learning and memory.

Minimizing external noise helps lower your heart rate and allows tense muscles to relax, rapidly relieving physical and emotional tension.

I once lived next to a kindergarten in Paris and had to move after only a year; hearing the kids yell at each other four or five times a day was like torture, and I dreaded every morning when the sound would start and I knew I wouldn’t even be able to complete a single thought for the coming six hours.

In Stockholm, a few years later, I had to leave my apartment because of the constant noise from the buses on the street below. Every two minutes, a new bus would stop just outside my window, and so I knew if I had an important e-mail to write or decision to make, I only had 120 seconds before I would be interrupted again.

It was impossible to continue living like that, and so I moved out and a friend, who was moving to the city and looking for a place to stay, moved in.

In 2026, silence is the new luxury, which explains the current trend of “quietcations” or “hushpitality”.

Vacations this year are all about trading packed itineraries for total sensory relief, restorative silence, and, in many cases, complete digital detox.

It’s not about a particular destination, but more a type of place, usually in a rural setting, far away from the crowds.

Places outside of urban areas are now more on trend than large city centers and urban sprawls.

It’s also about changing your mindset and habits.

Instead of scrolling a (loud) Instagram feed, you read a book, solve a crossword puzzle, or enjoy a seemingly endless lunch with a view.

Instead of large hotels, you stay at a small B&B or rent a remote villa together with family and/or friends.

Club nights are replaced with dinners on the terrace, and in lieu of the sound of city traffic, you’ll hear birds chirping.

This travel trend is part of a larger societal shift.

The population explosion of the 20^th century completely redefined all parts of society, from city planning to travel habits.

We now live in a world where almost everything has become industrialized, standardized, and mass-produced, and we’re always surrounded by other people.

“Quietcation” is about slowing down and reclaiming our humanity, allowing ourselves time to think and space to live.

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The photos in this article were taken by Tomas Falmer on Cap Corse.

Some of them have been published previously, in Lohi Journal #2.

Working pays for a roof over one’s head and food on the table.

Nevertheless, we spend a large portion of our lives working, and what we do for a living affects our sense of sense and quality of life.

For this reason, many dream of finding a type of work that not only provides the necessities required for daily life but that also can feel meaningful, both on an individual level and as a contribution to society; something that might make the world a better place.

This was a big part of why we created Lohi Journal; after many years in the fashion industry, being part of a fast-moving system that promotes replaceable clothes at a scale that is severely damaging many eco-systems around the world, we wanted to do something that instead had a beneficial impact. We wanted to do something we could be proud of.

In addition, despite the print industry being in a state of crisis due to the growing screen culture, we wanted to preserve a format we felt was culturally significant. It seemed like economic madness, but we felt that we did something that mattered when deciding that Lohi should be printed. It was important that it was a three-dimensional product, made from natural materials, made to last a long time.

The same type of driving forces can be said for those starting a minimal-intervention vineyard. People of all ages are drinking less wine, and despite the international significance of wine as a cultural expression, people seem to not be so interested anymore.

But a good vineyard is beneficial to the landscape it’s in, and harvesting and making the wine organically means preserving methods that have been maintained for thousands of years, in order for this knowledge not to be lost for future generations.

In 2021, Michele Cararro and Alessando Stefani decided to change the direction of their lives by moving (back) to Italy and start their own wine label, called Remedio. Having met almost a decade earlier in London, working in the wine business, they wanted to create their own wine, produced in a way that respects nature. “We started with zero money; we didn’t have anything in our pockets,” Michele tells me. “Whatever we were earning, we put into Remedio.”

Both Michele and Alessandro are from Venice, but Alessandro’s wife, who’s Australian, preferred to live in an open landscape. “I had never considered Bologna before,” he explains, “but we looked at a map of Italy, and it has a very strategic location, close to everything from Venice to Milan. So, we spent a few days there and I really liked it, and so we decided to move to the region, but to a smaller town, but still livable and with things to see and do.”

Alessandro continues: “We are farmers, we’re not afraid of getting our hands dirty, and here, we have the opportunity to play with different grapes from the region. For example, you can get a beautiful grape from Romagna, Albana. On the Modena side, you can get another beautiful grape, Trebbiano Modenese, or looking at some Lambrusco. That connects to our experience as sommeliers – in the past, we’ve tried many different types of wine, and so we like to experiment, and this keeps us alive as well.”

The goal of the vineyard is to create a multifunctional farm that focuses on different aspects of agriculture: wine, vegetables, fruit, and forestry, implementing biodiversity through organic methods, with a strong focus on climate change, and implement supportive working methods, like regenerative agriculture.

The wine-making process is managed almost entirely by hand, from treatments with a backpack pump using small amounts of sulfur and copper, working with the pH of the water, adding pasteurized lees from the year’s wine and nettle decoctions, to cutting the grass and pruning under the rows.

Winter and spring pruning is done following the Simonit and Sirch method.

In the cellar, in the small village of Panico just outside of Marzabotto, close to Monte Sole, the duo strive to work as naturally as possible; fermentations are all spontaneous, with no filtration or clarification.

Michele summarizes: “This area is quite unspoiled. Obviously, Marzabotto has a strong meaning in Italy, because of what happened here in the Second World War. Parco Monte Sole is a beautiful natural park, and the Reno River runs through the valley below. But you can count the wineries here on the fingers of one hand. In a way, this is good, because then we don’t disappear in the crowd.”

Listen to our conversation, recorded in their cellar, here.

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As international travelling has gone from being reserved for the upper class to something that most people can afford (at least with a credit card), the allure of travel has been lost. It’s no longer a once-in-a-lifetime experience, the “Grand Tour” is no longer grand but simply a tour among many.

A few months ago, at a dinner party, I struck up a conversation with a woman sitting across from me.

We talked like strangers do, about everything and nothing, when she suddenly began speaking of her childhood:

My father loved animals, but he was allergic. Instead, our home was full of parrots, canaries, and lizards. One time, I went into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. Then I heard a noise and pulled back the shower curtain to look. There was a swan, hiding in the bathtub!

The woman laughed as she told the story.

I saw her eyes light up, it was clear that she …

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No matter how often I drive in Italy, I never get used to the Italian style of driving. Driving in Italy teaches you to be in the moment. It’s important to always be present, and so I was observing cars both in front of and behind us.

Suddenly, I noticed a truck in the right lane, a few hundred metres ahead.

As we got closer, I saw a sign on the back, stating that it was transporting live animals, and that’s when I noticed a pale pink, slightly damp pig snout sticking out through the steel bars, twitching in the morning air in the same way that our dog does when he eagerly sniffs for new scents in unfamiliar places.

I could see that the animals on the truck were packed tightly, without any possibility to move. The truck was two stories, so it must have been at least a hundred pigs, on their way to being slaughtered.

Pigs are more intelligent than dogs but aren’t as cute, and so instead of treating them with dignity, they often live out their short lives under highly stressful conditions.. 3.8 million pigs are killed every day worldwide, as are 1.4 million goats, 1.7 million sheep, 12 million ducks, 900,000 cows and 202 million chickens.

These statistics are five years old, and have probably increased since then. Most of the animals, brought up and killed on an industrial scale, live most of their brief lives in the hell that is a factory farm.

Most people recoil at the thought of animals murdered after being tortured every day of their short lives, yet they happily support the industry through their culinary choices.

It’s a kind of cognitive dissonance, where people are well informed about the horrors of the meat industry, but still fail to connect it to what’s on their dinner plate.

The main culprit is the industrialization of the animal industry, which developed during the 20^th century.

We all know that we need to eat less meat to meet climate goals (as is the unanimous advice from the international scientific community). But instead, meat eating is increasing; never before in human history have we eaten as much meat as we do now. Eating this much meat has nothing to do with culinary traditions or local customs, but about large-scale, industrialized slaughter.

But meat is not the only flawed part of today’s culinary culture.

Gluten, once the foundation of what most people ate, is described as unhealthy and dangerous. Many people are excluding gluten from their diet and “gluten-free” is often used in marketing (even for products like shampoo and soap).

For most of European history, bread has accounted for more than half of the calories consumed. Many important historical turning points can be linked to periods when farmers or workers fought for access to bread.

But the bread they ate then looked nothing like the bread we buy in stores today.

It was the invention of the modern roller mills that made wheat flour whiter, cheaper and much longer lasting than before. This was also the biggest step humanity has taken in destroying its most important culinary staple. Where stone mills once crushed the whole wheat grain – bran, germ and kernel – and ground it down to become nutritious, high-fibre flour, roller mills first peel off bran and then grind and layer the kernel in several stages to finally deliver a light, white whole wheat flour, with little more than fast carbohydrates left.

The first commercial roller mill was built in Hungary in 1839, and by the turn of the century, most traditional stone mills around Europe and the United States had been phased out.

You could say that bread was good for people until the end of the 19th century, but ever since then, things have gone downhill – our daily bread has become a substandard food: The roller mills turned bread into the world’s first fast food.

Roller mills created a light, white, quick-digesting flour that the masses could afford. The shelf life increased enormously; the essential fats and protein content increased and the fibre disappeared.

The vitamins, folic acid, antioxidants, minerals and saturated fatty acids disappeared as well.

This laid the foundation for the entire modern – efficient and large-scale but oh so nutrient-poor – food industry that quickly gained global impact.

The bread of the future is the bread of the past, baked according to traditional (slow) methods that preserve both nutrition and taste.

What we need is for more people to think about their food, where it comes from, how it was made, and if anyone was hurt in the process.

Consider the pig whose body you’re thinking of eating, what did he dream about his last night alive? And what’s really in the cheap bread you see in the local supermarket?

The more we know about where our food comes from, the more we will feel connected to the world that we live in, not as mindless consumers but as active participants.

To briefly summarize, the main issue with the food industry is the scale and pace of it.

But there are people challenging this system.

The Danish multi-millionaire Jacob Jelsing (who happens to also be a trained marine biologist) got fed up with the dysfunctional view of nature that was the foundation of Denmark’s agricultural policy and decided to do something about it.

More than a billion euros in subsidies go to Denmark’s farms each year, despite the harm caused by this kind of agriculture, which on top of the nitrogen pollution, emits vast amounts of the heat-trapping gases that cause climate change.

Dirty, lifeless fjords, collapsing fish populations, and polluted drinking water are the effects of Denmark’s highly industrialized livestock farming sector, which uses half the country’s total area to grow grain that is fed to pigs and cows, churning out more bacon, butter, and beef than the Danish population can even eat.

Jelsing has therefore bought a farm in southeastern Denmark, which he now hopes to bring back to life; emptying the soil of toxins, restoring the wetlands and leaving the large hangars that previously housed slaughter animals empty.

So far, he has been fighting against Danish bureaucracy and modern regulations that want to tame nature (at the expense of the climate), but he persistently continues to take new steps.

The goal is to restore biodiversity and allow the ecosystem to recover, contrary to what the traditional agricultural industry has done in recent decades.

The situation is worse than many people realize. Evidence suggests that many foods, particularly fruits, vegetables, and grains, have become less nutritious over the past 50–70 years. Key factors driving this decline include agricultural practices focused on high yields rather than nutrient density, increased atmospheric CO2 levels accelerating growth at the expense of mineral accumulation, and soil degradation, calling it the “biggest challenge to the health of future generations”.

Not everyone is a multi-billionaire like Jelsing, but we can all begin somewhere; reflecting on the origins of our food, what it was (and where) before ending up in our refrigerators.

It’s a small step, but many small steps can eventually change even large-scale systems like the current food industry, reversing the development to a time when food was nutritious, and meat didn’t have to be part of every meal.

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Often called the “Poet of Fashion”, he redefined the style of the 80s by rebelling against the era’s bold power suits, instead proposing soft, romantic, and minimalist silhouettes. But that was then.

Today, he’s based in Marrakesh where he owns and manages a hotel – Riad Romeo – which he of course also has designed himself.

One day, he invited us over for lunch, to show us the riad, and for us to meet his family.

The Gigli family acquired the riad in 2005, planning for it to be their permanent vacation getaway.

The Medina in Marrakesh is like a labyrinth, and we accidentally walked in the wrong direction.

Digital maps rarely work in the narrow alleys, and we ended up taking a wrong turn (or more probably, we were in the completely wrong area to start with). A young man turned up volunteering to guide us, and against all common sense, we agreed.

He led us deeper into the Medina, with so many twists and turns on our way that we lost understanding of where we were.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a police man pulled up on his scooter, whisking out a pair of handcuffs which he swiftly put on our guide’s wrists. I had never seen anyone being arrested before, so for a moment, I was silent, unsure of what was happening.

Would we also be arrested now, and if so, on what charge? I asked the police officer, and he explained that it’s illegal to guide visitors without an official certificate.

The guide was taken away, and in his place, we were given police escort to Gigli’s riad. It was just the sort of entrance you would hope to make when arriving at the house of an international celebrity.

After a brief tour of the first floor, which included an open-air inner court, a small shop where his wife Lara Aragno sells her ceramics next to selected fashion pieces by Gigli. The ceramics are made in the Atlas Mountains by craftpeople working on the ground.

Aragno is a fashion legend in her own right, having held important positions at both Armani and Miu Miu and working at prestigious fashion school IED before following her family to Morocco.

We sat down in the lounge, getting to know each other over a cup of tea:

“I’ve known Morocco for a long time,” Romeo Gigli explained. “My first trip was with my family in 1967, when I was 17 years old. Then my wife and I used to spend a lot of time in Marrakesh, renting different riads, spending time with family and friends. And one day my wife asked, ‘why don’t we buy a riad?’, and I said ‘OK’.”

He paused for a bit, lit a cigarette and stretched out his legs. “But when we finally moved to Marrakesh permanently, we had five dogs and three cats, it was impossible to live in the Medina, and so we initially decided to stay just outside of the city, with our animals and our daughter, in a beautiful villa with a garden and a swimming pool… But I kept thinking about the riad, which we had bought back in 2005, and not even two years ago, in 2024, the hotel was opened. The old structure had been demolished, and I redesigned a new one, with solid foundations.”

Isn’t it difficult rebuilding an old riad this far into the Medina?

“It took us four years to complete the renovation! It was difficult to transport everything, using a donkey to get things out of the Medina… and also, the bureaucracy in Morocco is very complicated! You need a lot of documents and stamps.”

After a while, Gigli began showing us around. The riad has five guest-rooms, all individually decorated, with unique concepts, and with different colour schemes.

The largest one is 40 sqm.

Every bedroom has a traditional Moroccan wood carved bed, transformed by pop coloured like lime green and tangerine.

On the rooftop, there is a bar and lounge area, but Gigli explains that he had initially had plans for further expansion:

“I tried to buy the riad next door, which had been destroyed in the 2023 earthquake, but it proved too difficult, it had many owners and they all lived in different countries, so even though it had been more or less destroyed, they couldn’t come to an agreement. Instead, I focused on this building, where I’ve designed most of the furniture, with the exception of a few things.”

Do you often go back to Italy?

“I went to Milan for three days in November, and I asked myself, ‘why am I here, I want to be back in Marrakesh?’” I don’t like Milan anymore, but it was a great place when I moved there in the 70s. The 80s, when I became famous, were fantastic. But I love Marrakesh – for six years, we’ve lived here now, and it’s sunny every day, the complete opposite of what it was like in Milan.”

After Gigli has showed us every corner of the stylish riad and explained his vision and (often slow and rather complicated) process of making it a reality, we’re invited for lunch in the courtyard, prepared by his wife.

The table was placed in front of a three-story-high mosaic fountain, the hotel’s centerpiece (and designed by Gigli).

We were joined by the couple’s daughter, Diletta Gigli – who also has a room, the Diletta Room, named after her at the riad – and her boyfriend.

Over lunch, Gigli continued to talk about his previous life experiences.

“When I was young, it was my dream to become an architect. My mother was a Contessa and my father worked as an antiquarian book dealer, just like his father and grandfather before him. So, I initially studied Latin and all the classics, but I always wanted to become an architect. So, I went to university in Florence to study architecture, but then – by chance – I started to work in fashion. A good friend of mine was Ettore Sottsass, and I worked a bit with him and other designers – they also helped design the interiors of a few of my homes and spaces, in London, Paris, New York, and basically everywhere – and I’ve also collaborated with Domus furniture and with Christopher Farr in London. I ‘ve relied on these past experiences when collaborating with people here in Marrakesh, though of course the culture is different. For example, it’s difficult to calculate how long the production process will be.”

The lunch was informal and relaxed, and the conversation – like the food and wine offered to us – never seemed to run out.

But then again, Italians are famous for their love of socializing over food and upholding culinary traditions.

Combined with the slow pace of Morocco, it’s no wonder that things at Riad Romeo have been allowed to take time – the building and design process developing and unwinding at its own pace, making sure it’s just as Romeo Gigli envisioned it – as if the outside world doesn’t really exist once you’re inside the riad’s walls.

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Contemporary art, on the other hand, is abstract and often lacks a clear purpose. Perhaps this is why I once became a fashion theorist – I liked that clothes made sense. But this could also by why I’m nowadays a bit bored with fashion and more intrigued by art. The notion that not everything needs to have a purpose or function speaks to me.

This summer, Millesgården, on a small island outside Stockholm, is hosting Danish artist Tal R.

Once the home and studio of sculptor Carl Milles and his wife Olga, the museum encompasses an art space, a large, terraced garden overlooking Stockholm, as well as the couple’s former home.

Tal R, born in Tel Aviv but now based in Copenhagen, works across a wide of range of media, including painting, drawing, print, textiles, sculpture, and furniture.

In the Art Gallery at Millesgården, visitors encounter Tal R’s bronze sculptures, drawings, and paintings, including many new works.

The themes revolve around the idea of what a home is – its rooms and the relationships shaped within them.

Inspired by the psychoanalytic concept das Unheimliche, Tal R explores the blurred distinction between what we notice and what we prefer to ignore.

In the Large Studio, which is filled with Carl Milles’ historic plaster sculptures, visitors encounter a monumental pink form standing in the middle of the room.

It emerges in unmistakable clarity, impossible to avoid: the elephant in the room.

I met Tal R a few days after the opening, via Zoom.

He participated from his studio in Copenhagen (photo below on the left), while I was in a studio at the Swedish School of Textiles in Borås (photo on the right).

We spoke on the difference between fashion and art, his exhibition at Millesgården, and contemporary life in general.

You can listen to our conversation here.

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The exhibition is open until August 30.

Press photos of the Millesgården exhibition: Yanan Li.

It’s a comfortable but superficial experience. But the longer you stay, and the more you lean into your curiosity, learning about the history and local customs, the more nuanced your view will become.

The shapes and materials of a building tells a story, as do the names of the cafés, restaurants, and stores in a village.

The more you pay attention, the more you’ll begin to see beyond the surface of things.

This is the difference between passing a random house on the street and knowing the people who live there: The deeper connection you have to a place, the more you notice the little things in your surroundings.

Bellagio is one of the most beautiful towns on Lake Como, and also one of the most famous.

Many want to visit at least once, and so they come, go for a stroll along the lakeside, eat at an overpriced restaurant with generic food before taking a photo or making a video for social media, watching the likes rolling in before preparing to leave for the next place on their list.

Bellagio was a box to check off a list.

Our first morning in Bellagio, the rain was pouring down, which I found fantastic – rain is a dramatic kind of weather and it made everyone else stay indoors, so we had the magical historic centre all to ourselves.

I like to buy souvenirs when travelling, bringing a memento back home. Afterwards, whenever I look at or use it, I’m reminded of the place I visited and the people I met there.

In Bellagio, I bought coasters and a matching tray at La Bottega del Legno di Mario Tacchi, one of the oldest shops in Bellagio. Opened in 1855, it is still run by the same family (Tacchi), making artisanal wooden objects.

Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of actually using coasters (though I aspire to), but whenever I pass by them (I keep them on a table in the library), I think of that rainy morning, when I was all alone in the shop, admiring the craftsmanship and sharing some small talk with the women working there.

Another Bellagio classic is Pasticceria Burcassani, owned by Piera Burcassani, whose husband founded it in 1978.

She’s lived in Bellagio all her life, almost 80 years, and knows the history of the town better than most people. This is where you should go if you’re in the mood for pastry, coffee, or ice cream.

A place impossible to miss in Bellagio is the Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Center, hovering above the town. Once, the estate was owned by Ella Walker, Principessa della Torre e Tasso. Born in the US (as granddaughter of Hiram Walker of distillery fame), she became an Italian princess through her third marriage.

Her life’s project was to restore the Villa Serbelloni, which she had bought in 1928 (four years before marrying the Prince).

Before she died, she gifted the property villa, including a two million endowment, to the Rockefeller Foundation, with the aim to promote international understanding.

Today, the park is open to the public, and the foundation has become an important meeting point for artists, scholars, and intellectuals.

Tired of the crowds? One day, we decided to go for a boat-ride, with Bellagio Sailing.

Lake Como is best experienced from a boat, and we could feel the depth of the lake in the chilled air while lounging on the yacht deck.

Did you know that Italy’s equivalent of the Loch Ness-monster resides in Lake Como? "Larrie" (or Lariosauro) is said to live in the depth of the lake, a myth based on fossils from an animal that swam in the area roughly 240 million years ago

On our way back to Bellagio, we spotted a small town, a “frazione” called San Giovanni, only a short trek from Bellagio.

Once back on shore, we decided to walk along the lake, leaving Bellagio briefly behind.

The closer we got to San Giovanni, the calmer and more relaxed it felt.

Locals were having their spritz on terraces in the narrow alleys, and we seemed to be the only tourists in sight.

If you want to learn more about our time in Bellagio, and about Belvedere Bellagio specifically, the hotel where we stayed, listen to our podcast episode here.

The podcast is the first in a series, where we meet interesting people and talk about slow travel, culture, and lifestyle.

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However, and to be completely honest, despite the beauty of Lake Como, I had previously never really enjoyed my stays in the area; Usually, I had visited during peak tourist seasons, and what I remembered most was being stuck in traffic together with thousands of others who wanted to experience the exact same things that I wanted to see, at the exact same time.

It was as though the myth of the glamorous jetset lifestyle had almost completely suffocated the once authentic lifestyle that attracts visitors to the lake’s dramatic landscape.

Turns out, late spring is a perfect time to visit.

The air was warm but still crisp, the flowers were in bloom, and in the mornings, we went for long walks along the waterfront.

Belvedere Bellagio is managed by Giulia Manoni, fifth generation of her family to take care of the hotel, and she joined us for many lunches and dinners in the hotel restaurant, sharing her thoughts on the region and ideas for developing the hotel.

Her vision is to propose a return to a more genuine version of hospitality, far removed from the fast pace and large-scale of contemporary travelling.

One thing that I particularly enjoyed was the hotel’s approach to food, from the generous breakfasts to the long dinners at Albòri, the hotel’s restaurant, which combines the chef’s Sardinian heritage with locally grown produce.

The dining experience was further enhanced by the pairing with wine from the hotel’s cellar, which is focused on natural Italian wines.

There’s something challenging to describe a hotel stay. There are infinite clichés to avoid, and neither tastes nor scents can be accurately conveyed.

For example, I spent many hours in the hotel pool, afterwards relaxing in the spa, but how can I do the experience justice using words, when it was really about being present in the moment, not speaking or even thinking?

This is something I’ve thought a lot about since we launched Lohi Journal, and I’ve also noticed that what resonates most with our readers is when we share personal stories the places that we visit.

And for that reason, on the last morning, I sat down with Giulia and Fabian, founder of Ferus – a collaborative partner that helps Giulia and her team at Bellagio Belvedere to develop their vision – to let them explain in their own words, how they work together, and what makes Belvedere Bellagio so unique.

We sat in the hotel’s library, overlooking the lake, and instead of me trying to describe my impression of the hotel, I let Giulia share, in her own words, what it was like growing up in a place like this, and her strategy to make the hotel a slow travel destination.

Listen to our conversation here.

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Linda Hamilton (in the role of Sarah Connor), Terminator 2: Judgment Day

When the Terminator-films were released (the first one already in 1985), they immediately impacted the zeitgeist in a number of ways.

Linda Hamilton became an international celebrity, Arnold Schwartenegger got a tagline (that he hasn’t been able to escape since), and Guns’n’Roses became even more popular through their association with the films’ dark, dystopian imagery.

At the time, i didn’t really pay attention, I remember thinking that it was some kind of Hollywood kitsch, and for many years, I had only a very superficial understanding of the films’ prophetic message.

If you (like me, once) haven’t watched the films, here’s a quick recap: the overarching storyline is about the threat from AI.

In the future (which in the first film was set to 1997), machines have become self-aware. They used their newfound independent thinking skills and individual agency to turn against their human masters, in an effort to destroy civilisation.

Linda Hamilton’s character, Sarah Connor, is the main protagonist, and travels through time to fight them in order to save humanity from being destroyed by conscious machines.

There’s a clear parallel to the 19^th century movement “the Luddites” (named after their mythical leader Ned Ludd, a British weaver) .

The Luddites was a British resistance movement, fighting the effects of industrialization and automation of work in the textile industry.

Activists would break machines and destroy factories to slow down the industrial development, where machines threatened to replace humans in textile production.

Their goal was to protect the workers’ community and knowledge of the craft.

Adam Smith had proposed that for the sake of efficiency, production should be broken down into smaller components. Instead of one person creating an entire object, each part of the production process should be handled by different people. In that way, people became very skilled in one aspect of production, but who could never build an entire table or create a garment by himself. Agency and knowledge were transferred from workers to factory owners and managers.

The aim (of the industry leaders) was to streamline and to make the production process more efficient, but it happened at the expense of the workers, who subsequently rebelled. Many Luddites were killed by the authorities, even more were exiled from Europe, and in this brutal way, the movement was crushed and technological “progress” could continue to reshape the way we work and interact with machines.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Luddites lately.

Few other movements are as relevant today as they were when they were first founded, but when I bring them up in conversation (which I do from time to time), few people seem to have heard of them.

Those who should be the true influencers of today seem to have been relegated to the dustbin of history.

A few days ago, I met up with a few friends at a natural wine bar in central Stockholm. The acoustics were poor; we had to shout to hear each other across the tiny bar table, but it was nice to be with friends..

One of my friends told me that two months ago, she had quit her job, working as a branding and marketing consultant in fashion. Since then, she had devoted her time to learning how to use Claude, and now she happily shared with the rest of us how she had learned to build websites and create brand profiles all on her own.

Another woman in the friend group, a graphic designer, joined in and continued to praise the new technology. She described how she used AI for everything from writing emails to searching for information.

They agreed that one downside could be that it made you a little lazy and less able to think on your own, but the benefits far outweighed the drawbacks.

What they didn’t mention was the environmental consequences of the world’s increased AI usage: Indirect emissions are created from AI applications and machine learning.

The amount of energy used by AI data centres increases carbon dioxide emissions, and water scarcity is another major problem.

An AI search is about 10 times more resource-intensive than a regular Google search.

Something else they also failed to mention was that by using AI, they’re training the machines to do their jobs, which eventually could make them redundant in the job market: A senior brand consultant and an experienced designer are expensive people to hire. AI can’t do their jobs as well as they can, but it can do the job “good enough” and for many companies, that’s all they aspire to offer.

This is another disturbing effect of AI producing images and texts: consumers are getting used to lower quality in translations, articles, and image production.

AI is not exactly replacing human skills but creating subpar work in its place. Because it’s cheap and fast, many companies are settling for “good enough” and this is also impacting us as consumers, affecting our expectations. It’s the enshittification of culture.

AI is however a misleading term because even though it’s artificial, there’s no intelligence to speak of. AI imitates but never comes up with something new. This is because AI lacks imagination.

In an increasingly financially volatile market (like the one we’re currently experiencing), marked by geopolitical unrest in many regions across the world, economic constraints are more important than ever for many businesses.

Thet evening in Stockholm, the wine was (very) good and our snacks incredible, I had to restrain myself from picking too greedily, and also let the others help themselves.

But as I listened to my friends’ enthusiastically explain how their use of AI is making people (themselves included) superfluous), I kept hearing Linda Hamilton’s voice (as Sarah Conner) playing in my head, chanting that we are all already dead, that the machines have already taken over.

It was an eerie sensation; everything appeared normal – the music was playing and the conversation (like the wine) was flowing – but around us, the world was rapidly changing.

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“For every church in Rome, there is a bank in Milan,” as the saying goes.

This emphasis on money has contributed to the city’s mixed reputation; some people find it boring and bland, a destination to avoid (apparently investment bankers are not high in demand on the social scene).

Others, especially those with an interest in fashion, design, and art, consider it one of their favourite places in the world.

In 222 BC, the Romans named what is now Milan “Mediolanum”, meaning “central place”. The reason is not complicated to understand; Milan has a strategic geographical location, close to Lake Garda and Lake Como, not far from the Ligurian Riviera, and only a few hours from the south of France.

Florence is easily reached by train, as is Venice. Throughout centuries, Milan has been coveted by many invading armies, which has benefited business and trade.

The wealth of Milan is best expressed through the sumptuousness of its Gothic cathedral, which took a staggering five hundred years (1386–1810) to complete (and designed to impress German and French merchants).

The cathedral was a favourite project for the ruling Visconti Family. After the Visconti clan lost power, the Sforza family seized reign, transforming Milan into a dukedom. In 1805, Napoleon was crowned ruler of the short-lived Kingdom of Italy in Milan’s Duomo.

When Italy was unified in 1871, Milan became an important centre for industrial growth. Some decades later, it was in Milan that the first gathering of Mussolini’s Fascist Party took place. Perhaps it was because of this (sentimental) reason that Mussolini paid great attention to Milan, choosing to develop several large-scale projects here, such as the massive central train station.

The city was heavily damaged in the Second World War bombings, but the Pirelli Tower, erected in 1959, has since become a symbol of the new, modern era that Milan transitioned into after its turbulent past.

Milanese Fashion

After serving in the military, Giorgio Armani became a window-dresser and salesclerk at the exclusive department store Rinascente (opposite Duomo). Through these jobs, he gradually learnt more and more about the fashion industry, before finally launching his own brand in 1975.

A few years later, his clothes were seen worn by Richard Gere in the film American Gigolo, which catapulted Armani (and, for that matter, Gere) into international fame to such a degree that fashion editors and buyers made sure to include Milan in their itinerary. The legacy of Armani can be viewed at the fashion museum Armani/Silos, which hosts a permanent exhibition of the designer’s most important pieces and collections.

Ten years after Armani’s debut, Miuccia Prada took over the Prada family business, then a prestigious but small firm specialized in travel commodities and small leather goods. Prada, with a PhD in political science and an avid art collector, understood better than most people not only the postmodern zeitgeist of the 1980s, but how to apply it to fashion. A trademark of postmodernity is the combination of things that traditionally haven’t been put together, creating a blurred area between (for example) luxury and the everyday.

When shipping their precious leather bags, Prada would wrap them in nylon, for protection. What Miuccia Prada did was use this protective nylon as material for actual bags, in the process creating the first postmodern “it”-bag. Since then, Prada has grown into an international lifestyle empire, but still with its roots firmly planted in Milan. In fact, Prada’s brand story is almost indistinguishable from the city of Milan; their first store is still open, at the same address as ever, in Galleria Vittoria Emanuele II.

Prada owns one of Milan’s finest pastry shops, Pasticceria Marchesi 1824, with venues all around the city, but the nicest one is above the Prada shop in the Galleria.

If Armani and Prada are typical examples of Milano’s understated elegance, typical of Northern Italy, Dolce & Gabbana and Versace represent fashion’s complete opposite. Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana met in 1982 in Milan, presenting their first womenswear collection a few years later. In 1990, they opened their first boutique in Milan, on Via Sant’Andrea.

Their vivacious designs quickly made them a household name, often mentioned in the same context as Versace. Gianni Versace was originally from the south of Italy, a heritage reflected in the design of his eponymous fashion house, but he made Milan the base of his business, today run by his sister, Donatella Versace. Initially, the southern family found Milan a hostile place (a reflection on the cultural differences between north and south, and a testimony to the fragility of the Italian project), but this is today considered ancient history.

Together, these brands represent the four cornerstones of Milanese fashion, and their respective shops can be found in Milan’s famous fashion district, Quadrilatero della moda (or Via Montenapoleone fashion district). Here you also find Marni’s flagship store, where often local artists present site-specific artworks. The shop is worth visiting for the interiors alone.

Located in the centre of Milan, the area is characterized by prestigious shops and elegant restaurants. All the world’s major fashion houses are represented here. The sides of the square are marked by the arches of Porta Nuova, Via Manzoni, Via della Spiga and Corso Venezia.

Museums in Milan

Technically not a design museum, many who are interested in aesthetics nevertheless take time to visit Mudec, a centre dedicated to interdisciplinary research on world cultures, as well as art, design and costume. Designed by David Chipperfield Architects, Mudec is a site worth visiting both for its sleek architecture and excellent exhibitions.

Most people know that Leonardo da Vinci, who lived in Milan for 17 years, painted “The Last Supper” in the city, where it remains on display in Santa Maria delle Grazie. But the city is home to much more when it comes to art. Pinacoteca Brera is one of the foremost art museums in Milan, as is Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, home to the world’s largest collection of drawings and texts by da Vinci. The two museums are not far from one another, and so it is perfectly feasible to combine the two if you so desire.

Brera is a charming neighbourhood, popular both among locals and visitors. It is famous for its many smaller and more unique shops, lesser-known brands, great restaurants, and picturesque cafés. One of the most picturesque is the small kiosk LùBarino, though I prefer its sibling restaurant LùBar, mainly because of its beautiful interiors and great food and wine.

Just a few blocks away lies another important Milanese institution, Teatro della Scala, more commonly known as “La Scala”. One of the leading opera and ballet theatres of the world, La Scala is for many opera aficionados a destination in itself, regardless of what’s currently playing.

Two of the city’s most prominent platforms for modern art are not exactly found in Milan per se, but just outside of the central town. The most famous of the two is Fondazione Prada, designed by architect studio OMA and host to many bold, temporary exhibitions on contemporary art.

The restaurant and bar (with spectacular views of the city) as well as the café Bar Luce (created by Wes Anderson) alone are worth a visit.

The other, no less extraordinary, is the Pirelli Hangar Bicocca. Here, it’s mandatory to visit the site-specific and permanent display made by Anselm Kiefer, “The Seven Heavenly Palaces”. One of Milan’s greatest art experiences, Kiefer’s piece holds a transformative power, as the mere scale of the artwork, while you walk around inside of it, will fill the visitor with awe.

In the mood for even more art? Cardi Gallery (originally “Galleria Cardi”) was founded in Milan in 1972 by Renato Cardi. With the aim to foster works by modern and contemporary artists. He built a collection that included Cy Twombly, Lucio Fontana, Piero Manzoni (and many others), all relatively unknown at the time.

Over the years, he added pieces to the collection, ranging from Arte Povera and Minimalism to Spatialism and Zero Group.

The gallery became successful, and is today led by Renato’s son, Nicolo. Since 2015, it also has a filial in London, and recently it also opened a space in Ibiza. It presents a regular programme of museum-quality exhibitions, each accompanied by a catalogue or artist monograph.

Addresses

Rinascente, P.za del Duomo, 20121

Armani/Silos, V. Ambrogio Bergognone de Fossano, 40, 20144

Marchesi 182, Via Santa Maria alla Porta, 11/a, 20123; Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, 20121; Via Monte Napoleone, 9, 20121

Marni, Via Montenapoleone, 26, 20121

Mudec, Via Tortona, 56, 20144

Pinacoteca Brera, Via Brera, 28, 20121

Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, Piazza Pio XI, 2, 20123

LùBarino, Piazza del Carmine, 1, 20121

Lùbar, Via Palestro, 16, 20121

Fondazione Prada, L.go Isarco, 2, 20139

Pirelli Hangar Bicocca, Via Chiese, 2, 20126

Cardi Gallery, C.so di Porta Nova, 38, 20121

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Nina Yashar, of Persian origins, relocated to Milan as a child, beginning her career working with her father, a leading merchant of antique carpets and precious textiles. To learn more about her work, we asked her to tell us the story of Nilufar and explain its connection to Milan.

How would you describe Nilufar to someone who is unfamiliar with it?

Nilufar is a platform for design culture, combining iconic works from the 20th century with projects by contemporary and emerging designers. From the very beginning of Nilufar, the focus has been on creating meaningful dialogues between tradition and innovation, highlighting the value of craftsmanship, research, and experimentation.

Through my curatorial approach, Nilufar seeks to present design as an evolving language that reflects our cultural heritage while continually exploring new ideas and forms of expression. The experience unfolds through Nilufar in via della Spiga, set in the heart of the city, and has a unique energy; it showcases both historic and contemporary works in a more intimate, gallery-like setting.

Nilufar Depot, on the other hand, is what I like to call the “theatre of design”, a dynamic, experimental space where collaboration and creativity take centre stage.

What did you do before creating Nilufar?

Before founding Nilufar, I was deeply involved in my studies and in my family’s carpet business, which introduced me to the world of craftsmanship and design from a very young age. I studied art history, which further strengthened my appreciation for beauty, quality, and cultural heritage. This background naturally led me to start collecting and curating pieces that combined traditional artistry with a more contemporary vision, eventually shaping the foundation of Nilufar.

How did you first come up with the idea, and how has Nilufar developed and changed throughout the years?

The idea for Nilufar came from a desire to create a space that would connect my passion for craftsmanship and my curiosity for design. In the beginning, I was focusing only on antique carpets, carefully selected from my family’s business, but soon I started to explore design objects that spoke to the same sense of quality and authenticity.

Over the years, Nilufar has evolved from a space dedicated to collectible pieces into a broader platform for dialogue between historical and contemporary design. With the opening of Nilufar Depot in 2015, the project expanded into a dynamic venue that brings together exhibitions, installations, and collaborations, reflecting an ongoing commitment to research and cultural exchange.

What do you enjoy most about your work?

I enjoy the constant dialogue between creativity and discovery. I love seeing how ideas evolve into tangible experiences, and I am inspired by the process of curating, experimenting and collaborating.

At the same time, my work allows me to travel, meet new people and experiment with new ideas, which always brings fresh perspectives and unexpected inspiration.

Why is Milan as a city so associated with interesting design?

Milan is inspiring because it blends a deep respect for tradition with a careful culture of experimentation and innovation. Historic landmarks sit alongside cutting-edge design spaces, and galleries, museums, and studios are always offering something new. The city is compact and easy to explore, so you can fully immerse yourself in its cultural scene without feeling overwhelmed. Its status as a global design capital attracts constant talent and fresh ideas, making it a city that never stops inspiring designers and collectors alike.

Is it a coincidence that Nilufar is based in Milan, or how would you describe the relationship between Nilufar and the city?

Milan has always been at the heart of Nilufar. I opened my first gallery on Via Bigli, then moved to Via della Spiga, and finally opened the Depot in 2015, in the Lancetti area. The city has shaped Nilufar through various evolutions and allows me to connect with designers, artists, and collectors from around the world. This project has grown alongside the city, becoming a hub for creativity and dialogue in the design community.

What is the concept behind Nilufar Depot?

It was born from what was meant to be a simple warehouse. I was looking for a neutral, functional space to store the many pieces collected over time, but when I first stepped into via Lancetti, I felt something inexplicable, a true spark. The space was too powerful, too full of potential to remain a mere storage place.

Together with Massimiliano Locatelli, we imagined a structure inspired by Milan’s Teatro alla Scala, with a central stage and three levels of balconies. This is how the “theatre of design” was born, a place where design is not only exhibited but staged. Since the opening, I’ve seen the Depot becoming a landmark for design enthusiasts worldwide, evolving from a collection space into a living laboratory of creativity.

How do you select the things that you sell?

Choosing what to show at Nilufar is a very instinctive process for me. It’s never just about how beautiful an object is or how much it’s worth. What really matters is the story behind it, the intention of the designer, and the emotion it can create.

I’m drawn to pieces that have a strong identity, that feel timeless and can still surprise me no matter how many times I see them. Whether it’s a vintage piece or a contemporary work, I always look for something that speaks to both craftsmanship and innovation. In the end, I choose things that can create a real dialogue within Nilufar and leave a lasting impression on whoever experiences them.

What is your favourite part of the city (and why)?

I really love the Risorgimento area, where I live. It has a quiet, residential charm, but it is also full of little discoveries. I enjoy walking around and stopping at places like Terroir, a wonderful gourmet shop, or Sissi, which has a beautiful café and pastry selection. Mezè is another favourite for a lively Lebanese lunch with friends. This part of Milan perfectly combines daily life with culture and creativity, giving a sense of calm while still feeling connected to the city’s energy.

Are there any particular spots that you especially enjoy visiting in Milan?

I’m constantly inspired by the cultural and design energy of Milan. Osservatorio Fondazione Prada is one of my favourite places in the city, together with Fondazione Prada itself. Both are essential destinations for anyone interested in contemporary art and avant-garde exhibitions that truly reflect Milan’s creative pulse.

I also love Triennale Milano, which beautifully connects design’s past and future through its collections and exhibitions. It’s a place that reminds me how deeply design is woven into the city’s identity. For a more personal discovery, I enjoy stopping by 10 Corso Como and Antonia. They both have that perfect mix of design, fashion, and atmosphere that makes Milan so unique.

Which are the restaurants, bars, and cafés that you most often visit in Milan?

For coffee and pastries, Marchesi is always my go-to. The atmosphere perfectly embodies Milanese tradition, and it’s one of those places where you can truly feel the city’s history while enjoying a beautiful espresso or a sweet treat. For a traditional meal, I always recommend Trattoria Masuelli.

It’s a family-run restaurant full of character, with interiors that reflect the elegance of a classic Milanese trattoria, complete with Gio Ponti chandeliers and original 1920s chairs. The cuisine is authentic and comforting, a real taste of Milan.

When it comes to aperitivo, Horto is my favourite. The rooftop overlooks the Galleria and the Duomo, making it a magical spot, especially in the warmer months. Bar Basso is another must, a true Milanese institution with a lively atmosphere that makes it the perfect place during Design Week.

If a friend or colleague is visiting, which hotel would you recommend?

I would recommend staying at the Four Seasons Hotel Milano. The interiors are a beautiful mix of historic charm and modern elegance, the service is impeccable, and the private garden courtyard provides a peaceful escape right in the heart of the city. It really captures the refined and understated elegance that Milan is known for.

What is the next step for Nilufar?

For Nilufar, the focus now is on staying curious, taking risks, and exploring new, uncharted territories. One concrete step is expanding the international presence of Nilufar Edition. After defining its language and vision, the goal is to bring it beyond the Depot, into homes and global platforms, sharing our curatorial voice more widely while staying true to quality and artistic intent.

At the same time, Nilufar will continue to balance its rich heritage with innovative design, maintaining a dynamic space for both unique pieces and cultural experiences. The journey is one of constant growth, always building bridges between the past, present, and future of design.

Addresses

Osservatorio Fondazione Prada, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, 20121

Fondazione Prada, L.go Isarco, 2, 20139

Triennale di Milano, Viale Emilio Alemagna, 6, 20121

Marchesi 1824, Via Santa Maria alla Porta, 11/a, 20123; Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, 20121; Via Monte Napoleone, 9, 20121

Trattoria Masuelli, Viale Umbria, 80, 20135

Horto, Via S. Protaso, 5, 20121

Bar Basso, Via Plinio, 39, 20129

Four Seasons Hotel Milano, Via Gesù, 6/8, 20121

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We arrived by ferry from Mallorca and were immediately struck by Menorca’s rural beauty. Across the island, there are low, rustic stone walls, parallel to the many narrow dirt roads found all over the island, at times creating the sensation of driving inside a maze. Olive trees grow in the wild and for hundreds of years, farmers have used wood from these trees to craft gates to their properties.

Ciutadella, one of the island’s two main towns and formerly the capital, has been inhabited for thousands of years. In 903, it was turned into a traditional Muslim medina but was conquered by the Kingdom of Aragon about 300 years later, leading James II of Mallorca to construct the walls surrounding the town. The obelisk on Plaça des Born is a memento of the 1558 raid by the Ottoman Empire, reminding the city’s inhabitants that island life is a vulnerable existence. Living on an island, especially one with a strategic geographical position, means running a constant risk of being invaded. Every year, in early July, a commemoration takes place of this event, called “the Year of Disaster”.

The War of the Spanish Succession resulted in the Kingdom of England gaining control of the island, and Menorca remained under English rule for a century. The international history of the island is still highly noticeable today, for example in the many Georgian style bow windows and watchtowers. Menorcan traditional cuisine still includes English pudding, and there are many local gin producers, while the local language features numerous anglicisms.

What to Do

Hauser & Wirth are represented in several different places around the world, each venue having its own distinct characteristics, reflecting local history and traditions. In Spain, they have two venues, one on Illa del Rei, a small island in the Mahón harbour (the world’s second largest natural harbour, after Pearl Harbor).

You reach the island by a small boat, departing from Mahón. Once on the island, remember to look up the timetable for when the boats are returning, but after you’ve sorted out the practicalities, the small island of art is yours to enjoy. You’ll find narrow, sandy beaches, a historic museum, art exhibitions, a shop selling local products, and a lovely restaurant.

The gardens are designed by Pier Oudolf, one of the most influential garden designers of our time, renowned for his pioneering approach to plating design. One of his most famous works is the High Line in New York, but also on Illa del Rei, many of his trademarks – a naturalistic style, recognized by his use of perennials and ornamental grasses – are evident. Weather permitting, find a place to sit outside, and enjoy the view of the boats passing by. Personally, I’m usually quite fast-paced when visiting art galleries, and I also don’t like to phlegmatically hang out by a lunch table for hours. If you’re like me, prone to restlessness but eager to enjoy the island, bring a swimsuit and a book.

Once back in Mahón, it’s a good idea to explore the town. Go to the rustic yet stylish oyster bar “Oysters Menorca”, a place with aa great wine selection and excellent oysters. The décor is lovely, and the service is both friendly and attentive. It was founded in 2020 by three friends, Benito Escale, Pol Castells, and Tobias Kruijssen, based on a shared passion for the sea. The trio’s interest in seafood is evident.

If you’re instead in the mood for shopping, visit Boba’s, that sells sandals, hats, and accessories, designed and made by hand by owner Llorenç Pons. His sandals and espadrilles are made completely from natural materials.

One of the most fascinating points of interest is La Mola Fortress, an impressive 19th-century fortress offering spectacular views of the port. The best time to visit is at sunset, when many people gather here to enjoy the natural spectacle.

Sal de Menorca

All over the world, salt has been used to keep food fresh over winter. It has been harvested from the seas and lakes, leading to the establishment of entire communities on surrounding shores. It adds taste and freshness to both food and drink, and regular exposure to salt will alter the way you experience taste (try eating potatoes for a few weeks without salt, to see how they really taste, you’ll be pleasantly surprised). The biblical expression “the salt of the earth” refers to a person or group of people of exceptional kindness, underscoring the mineral’s cultural significance.

“Sal de Menorca” is harvested at Salinas de la Concepción using traditional methods: Crystallized on the surface of the water, then harvested by hand, and subsequently dried in the sun. This salt is an entirely natural product, and the site is the last remaining salt producer on the island. The salt-making tradition of Menorca dates to the 14^th century, when a royal lieutenant declared that the collection of salt for personal use would be free on the island. A few centuries later, in 1713, the English established a naval base on Menorca, and to keep the food onboard fresh, the navy needed salt. At the time, there were four salt flats, all in the north of the island. Industrial salt production continued into the 20^th century, but due to competition with imported, cheaper salt, the Menorcan salt industry declined.

The salt flats at La Concepción are a nature reserve, inhabited by a great variety of plants and birds. Several plant species, such as salicornia, socarrell, and seagrass, have adapted to the harsh combination of wind, high salinity, rocky areas and wetlands. The salt flats also provide a perfect habitat for endemic birds and a safe wintering area for herons, flamingos, great cormorants and several species of ducks.

If you want to learn more about this artisanal way of harvesting salt, book a guided visit to the salt flats. The Salines de la Concepción is not a place easy to find, so make sure that you look up where you’re going beforehand. Their salt – light and ephemeral – comes in beautifully designed paper boxes, and is the best souvenir you can bring back from the island.

Lithica

Another place to visit is Lithica, a large, strange place, completely sculpted out of rock. This striking sculptural rock landscape, created out of disused quarries where marble limestone used to be extracted, represent the legacy of one of the island’s most ancient crafts: that of stonecutter. Over time, Menorcan stonecutters unintentionally created a fascinating landscape, simply by manually extracting, one by one, the stone needed for building the houses on the island.

The quarry was active from the 19^th until the late 20^th century, with the stone quarried by hand until 1960. It closed in 1994 and was then partially filled in and used as a market garden for many years, until the non-profit foundation Lithica transformed it into the cultural and recreational venue you see today.

You can stroll through its landscape of gardens, labyrinths, and carved rock. Towering vertical rock walls guarded by a stone totem create a stark yet fascinating contrast to the lush greenery, full of native flora and aromatic plants. Every summer, the quarries become a great open-air theatre, staging ballet, drama, and concerts against a stunning backdrop of limestone walls.

Where to Eat

When on an island, it’s unavoidable that you’ll be tempted to try the local seafood. Cap Roig in Mesquida is ideal for a light lunch. Sa Pedrera Des Pujol is a more refined dining experience, perfect if looking for something more upscale. Pintarroja, on the other hand, is more on the “creative” side.

A place that I had especially been looking forward to visiting was Son Blanc Farmhouse, known for their farm-to-table restaurant. Set over 130 hectares in a preserved and wild corner of the island, the restaurant (and hotel, with 14 rooms, created through a collaboration between architects and artisans) is based on the principle of regenerative agriculture, creating an ecosystem based on crop diversity, soil fertility, and sustainability. The produce of the farm is used as a foundation of Son Blanc’s focus on holistic health and wellbeing.

When we first turned off the main road, I thought that we had made a mistake. I had to double check the map, and several times, I compared our location with the instructions we had been given. I even got out of the car and walked around a bit, trying to find a sign, but when I edged the car closer to the gate, it magically (or rather, automatically) opened. The narrow road inside was long and winding, but eventually we arrived at the house that I recognized from the photos. We parked our car, and a woman, passing by, called out, “you’re now in another dimension!”. Perhaps that’s why the place is so difficult to find; it shouldn’t feel like just any other place, and so finding your way there needs to be a bit of a challenge.

The conscious use of stone, clay, wood, and textiles make visiting Son Blanc a tactile experience. On the day we visited, the sun was shining, and the skies were blue, so we decided to eat outside. We walked down to the pool bar area, where we were greeted by a woman who led us to a table under a large tree. The food was simple yet delicious, the ingredients in my salad picked in the farmhouse’s orchard, with lush rows of varied fruits, almond and lemon groves. There are gardens of vegetables and aromatic herbs, and farther away, two wild ravines are populated by endemic species and natural rock formations, crowned by pine and oak woods, providing scenic views of the sea.

Island Art

The Fundación Numa is based on the notion that art may hold a transformative potential. Housed in a beautiful white villa on the other side of the river from the old town, it’s one of the most interesting places to visit in Ciatudella. The best way I can describe it is that the art on display here is used as a tool of conveying a message of belonging and togetherness. It’s art and philosophy interconnected, or art

In the early 1800s, the prominent Oliver family built a magnificent mansion, today known as Ca n’Oliver and home to an engaging multimedia museum, devoted to Menorcan themes, illustrated by maps and decorative items dating back to the 18^th century. Its distinctive painted canvas ceilings and grand imperial staircases, with its wrought-iron banisters and mythological inspired mural, are the work of two 19^th-century Sicilian artists.

Galería Cayón was created by Adolfo Cayón in 2005 and opened its first venue in Mahón in 2018. The exhibition hall is located on the property of the old Cines Victoria – formerly the palace of the Baron of the Arenas and named after Queen Victoria Eugenie of Battenberg, as the space was built at the beginning of her reign. The cinemas were inaugurated in 1917, and were for decades an essential stop for Menorcans, who would travel from all over the island to enjoy the films shown here. Today, it houses a vast exhibition space, where modern art and artists regularly are displayed.

If you’re interested in something more exclusive, try visiting the Santa Clara Project, organised by artist Mario Antón and his partner Kenneth López. They recently purchased an ancient house in Mahón, which they have transformed into a very pleasant and welcoming space. Ask to see the couple’s art collection, and Antón’s triptychs in particular, inspired by antiques but with a contemporary twist, and made in his studio (which is also housed in the building).

Addresses

Hauser & Wirth, Diseminado Illa del Rei, S/N, 07700

Oysters Menorca, Carrer de Bastió, 7, 07703 Mahòn

La Mola Fortress, Carretera de la Mola, s/n, 07700 Mahón

Sal de Menorca, Ctra. Mao-Fornells Me7 Km20, 07740 Es Mercadal

Cap Roig, Carrer Gran de sa Mesquida, 13, 07701 Sa Mesquida

Sa Pedrera Des Pujol, Camí des Pujol, 14 Entrada por el Km.6 de la Carretera que va a Punta Prima, Camí des Pujol, 14, 07711 Sant Lluís

Son Blanc Farmhouse/ Finca son Blanc, Nou Camino de Son Blanc, 07730 Torre Soli Nou

Fundación Numa Espais de Cultura, Plaça Quintana de Mar, 07760 Ciutadella de Menorca

Ca n’Oliver, Carrer d’Anuncivay, 2, 07702 Mahón

Galería Cayón, Carrer de Sant Roc, 24, 07701 Mahón

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Through this closely guarded network of professionals, the value of the artwork could be guaranteed to the potential client, who was ensured that the artwork he wanted to buy was priced correctly. This is also how it was determined what was “art” and what wasn’t: If displayed in the right space and approved by the influential people in art, any object could be consecrated into a piece of art.

Through these types of strictly controlled interactions and collaborations, the art world thrived. This system still exists today, but because of social media, the foundation of the old world has been weakened, and its gatekeepers have lost a lot of their influence and control.

Today, artists can gain direct contact with potential clients all over the world, making the art critic (and to an extent, even the gallerist) irrelevant to both the artist and those buying art.

One of the artists who in recent years has become internationally famous thanks to social media – and particularly the image-driven Instagram – is Norwegian Håkon Anton Fagerås. He has gained attention thanks to his sculptures; seemingly soft pillows but made of hard marble.

We met him in Pietrasanta, where we first visited him in his studio before going to his house, which he shares with his partner, artist Gro Mukta Holter.

Can you tell us something about Pietrasanta? Even though the town itself is picturesque, I got a rather industrial impression when driving through the outskirts of town.

For centuries, the entire area has been dependent on the stone industry. Today, it’s much smaller than it used to be, but everyone who lives here still has a connection – a father or grandfather who’s worked as a stonemason, for example – to the industry. It’s difficult recruiting new people; not many young people are interested in the profession, and the local industry has lost out in the competition with low-wage countries. The marble is still quarried here, but shipped in large blocks to India and China, where labour is cheaper. In the past, the quality of the craftsmanship was more important, but now mechanical processing is prioritized, and that’s cheaper in China.

I’ve worked here since 1999. Marco Giannoni, who I collaborate a lot with, is a fourth-generation stonemason. The first time I came to the workshop, it was like entering a cathedral. During the first years, Marco taught me the craft. He usually works with many different contemporary artists. He does all the work for them. I’m actually the only artist personally working on site in the studio.

What does that mean?

Most artists don’t do their own stonework. They deliver a model or instructions to the stonemason, who then does the manual labour. It’s a craft that takes a long time to learn and financially speaking it doesn’t always make sense for artists to do it themselves, as it’s very time-consuming. But for me, it’s important to do the work myself, to have control over the result. Knowing that I made it with my own hands brings me joy and makes me feel proud.

I started working with marble because I wanted to work with the material, and so for me, it would be rather pointless if I asked others to do the work for me. It would take away the joy.

What does the collaboration look like between you and Marco?

He helps me find the material, and he cuts the big stones so that they’re the right size. He does a lot of the rough work, but he doesn’t do anything that affects the result.

How did you get interested in stonemasonry in the first place?

I had started working a little bit with sculpture in Norway, even before I came to Italy for the first time, in 1997, to attend a drawing workshop in Florence. There, I met a guy who worked in Pietrasanta, and he told me about the town’s rich history and craftsmanship. I went here to see it with my own eyes, and I was completely fascinated by what I found! I decided right away that this was what I want to do. Two years later I returned, and through a mutual acquaintance I met Marco. That’s how I started working in his studio.

It sounds incredibly easy, like you just seamlessly slipped into this job and working in place, in another country and using another language, without any obstacles.

Life is a series of coincidences. Previously, I had studied for a painter in Oslo and done some paintings, but honestly, I never made the conscious decision to become an artist. One thing led to another, and gradually I realized that I had become an artist. Normally, this is how I explain it: All children like to draw and make things, and even though I grew up, I just never quit doing that.

Do you work freely or are your works commission-based?

Both. Lately, quite a few of my marble pillows have been made on commission. The one that Marco is working on now is going to India – to one of the largest companies in the world – and this one [pointing to the one in front of us] is going to Chile, and a third one is going to South Korea, there it’ll be displayed in a gallery in Seoul.

I probably spend most of the time on my own work. Over the years, I’ve spent the most time on figures, by which I mean the human body. It’s only in recent years that I started doing things like this, like the pillows, which I’ve been working on for seven or eight years now. I enjoy working on sculptures that aren’t about anatomy, or that require me creating a resemblance to a person.

When depicting a body, proportions and similarity are very important. If the dimensions are off, people will immediately notice that something is wrong. It’s a process that requires a different thoroughness, and this leads to less creative freedom. Depicting statues that resemble human bodies is steeped in tradition, the finished result has to respect natural forms and shapes.

Throughout the history of marble in art, there have been very elevated motifs, like gods and goddesses, queens and kings. Marble’s role has been to manifest wealth and power. My way of approaching it has always been to instead make figures of ordinary people. I use family and friends for inspiration and place them in an everyday context. For example, over here is a sculpture of my bonus daughter.

I still see statues in quite traditional poses on the shelves?

What you’re looking at was made by Marco’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. The workshop has been in the family’s ownership for a long time. Until the 60s and 70s, the stonemasons of Pietrasanta worked mostly with the church, which meant that they made many saints. That was their livelihood.

The marble quarries in the mountains above Carrara and in Pietrasanta have been here since Antiquity. Because of these quarries, a vibrant stonemasonry industry has developed in the region, with many stonemason workshops in both towns. And because of these workshops, artists from all over the world have come here to work, so it’s a very international environment. But now it’s in decline; there’s a lack of interest in training to become a stonemason among the younger generations.

Marco is 58 years old, and he’s one of the younger stonemasons. Many are getting ready to retire. There are very few who are younger. And at the same time as there are fewer stonemasons, technology is developing, and the work is done with a robotic arm. Models are first scanned or made directly in the computer and milled out, and then only a little fine work remains at the end, to be done by hand. I think that a bit of the magic is lost when it’s made mechanically.

You also lose control over the result. Stonemasonry isn’t just a pure reproduction technique; many decisions are made during the process. If I had just put a model in the computer and then let a robot mill out the shape, I wouldn’t have been able to make all the decisions that I make while working with the marble. When using a robot, you distance yourself from the process, and the result reflects this, it becomes more mechanical.

If the goal is just to create a generic marble sculpture that looks a particular way, then robotic technology works well. But if the point is to create nuances and have a creative process, then you fail. Even your sense of joy and the pride you take in the final product disappears with the use of too much technology. If the result is created by a robot, everything is reduced to just being about business. The sense of artistic responsibility – thinking that I could have done this better, or that I did this quite well – also disappears, if I haven’t done the work myself.

I have a question that’s perhaps a bit ignorant: Isn’t marble a limited resource? How can they have quarried marble here for so many years, without running out?

There are enormous amounts of marble in the mountains. If you go up to Carrara, you’ll see marble quarries so large that the size is almost impossible to comprehend. The dilemma is that with current technology, enormous amounts are being extracted all the time, and marble isn’t a renewable resource. It’s cultural history but also natural destruction.

I think about this a lot, but something like 99.4 percent or so of all marble goes into architecture; bathrooms and kitchen counters and house facades. What is used in sculpture is a miniscule part. It’s a few leftover stones, really, insignificant in the wider context. So, I don’t feel guilty, but when I go up to Carrara and see these quarries – if you go there and then return after a couple of years, you won’t recognize yourself, you can only guess that there was once a mountain peak – I do think about the impact of the stone industry.

How do your clients find you?

I’ve been lucky. Since I was an art student, I’ve been able to make a living from this. And as the years have passed, I’ve learned how the game works, and more and more people have discovered that I exist. Today I have more orders than I have working hours. I sometimes do exhibitions, but marble is expensive to transport because of the weight, and so exhibitions come with a lot of logistics. Thus, I don’t exhibit as much as someone who makes paintings.

I reach a surprisingly large audience via Instagram. There’s a democratization occurring on social media, you reach an incredible number of people that you wouldn’t have come in contact with otherwise.

I didn’t understand that when I started, I just posted a few pictures to show what I do, but today it’s an important economic channel for me. It came as a surprise but has also given me a much larger international market, like Switzerland, Germany and Denmark, but also in the US for a period.

What is it that you like so much about the material?

What’s special about marble is the beauty in itself, the beauty of the material. The other thing, perhaps even more important, is the process, that I like that way of working. I like working with a craft, learning a craft and the challenge of constantly having to improve, to become better and better.

I only work with local stone. What’s special about the marble from here is that it has very small crystals. It’s very solid, which means that it’s durable, so you can do very detailed things, to a much greater extent than you can with other stones.

The stone sculptures that are made in Norway are often in granite and different types of Swedish stone, like diabase. It’s a completely different material and therefore requires a completely different way of working. The material of the stone dictates the expression. Marble gives greater freedom, which means that the limitations are more defined by my skills.

When I’m asked what it takes to work with marble, I usually answer “patience”. If you’re impatient, this is the wrong profession for you. It’s a little atypical today, when the world is more interested in instant results.

We leave the workshop and drive up to Håkon’s house, where he lives with his partner, Norwegian artist Gro Mukta Holter (and sometimes their children). She works with painting, graphics and drawing. Since 2019, the artist couple has divided their time between Oslo and Pietrasanta.

The villa, on a hillside above the city with a stunning view of the sea, is only a short drive from the more central area.

How did you find the house?

Håkon It was owned by a Dutch couple, who had grown very old, so they were very ready to sell. My impression was that they just wanted to get it sold. We arrived at the right moment; we wanted a new place to live and they wanted to leave.

Gro We were in the right place at the right time. We didn’t really plan on buying something this big.

Håkon We added an annex – it’s really more of a pool house, I guess – on the side of the house, but otherwise everything was already there. We haven’t done much structurally speaking.

Gro The previous owners had put a lot of care into the garden and chosen plants so that it would be nice and green all year round. In Oslo we don’t have a garden, just a terrace, so we’ve had to learn about gardening since we moved here.

Håkon In comparison, our place in Oslo is almost starting to feel a bit small. We don’t have our own house there, just an apartment. Here, we have so much space, both indoors and outdoors, and the impression of space is enhanced by the views and the vast sky.

What’s your life like here?

Gro We spend a lot of time at home, in the living room or out on the terrace. Before, when we rented an apartment in a more central part of Pietrasanta, we would go a lot more often, to the piazza for an aperitivo or dinner. It was easy to be spontaneous. But now, when we have this house, it’s so much more appealing to stay at home, even if we plan on going out, we often end up on the terrace.

For us, the house is a very good size, with three bedrooms, common areas and then the annex (or the pool house, if you prefer). We have a home office, where I can work, so neither of us is dependent on being in Oslo to work, which allows us to be here for extended periods of time. Also, I’m not too keen on the Norwegian winter, so I see us being here even more in the future.

We bought the house about two years ago, and we haven’t fully settled in or gotten organized. The first summer, all our friends and family wanted to come and visit, and we didn’t even have a washing machine installed, so the focus hasn’t really been on interior design, but more on socializing.

Håkon Now I feel like it’s starting to become more of a home, it feels cozy and personal. And thankfully, we could hire the same people who used to help out the former owners, so we didn’t need to look for new electricians or a new handyman.

Gro A home like this is a life project.

Håkon That’s true, you’re never really finished. When we were looking for something to buy, we weren’t entirely sure what kind of home we wanted, so we started looking at very different types of properties, everything from apartments in the city centre to houses a little farther out. The more we searched, the more we were drawn to the idea of living in a house.

Gro My main challenge at the moment is that I have to get better at Italian. I understand a lot but it’s difficult to speak, and the worst thing is understanding humour, it can take me a long time to understand a joke...!

Håkon I was young when I first came here, and then I worked close to a lot of Italians who don’t speak English, so for me it was easier, and I learned quickly. I focused a lot on that in the beginning, and now I’ve been here so much that it’s settled in. We have an ice cream parlour down here in the village, and Gro gets so many compliments because she’s so good at talking about ice cream!

Gro They say I have perfect pronunciation when I talk about ice cream [laughs]!

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