Italian in Spirit
Achille Salvagni
“In recent decades, the role of the interior designer has changed. In the past, the designer was an independent actor who set out to create his or her legacy. Today this skill is less practiced because more and more clients are dictating what they want in their homes, influenced by trends they see in magazines. This is a pressure cooker situation where there’s a constant need for instant gratification and unrealistic time restrictions being placed on projects, which, in turn, has led to an increase in the use of poor-quality items … There’s a need for greater quality and uniqueness; designers need either to make an effort to source more special, original works for their projects, or to take a risk and create their own pieces, designed and specified for a client.” — Achille Salvagni
The son of a Sicilian plasterer, Rosario Candela (1890-1953), designed the sort of grandiloquent apartment buildings that came to define the great residential neighbourhoods of Park and Fifth Avenues as well as the Upper Eastside, and in particular, Sutton Place. As was the case with many architects of the early twentieth century, Candela dealt in logic and rationalism, with some considering him to have been the most talented apartment-house planner that there ever was; indeed, there were few who knew more about layout, flow and sight lines and at 990 Fifth Avenue, for example, Candela had the developer map the path of the sun for an entire year just so that he could determine the best exposures for each apartment. Of course, it would be a disservice to suggest this was his only talent, as Candela played a large part in creating the sort of architectural romanticism that has come to define New York City on both stage and screen. At street level, akin to the grand Florentine houses of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with their stoic, rusticated façades, Candela’s buildings are modest, pared back, little more than sensitively detailed limestone boxes, their urns and friezes evoking half-forgotten memories of Italy; but when seen from afar, they project a certain drama and dynamism, in part as a result of their massing into terraced setbacks at higher stories, usually starting around the eleventh or twelfth floor, crowned by a penthouse water tower, evocative of the crenellated rooftops of Spanish citadels. The body of work he developed during the late 1920s, at a period when streamlined art moderne had firmly taken hold, might now seem familiar, but at the time it was wholly innovative. The towers of 770 and 778 Park and 834 and 1040 Fifth Avenue gave rise to the fantasy of what it means to live well in New York, defining the image and aesthetic of the affluent Upper Eastside as much as the skyscrapers of Wallstreet, or Emery Roth’s (1871-1948) twenty-seven story Renaissance Revival towers on Central Park West. It was an image jumped upon by Hollywood’s burgeoning film industry as part of the fantasy, glitz and glamour of Jazz-age city living. One might recall the famous scene in “Follow the Fleet” (1936) where Ginger Rogers (1911-1995) and Fred Astaire (1899-1987) dance on a terrace, high above the city, beneath an illuminated, Serge Roche-esque tower, which was directly inspired by Candela’s dreamlike Park Avenue skyline.
Candela was, himself, something of an enigma, and the mythology and intrigue surrounding his character is almost akin to that of his apartment buildings. An Italian immigrant, who graduated from the Columbia University School of Architecture in 1915, the story goes that he thought so highly of his innate god-given talents, that to protect himself from the prying, plagiaristic eyes of fellow classmates, he erected a velvet rope around his desk. Aside from the bravura, what is certain, is that very early on in his career Candela was taken up by a group of real estate developers, who recognising him as an architect of remarkable capability, tasked him with rebuilding Fifth and Park Avenues with all the pomp and circumstance of a latter-day Baron Haussmann (1809-1891). In less than a decade, from 1920-29, tree-lined boulevards, flanked by Belle Époque mansions were levelled and replaced by high-rise apartment thoroughfares — a symbolic transfer of power from the Gilded Age elite to a new breed of immigrant speculators. Academically speaking, American architectural critic Paul Goldberger (b. 1950) was the first to reference Candela’s work, in his 1979 book “The City Observed”, in which he describes the stone-clad towers of 770 and 778 Park Avenue as “great gateways to Central Park”. What separated Candela from his peers was an innate ability to plan beautifully proportioned apartments, that were not only convenient to use, but blending poetry and pragmatism, provided an elegant, artfully conceived backdrop to the mundanities of everyday life. He was, in essence, a master problem solver, and could create a variety of plans, whether they be single floor, duplex or triplex, in one building so that each seemed unique, and each room perfect, which is an exceptionally difficult thing to do when working around elevators and servicing. It should perhaps come as little surprise, that today, in a new gilded age, where a fresh brood of urban titans — like Iron Man, without the sense of civic duty — are increasingly keen on the anonymity of apartment living, Candela’s capacious pre-war buildings, like an elegant string of pearls dotted around the streets of Manhattan, still set the standard for luxury city living.
The breakfast room at the Templeton Crocker penthouse, designed by Jean Dunand, with Urishi lacquer panels scattered with stylised Japanese goldfish, photograph by Laurent-Sully Jaulmes/Consorts Jean Dunand
740 Park Avenue at 71st Street (1945), designed by Rosario Candela, photograph by Wurts Bros. Museum of the City of New York, Wurts Bros. Collection, gift of Richard Wurts
With such rapid and unrelenting development, ascetically inclined French decorator Jean-Michel Frank (1895-1941), having started out across the pond in Paris — imbuing the homes of myriad collectors with his particular brand of “luxe pauvre” — found himself increasingly in demand by a bevy of newly minted American plutocrats; with two of the most important projects of his illustrious, if not short-lived career being the Templeton Crocker Penthouse on San Francisco’s Russian Hill and the Rockefeller apartment at 810 Fifth Avenue. Charles Templeton Crocker (1884-1948), celebrated philanthropist, librettist, explorer and stratospherically wealthy heir to the Union Pacific Railroad fortune, travelled to Paris in 1928, with the sole aim of meeting leading proponents of the Art Deco style, including Frank, Pierre Legrain (1889-1929) and lacquer maître Jean Dunand (1877-1942). Somewhat extraordinarily, the capacious apartment comprised three entire rooms by Dunand, including a fantastical breakfast room (clad in glossy Urushi lacquer panels, depicting stylised Japanese goldfish, bubbles, and streaks of light, masterfully rendered in eggshell, all set against an inky black background), a bathroom by Legrain and dressing room by celebrated ensemblier Madame Lipska (1882-1889). The chief author of the apartment, however, was Frank. It caused something of a sensation, as the first large, luxurious apartment, decorated in cutting-edge art moderne, and was undoubtedly one of the most important interiors of the Art Deco era. Vogue magazine, in 1929, went so far as to declare it “perhaps the most beautiful apartment in the world”, with its writers enamoured by “the exotic use of unusual materials, [with] walls and furniture … of parchment and straw, tables of sharkskin, andirons of rock-crystal, [and] curtains of lacy woven steel like fairy coats of mail.” Following such rapturous reviews, it might come as little surprise that in the fall of 1939, Frank received a commission to decorate the New York apartment of one of the United States’ most legendary public figures — as immortalised in silkscreen by Pop Artist Andy Warhol (1928-1987) — businessman and politician Nelson Aldrich Rockefeller (1908-1979). The vast, thirty-room penthouse occupied the entire top three floors of a limestone-clad building designed by J.E.R Carpenter (1867-1932), an architect who, much to his chagrin, in large part, spent a career playing perpetual second fiddle to Candela. It was in essence Frank’s swan song, the last project he would complete before his untimely death, when in 1941, at the age of 46, in despair over his condition as an émigré Jewish artist, he threw himself from the upper floors of a Manhattan apartment building and ended his life.
770 Park Avenue apartment entrance (1930) designed by Rosario Candela, photograph by Wurts Bros. Museum of the City of New York, Wurts Bros. Collection, gift of Richard Wurts
The interior of the Rockefeller penthouse at 810 Fifth Avenue, with interiors by Jean-Michel Frank, with a Fernand Léger fireplace mural and carpet by Christian Bérard
The commission was somewhat unusual in that Rockefeller, perhaps with the ambition of becoming “le Bien-Aimé” of American industry, wanted to create interiors evocative of the elegant eighteenth-century Louis XV style — a period that proved a fountainhead of inspiration for the architects of the Rothschilds and Camondos et al — yet at the same time, avoiding obvious pastiche, with the hope of creating something unabashedly modern and in the spirit of the age. The finished result was an extraordinary Gesamtkunstwerk, bringing together classical and contemporary art, and masterfully negotiating the dichotomy of those two worlds. The mutual simpatico between Frank and Rockefeller came in part as a result of their shared passion for art and culture, which was almost spiritual in terms of an attraction to works from both the historical and contemporary canons that appealed on a profound and personal level, irrespective of style or epoch. One of the extraordinary, monumental fireplace murals that flanked the grand salon, “La Poésie (Le Chant)” (1938) by Henri Matisse (1869-1954), the other by Fernand Léger (1881-1955), was inspired by Rockefeller’s exceptional collection of Quing Dynasty Chinese porcelains, which the artist found himself drawn to when attending a supper at the couples home in December of 1930. Both Frank and Candela recognised that for a generation of urban titans, abandoning their mansions for luxury high-rises, they needed to be more than a status symbol or a gilded cage, and ought to feel and function like an opulent single-family home. So successful was the push for apartment living, that Banker C. Ledyard Blair’s (1867-1949) sprawling Louis XV revival mansion, opposite the Frick Collection, survived just twelve years before it was torn down to make way for a Candela-designed replacement at 2 East 70th Street, where the architect continued to push the definition and scope of luxury living in sky high mansions. The last decade has seen a wave of super-prime apartment buildings sprouting from the streets of Manhattan, and in particular, a series of glassy, banal towers along the Southern fringes of Central Park, designed, as New York Magazine’s architecture critic Justin Davidson (b. 1966) described as, for “people who think of the city as their private snow globe”. Of course, the trend for high-rise living isn’t restricted to the sort of characterless, glassy sky-needles, which, since the UN Building (1952), Lever House (1954) and the Seagram Tower (1958), have come to characterise corporate excess, but also neoclassical masonry-clad buildings, whereby the developers, presumably, are hoping to impart some of the solemnity and elegance of their twentieth-century forebears. It might come as little surprise that Italian-born London-based architect Achille Salvagni (b. 1970), for a recently completed townhouse on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, was not only influenced by Candela, but cites Frank as one of his key inspirations. We caught up at his London atelier, to discuss cannibals from Fiji, the New York art scene and the teahouse of Villa Albani Torlonia.
The Italian architect and designer Achille Salvagni, who takes inspiration from modern masters such as Gio Ponti, Paulo Buffa and Tomaso Buzzi, photograph by Lori Hawkins
You recently completed the renovation of a nineteenth-century seven-story townhouse on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, for which you took inspiration from the work of architect Piero Portaluppi, who most famously designed the elegant Villa Necchi Campiglio in Milan. Why Italian rationalism, as opposed to the local vernacular?
The details of the facade reference the apartment buildings of Rosario Candela on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I used the alphabet from local vernacular — but the poems are written in Italian. It’s the way I’m able to insert my stamp of provenance. Portaluppi embodies a certain eclectic rationalism, similar to that of Candela — he was working in the early twentieth century when the influence of Art Nouveau could still be seen in the architecture of buildings, particularly in Europe. Stylistically it was cleaner and drier but there were still ornamental flourishes in his wrought iron designs and in the details of facades; the elegance of his early work from the late 1920’s and ‘30s is timeless.
You’re obviously well known for your furniture collection, with galleries in London and New York; but do you prefer designing objects or interiors, and do the two feed into one another?
Designing objects allows me to control the entire process without a collector or client to please; I’m able to work out ideas in a more pure fashion. Interior design projects are akin to being a psychologist where I do a deep analysis of my clients, spending time discovering intimate parts of their souls. Interiors allow you to uncover the secret sides of people that are not often revealed. I love translating someone else’s wishes into reality. I interpret their needs through my vision, however, it has to fit their aesthetic. Designing objects is all about my vision without outside influence, and as such, allows me to explore and indulge my creativity. I’m not intimidated by a client’s fears or opinions and can push boundaries.
Going back to your recent townhouse, you employ a variety of materials, some more obvious, such as bronze, leather, mahogany and lacquer, and some less so, such as walls lined in “alpaca” metal, painted with a copper-nickel alloy and even gold-plated light fixtures. Would you say you have a particular penchant for experimentation, and if so, what’s next on the list?
I love to experiment in a similar way to great designers and architects of the past who tested themselves. With some of the lost arts I’ve explored — like working with parchment, playing with pigments, traditional bronze casting methods and metal alloys — I often feel more like an archaeologist or alchemist, rediscovering and reviving old ways of working and using them in new ways. It’s rewriting the same letter but with new words. I’m not looking to replicate the past — I want to make work that has its own message, that’s relevant to today’s lifestyle, whilst keeping the legacy of heritage arts alive.
You make abundant use of natural stones, such as pink Portuguese, black Belgian, Emperador and Sahara Noir, for everything from floors and furniture to stair risers and, in the primary suite, a tub hand carved from a single block of Paonazzo marble; but what do you think of issues of sustainability in terms of carbon footprint and the overall environmental impact, given methods of extraction are so resource intensive?
This is an issue I wrestle with within my practice. While I do prefer the quality and beauty of natural stones in the pieces we create, I source them from reputable contacts where I know the stones were removed from quarries a very long time ago — these are not materials being sourced today. I can make one or two pieces, at most, from the stone we source and that’s it. So we don’t go back looking for someone to source new stones to match. Also part of the appeal is the ultra durability of the stones we’re selecting. I like to think of pieces at Achille Salvagni Atelier as antiques of the future — you’re buying a legacy piece at this level.
Achille’s stand at PAD London, inspired by Bill Willis, an interior decorator often credited with re-popularising Moroccan design, and a blend of North African, Mediterranean, and Islamic styles
Your work is clearly influenced by twentieth-century design, but what is it about the era that you find so inspiring?
When I look at the sumptuous and modern furniture designs by twentieth-century masters like Gio Ponti, Paulo Buffa and Tomaso Buzzi their work embodies the essence of what it is to be Italian; paying respect to history, without being overwhelmed by it. They reserved the best elements of the past and were extremely refined and sophisticated in their approach, choice of materials and execution. The works created during this period were modern in their philosophy and traditional in their execution — inspired by history, but very much about the time in which they were created. Among the many lessons learned by studying this era, the notion that has stuck with me throughout my career is that to design for the future, you need to understand the past.
The other very powerful influence on my work that is a direct reflection of this era was the importance of the fluidity of line, and the importance of introducing softness and sensuality to a space. This was a distinguishing characteristic of the Italian architects and designers of the 1940s to 1960s. I believe they were influenced — in much the same way I was by my travels to Finland and Sweden — by Scandinavian modernists like Alvar Aalto, who softened and bent the lines of modern architecture. This is something that also resonates with me, it makes spaces feel more human and creates a sense of comfort and tranquillity. Our bodies are not rigid figures with corners, so we’re going to feel more comfortable in spaces that are slightly soft around the edges.
On that note, who are your favourite designers and why?
At the top of the list, I have great admiration for Jean-Michel Frank; he had an extraordinary and revolutionary mind. From Italy, the two that have had the most influence on my approach and practice are Portaluppi and Ponti. Each of them had an individual vision and both wanted to be respectful of genius loci wherever they worked there was concern and thought given to the local environment, for nature and vernacular materials. This was built into the DNA of their work. What I especially love about Ponti is that he was an architect, designer, collector and tastemaker; his work embraced a wide range of sophisticated “experiments” in everything from cutlery to urban master planning. All of it looks to the future but is also informed by an innate sensitivity to the past. I also love Aalto for his philosophical sense of softness — a true legend who has greatly impacted the beauty of the world with his architecture and design. Finally, there’s forward-thinking French designer Pierre Paulin; he had this innate ability to tap into the mood and spirit of the 1960s and ‘70s and translate it into furniture designs. He introduced low profile, sinuous style, eclectic and sculptural pieces that are still influencing designers and collectors today.
You’ve been described as a proponent of “understated luxury”, a term inherently bound up in ideas of “stealth wealth” and “old money”, which, of course, means very different things to different people, from the understated, antique-strewn work of Jed Johnson, Jacques Grange and François-Joseph Graf, to the more high wattage interiors of Peter Marino. As a design style, what does it mean to you, and is it something you strive for?
I hate the word luxury. I strive to create understated, pared-back elegance — environments that are timeless. Luxury is defined as a state of great comfort or elegance, especially when involving great expense. With the increasing number of products labelled “luxury” the word’s meaning has lost some of its luster. The general concept is that luxury is closely associated with richness. When I design I don’t necessarily need rich or expensive materials to create interiors. That doesn’t mean I don’t use them — however, it’s more about how I go about using them; I assess what might look best, or unexpected, and make a decision based on that.
Motor Yacht Endeavour, designed by Achille Salvagni, looking through to the living and dining room, photograph by Paolo Petrignani
The spectacular winding staircase of an Upper East Side townhouse, designed by Salvagni, with French-polished mahogany railings, hand-cut steps and pink Portuguese marble risers, photograph by Stephen Kent Johnson
In terms of personal style, you’ve said you “love the idea of not being too serious”, for example, wearing a pair of Nike trainers with tailoring, citing as inspiration Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni — but is it a mantra that translates into your design work?
I think life is so serious that to be ironic in some way takes on more importance. Treating whatever you do — be it designing a product or an interior — with an ironic perspective pushes you to fulfil the experience holistically, emotionally, practically and aesthetically. Irony is the only way to be considered serious. The more ironic we are, the less we take ourselves seriously and the better our work will be. I play this game with my design; create a crack in the expected, break the rules, purposely have imbalance. With interiors you have to create an element that disturbs or disrupts, it makes the project human. I embrace it, an accident that turns the project into something unexpected — the human factor can be transformative.
Your recent stand at PAD London was inspired by Bill Willis, an interior decorator often credited with re-popularising Moroccan design, and a blend of North African, Mediterranean, and Islamic styles, and last year, Jean-Michel Frank’s now iconic Rockefeller apartment. How do you settle on a scheme, and do you think a strong mise-en-scène — as opposed to, say, displaying pieces against blank walls — is important when showing at such prestigious fairs?
I’ve always been driven by narrative. Narrative is where gesture takes action. Without an environment, the message of the piece could lose some of its power. Recently I went to the Museo del Prado in Madrid and spent thirty minutes standing in front of “The Washing of the Feet” by Tintoretto, a painting that surprises me for many different reasons. To look at and admire this painting was a unique experience for me — but at the same time, I lost sight of the original message the artist intended. The environment in which you display a piece of art is part of the narrative and how you receive it. Contextualisation helps the viewer read the piece as it was intended. When I create a narrative and build out my vision for how I want to display a group of works, it allows me to go much further than if I were to simply show the works in an empty white box.
Since the likes of Alexandre Noll, Georges Jouve, Diego Giacometti and Wendell Castle, whose work blurred the boundaries between fine and decorative arts, galleries began to reassess what was, in essence, a somewhat arbitrary distinction, displaying furniture, for example, alongside painted works by Bacon and Picasso. Your furniture has been referred to as “sculptural” and, apropos craftsmanship, “museum quality”, but how do you see it in terms of the art historical canon?
Design is a gesture, an experience of a practical function. When the aesthetic gesture exceeds all the practicality and comfort it blurs into an artistic manifesto. I strongly believe in the power of design; however, it’s design that keeps alive all the practical and functional aspects, not denying the aesthetics and pleasure of living surrounded by beautiful and well-crafted objects.
You were born and raised in Rome, which, since my first visit as an undergraduate studying architecture, I immediately fell in love with. But what is it about the city that so many people find so incredibly captivating, and, for that matter, why did you leave?
I still have an apartment in Rome and I do spend quite a lot of time there, meeting with my team, reviewing projects and visiting craftsmen at the atelier. Rome is part of my DNA and my heart and it always will be no matter where I travel to or where I live. I moved to London, primarily, for practical work reasons so that I could meet more easily with an international clientele. Based on the launch of the Mayfair gallery the decision was the right one. I would never have been in the position to meet some of my clients and have had the opportunity to design some incredible residences had I not been in London. What’s captivating about Rome is the sense of history that continues to live on. People always associate Rome with being an open-air museum; but I think of it as the highest example of a city, with layers of history, and still very much alive.
In an ever-changing world, what are the biggest problems facing today’s designers, and indeed for that matter, the industry at large?
The level of worldwide consumerism that’s been normalized in our culture has dramatically impacted the design industry on many levels … [continued]
… The rise of furniture brands that mass-produce products at lightning speed, paying low wages to meet consumer demand for trend-driven low-cost furniture; creating an industry burdened with questionable socioeconomic and environmental impacts. It’s also an industry that prioritises profit over originality, quality, durability and creative ingenuity. Designers need to be part of the solution, educating and helping shift client and consumer behaviour to appreciate how things are made and as such, to acquire items that have meaning and value that are made to last.
In recent decades, the role of the interior designer has changed. In the past, the designer was an independent actor who set out to create his or her legacy. Today this skill is less practiced because more and more clients are dictating what they want in their homes, influenced by trends they see in magazines. This is a pressure cooker situation where there’s a constant need for instant gratification and unrealistic time restrictions being placed on projects, which, in turn, has led to an increase in the use of poor-quality items. As a whole, designers haven’t been trained to create and generate their own pieces, working with artisan workshops as they did in the past; today, there’s more of a tendency to collect and group together other people’s work. There’s a need for greater quality and uniqueness; designers need either to make an effort to source more special, original works for their projects, or to take a risk and create their own pieces, designed and specified for a client.
What was the first important piece of art or design you ever owned?
For my eighteenth birthday, my father Gaetano gave me a drawing by Mino Maccari, a Tuscan painter from the 1940s; which at university was the last thing I saw before going to bed at night. The drawing was typical of Maccari’s acclaimed satirical work that lampooned twentieth-century Italian politics and society, particularly fascism, with savage humour. The first piece I acquired for myself was a chair designed by Italian architect Carlo Mollino that I purchased in a gallery near Campo de’ Fiori in Rome — the splurge I bought with my first pay-check. I still have both of these items in my home.
An object you would never part with?
The Gold Medal of Valor that my grandfather Achille received for his heroic acts during the First World War. He was skilled at Morse Code and when he entered the Italian army because of his knowledge he was responsible for all the communications equipment. His military unit dug out trenches on the border between Italy and Austria — they were attacked by enemy soldiers and had to retreat. My Grandfather, acting alone, snuck back into the trenches to recover the radio equipment. This allowed him to send Morse Code messages reporting their location and saved the lives of his battalion. Taking his name is a real honour. I keep his medal with me always, wherever I am.
What was the last thing you bought and loved?
A work by the Japanese artist, Makoto Ofune. His dark blue-black monochromatic richly textured paintings appeal to me the most. Ofune creates his works by applying layers and layers of natural pigment made from powdered minerals and gemstones that are applied to handmade Japanese hemp paper. His works have this incredible three-dimensional perspective; steeped in history, yet utterly contemporary. I’m fascinated by the extreme, dramatic gestures in his artistic poetry and I was thrilled to meet him in my booth at PAD London last year.
What would you like to own that you currently don’t possess?
One of Alberto Burri’s red plastic cellotex and vinyl works. In his exploration of combustion, there’s so much ingenuity to appreciate in the way he manipulated and transformed the red plastic surface by fire to reach his desired effect. The final compositions, blackened and burnished, display volcanic craters, immortalizing fire’s primordial power. With the extreme volume of consumer products, I love the notion of coveting something that goes back to the creation of the earth — explosions, fire and hot lava flowing from volcanoes.
What’s the best gift you’ve been given?
To give you an idea, my mother told me when I was three years old I went to sleep with a hammer and screwdriver under my pillow at night. So for my eighth birthday, my parents gave me a workbench and tools so I could learn how to build chairs, tables, cabinets etc. It was a really special gift! I was cutting wood, doing joinery, and finishing pieces by hand. It was a foundation in design — igniting and feeding my creativity.
An Upper East Side townhouse, designed by Achille Salvagni, pictured, the second-floor landing, with fluted walls and a table from a 1950s Milanese tailor’s workshop, photograph by Stephen Kent Johnson
The reading room of an Upper East Side townhouse designed by Italian architect Achille Salvagni, photograph by Stephen Kent Johnson
What’s your biggest extravagance?
Taking time every summer for a sailing trip, starting in Rome and discovering new destinations; a detox from all the rushing around that takes place throughout the year. It’s all about slowing down and appreciating the small things, instead of packing it all in. I’m more interested in quietly watching the dawn unfold, taking in the sunrise and sunset; the still unfolding of clouds and colour; a mountain silhouetted against golden blues. It’s the perfect measure of comfort and self-indulgence — and provides some much-needed balance.
What’s your biggest regret?
I try not to have regrets and avoid the mindset of “should have done”. Instead, I prefer to modify my future actions and change my behaviour so I’m more open to possibilities and can take advantage of opportunities when they’re presented to me. Regret is one way in which doubt makes you believe life could have gone in a different direction. You can redirect the compass to the “right” route — then later regret you’ve chosen the wrong path — it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy and doesn’t serve anyone well.
Where’s the most unforgettable place you’ve travelled?
Patagonia! I went there on a trip with some friends in my twenties. I was amazed, moved really, by the power of nature to take you to completely opposing environments in just a short space of time; from the incredible colours of the desert to glaciers in the most unreal shade of blue water. As we approached the South Pole, in small, two-man canoes, whales were jumping up out of the water next to us. It was incredibly impactful to see nature unspoiled. Something like this is once in a lifetime and stays with you forever.
Where would you like to go next?
On Safari in Botswana to get up close to wildlife. I’m utterly fascinated by the natural world and seeing wild animals in their habitat. The other destination on my list is Tibet. I love the consistency and beautiful teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. The country, the Tibetan culture and the way of life are so closely linked. It intrigues me for its aesthetic, philosophy, and sophistication — and in particular, the emphasis on purity in every aspect of day-to-day life. I’d like to spend a few weeks there, touring the alpine region with a sherpa and a donkey; exploring and walking around the ancient villages and meeting the monks. To be able to witness pilgrims worshipping at Jokhang Temple or to visit the lakes considered holy by the Tibetan people, like Manasarovar, Yamdrok and Namtso. I know it would be a transformative experience.
What’s the best souvenir you’ve bought home?
On my honeymoon, my wife and I purchased an original photo of the last two cannibals from Fiji in the nineteenth century. In the photo, one of them is wearing a necklace of bones and it turns out that one of the men is Udre Udre, a Fijian chief who is believed to have eaten up to 999 people in his life. He made it into the Guinness Book of World Records as the most prolific cannibal of all time. While of course, that fact alone is quite horrific, we found them oddly fascinating. This photo sits on top of a chest in our bedroom in Rome where it has been for many years. After returning from a trip, my wife once said to me, “When I see the two cannibals, I feel at home”— so the picture is a sort of testament to our long-lasting relationship.
Tell us about a recent “find”.
The River Café in Hammersmith is a culinary rediscovery for me after dining there with friends a few months back. It’s top of my list for when I want a perfectly cooked meal or to walk into a place that’s easygoing. The food is sublime and the atmosphere of the dining room — simple, clean-lined, emphasising space and light, with these marvellous splashes of fuchsia pink and cobalt blue — captures the soul and philosophy of the late architect Sir Richard Rogers [who designed the interiors with Stuart Forbes]. It’s one of the few restaurants in London where top culinary talents cook the best simple seasonal Tuscan dishes. I once read that from its inception, Rogers insisted that the tables be covered in white paper allowing architects from his firm to sketch while they were having lunch. I only met him only once, but feel we’re kindred spirits. He spent a great deal of time in Rome before returning to London and his time there had an impact on his work — and for me, having grown up in Rome, living and working in London, it’s always a presence.
If you didn’t live in London, where would you live?
I’m in New York about once a month to work with clients and to visit the Madison Avenue gallery, so after getting to know the city so well, I could easily see myself living there. The level of energy is like no other place in the world, from downtown to uptown, East to West. I love walking around the Upper East Side and Tribeca as there’s a mix of architecture, where grand buildings of the Gilded Age are juxtaposed against contemporary design. I always stay at the Mark Hotel —which has become something of a second home for me — and the service is impeccable. Sant Ambroeus on Madison Avenue is my favourite place for breakfasts and they make the perfect espresso. Cafe Carlyle is classic Upper East Side and offers the perfect New York experience. Then Majorelle at the Lowell Hotel is a great choice for dinner; an authentic taste of Paris, with dishes executed to perfection … [continued]
… The Frick Collection, Gagosian, Pace, Zwirner and Neue Galerie are all worth a visit, and of course, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I could spend days wandering the halls. And for book lovers, there’s Dashwood, McNally Jackson and Albertine at the French Embassy.
If you had to limit your shopping to one neighbourhood, in one city, which would you choose?
Jermyn Street in the centre of London’s St James is by far one of the best and most interesting places to shop. It’s like a different world, with all the heritage brands, proudly displaying Royal Warrants in their windows. You have the highest quality in British menswear in terms of craftsmanship and artistry, it’s the epitome of quintessential elegance; for shirtmakers, there’s Turnbull & Asser, shoemakers, Edward Green and Foster & Son, and for fine leather goods, Swaine Adeney Brigg. Even if you’re not shopping, it’s a feast for the eyes — there are brands there that can’t be found anywhere else in the world.
What’s your favourite room in your apartment?
I really enjoy spending time in the winter garden of my apartment in Rome. It’s in the Coppedé neighbourhood facing the teahouse of Villa Albani Torlonia, a vast architectural complex dating back to 1747. The dimensions of the window are large and let you breathe and take in the view. I always have this strong sensation as I gaze out the window of how history melts into the city’s sights and I can really feel my roots. I have a leather desk designed by Jacques Adnet that I purchased at Christie’s in London many years ago. It’s the perfect perch for me to work on my laptop; a quiet refuge that allows me to focus on my thoughts and projects. What’s equally wonderful is that when I want to take a break or when I’ve finished work for the day, I can easily join my wife and family.
What’s the best book you’ve read in the past year?
“À la recherche du temps perdu” (In Search of Lost Time, 1913-1927) by Marcel Proust; which inspired Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé’s interiors at Château Gabriel, the villa they purchased and commissioned Jacques Grange to decorate. I found it incredibly intriguing that these two very cultured individuals were so drawn to this book that they wanted to live within the pages so to speak. I came across this reference in an article and that was the catalyst for my reading the book.
What would you do if you didn’t work in design?
I could easily see myself as an archaeologist. I can’t think of anything more fascinating than to be on the edge of discovery. I’m a real history buff. It’s the most beautiful and informed way to think about the new world.
What ambition do you still have?
To create harmony. It’s something I strive for with everything I do.
What’s the greatest challenge of our time?
In this age of conspicuous consumption, display, and extravagance, we’re living in a world order that’s lost sight of what it means to have good taste and to be true to ourselves. There’s a whole culture that lives online, caught up in following trends and people that are in no way enriching their lives. I try to educate people whenever possible about good taste being about the ability to evaluate quality and balance — and it’s being tied to aesthetic value. Good taste has very little to do with being flashy or expensive. A well-lived life is about being surrounded by good things which can often be quite simple and banal. It’s important to create balance in the chaos of life. If people create an aesthetically pleasing environment they will learn more about themselves and what they like. It’s a way to get back to being more authentic.
I’ve found people today are very resistant to getting out of their comfort zones, if they were to try something new — from something as simple as wearing a new colour, to reading a book, or visiting a museum or gallery, they might be surprised to learn what really appeals to them. Our lives can easily be filled with unnecessary excess, which in turn can result in loud and often competing statements and instead we should strive for harmony and refinement. These principles are the anchors to creating a life, a space, a look that’s sophisticated, confident, and inspiring. In our fast-paced, instantaneous world, the fine art of communication and patience are getting lost. Good taste is something developed over time — it’s a journey. Each new experience, person we talk to, or new style explored, brings the opportunity to refine our taste further. Eventually, good taste will become an intrinsic part of a person’s personality and broaden the way in which they see the world.
What’s next?
I’ve been tapped to create and design the first new five-star Italian hotel brand. The first will open in Cortina d’ Ampezzo in the Italian Alps in Spring 2025, just in time for the Winter Olympics in February 2026. This will be followed by the opening of an exclusive fifteen-room all-suite bespoke hotel in Rome. I’m also designing four new superyachts, which will certainly keep me busy as each is being built by four different shipyards in three different countries.