Martino Gamper. All Channels Personal

E. K.

Did you do anything for the furniture fair in Milan this year?

M. G.

I made one chair for Nina Yashar at Nilufar Gallery. She is doing a project called Unlimited, where the production of objects won’t be limited in any way. I like the idea of doing one-offs and then pieces with unlimited production, with nothing in between.

E. K.

Do you feel you have to visit the fair these days?

M. G.

Not so much, to be honest. It’s still useful for meeting people from the industry, but it’s not really a place for inspiration. People think it’s important to see the newest things, but by the time they’ve caught on to something in Milan, it’s already been done over and over.

E. K.

Has the fair become slower to pick up on what’s going on?

M. G.

The fair has actually become much faster in picking up trends, but maybe more like the fashion world does, Milan being one of the big fashion cities, as well.

E. K.

So where is a place to get inspiration, for you personally? And where would you go to see truly new design, if not Milan?

M. G.

Milan is actually a place to see truly new design, and it’s good to see what people are doing, but I think that inspiration in design doesn’t necessarily have to come from design; there are so many references in culture and other areas. Milan and its surroundings have a great history as the centre for design production and presentation. Milan is the show town, a museum where you can see the past, but the real stuff in Italy happens in what the Milanese call the hinterland, the zone industriali e artigianali up and down the country. They are pockets of small- to medium-sized businesses, mostly family-run, and it was these entrepreneurs that shaped Italian post-war design as we know it now. Most of these companies are still running, some in their second or third generation. Some of them still have the same attitude of combining ideas with manufacturing, but others have lost that in the transition between generations. In terms of inspirational places, it’s the places that are on the fringe, like Belgrade and Istanbul, or New Zealand, that I’m interested in.

E. K.

The Salone in Milan is still hugely important for design, in terms of business and marketing—but as fairs go, it’s often a surprisingly unpleasant and loveless way of displaying design. What would be your ideal way of presenting your work, if you didn’t rely on the conventions of the industry?

M. G.

I mostly show my work in site-specific situations; the fair is purely to show projects that have come out of collaborations with the design industry. And this can also be the most honest place to show a product. At the end of the day, it’s not just a place for showing work, but also a marketplace. But what is really lacking for me are exhibitions. There are lots of products, lots of objects, but very few design exhibitions that are really curated. I’m less interested in seeing a singular work, placed out of context.

E. K.

I find that design exhibitions can sometimes feel slightly awkward or flawed: Unlike art, design is made for use in life. Do exhibitions of design make sense?

M. G.

I think there is a difference between exhibitions for representational purpose, like fairs and showrooms displaying new ideas. They can be seen more as a lifestyle presentation within the structure of marketing, with a very clear focus on promoting products. But this also needs people who can curate it in terms of imagery and context. And there is design as a cultural idea, very much as a question: the question of how we live, what surrounds us, the different ways objects can relate to the user and to our behaviour… And this very much needs curating in a wider cultural sense. It needs contextualisation and narration.

E. K.

Is Unlimited a way for Nina Yashar to bridge the world of the design gallery and mass production?

M. G.

Yes, I’ve never been really interested in the in-between. Most of my work is one or the other: either a very one-off, handcrafted object with its own narrative or a mass-produced product. I don’t have a problem with mass-production; it’s not evil in and of itself. I think it depends on how you do it and who you are working with. The chair you’re sitting on now is mass-produced; we made it for Magis. Yesterday, we had our first royalty cheque for that chair. I guess it’s the day every designer waits for. First, you wait for a product to be produced on an industrial level, then for seeing it exhibited, then in someone’s home and finally at some point you want to see some kind of reward for all this work, as in: being paid.

E. K.

How much was it in this case?

M. G.

It was ￡1000.

E. K.

Did you get an advance from the company for the design?

M. G.

No. Basically, the cheque is paying for the last three years of work!

E. K.

But Magis is a nice company to work for, isn’t it? Do they pay attention to detail?

M. G.

Yes, they keep talking about everything—the details, the colours. They are very independent as a company; they don’t even have to talk to their sales department. When they have to take a decision, they decide on the spot, there and then—quite an Italian way of common intuition, which makes them good to work for. The owner, Eugenio Perazza—he’s quite a character.

E. K.

There is often a feeling in the design world that unless you have made a significant mass-produced object, you’re not a “real” designer. Do you ever sense that?

M. G.

Not really, but I guess many young people hope to make a lot of money that way.

E. K.

But very few designers manage that. Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec maybe, and Konstantin Grcic. And Jasper Morrison, of course.

M. G.

Yes, if I had to live on what I made from manufactured products, I couldn’t even pay my rent. Industry commissions are great, but you have to be realistic.

E. K.

I always wonder how many of the products you see in Milan actually take off. The idea of the designer working for industry, putting out a steady stream of products, was probably a short-lived late 20th century model—with heroes such as Achille Castiglioni or Vico Magistretti. As a way of working, it probably didn’t exist for very long.

M. G.

Probably, yes. And most of those Italian designers were actually struggling architects who had to find other work. I never got such a kick out of seeing my work in multiple iterations. It’s more rewarding to me to be able to see small pockets of my work in interesting homes or places.

E. K.

Is that a way of saying that you are more interested in the concept or the idea than the actual product? Would it be enough for you to think through an interesting idea without actually realising it?

M. G.

I don’t mind the product, but the reproduction and the fact that I can see my stuff in public is not something that I’m particular drawn to. But I like to realise objects; I like to develop them and to find my own way of doing it.

E. K.

Doesn’t it bother you that coverage in the design press might make your work seem a bit inaccessible?

M. G.

Yes. I still haven’t managed to completely get my head around this concept of “design for everyone”. I mean, the Magis chair is out there and it costs ￡170. And my book’s out there; it cost £13.50. That seems accessible to me.

E. K.

But what are we calling accessible? There is a lot of industrially produced furniture that is still very expensive.

M. G.

You have to work out what you are basing your assumptions on. Who is your audience and what do you imagine that they can or are willing to spend on furniture? Are we talking about people who go to Habitat or people who don’t think they can afford Habitat, and are probably not interested in this conversation at all?

E. K.

Yes, I imagine whether or not they can afford a nice sofa is quite far down the list of concerns for many people.

M. G.

Probably most people are more concerned with whether they can afford a flat-screen telly. Should you be basing your design decisions on being accessible to someone who really doesn’t care? I might be completely wrong, but I believe anyone with a job—whatever “a job” means nowadays—could afford in his lifetime to buy a chair that costs￡250. It is all about priorities, isn’t it? These people could buy themselves a well-made chair—a chair that their children could inherit. I once asked my aunt about a piece of furniture that she and my uncle had in their house, an old, traditional Alpine cupboard. It was very fine piece; you could see that straight away. She told me that the local carpenter had made it and that it was very expensive—it had cost my uncle more than a cow. That would have been the equivalent of, say, ￡2.000 today. My uncle had saved for it because he really wanted a piece of furniture in his house. Obviously, people have to make ends meet, but there is also the question of what’s important to you.

E. K.

Personally, what indulgence would you save up for?

M. G.

A very nice and rare chair.

E. K.

Many people consider the design world somewhat elitist, but what you are actually saying is that this is not by choice, but because, in a way, people don’t care enough. Which is odd because, whether you like it or not, design is part of everyone’s life, all the time and everywhere. Why do you think it is that most people pay so little attention to it?

M. G.

We designers are quite obsessed with visual details, but most people care more about what they wear or their look rather than what they live with. It’s surprising when you go to the homes of people who don’t have anything to do with design, but are still very creative; musicians and actors, for instance. Those houses don’t look at all interesting because they are for living in, not for aesthetic display. Fig. 3

E. K.

I think because of Ikea people have lost the sense that furniture is something worth spending money on.

M. G.

When I am making one-off pieces, I have to pay the gallery a commission and also pay for someone to assist me, so I have to cover my overhead by charging a certain price. For me, that’s quite obvious. On the other hand, I am interested in producing things that pretty much anyone could afford.

E. K.

But surely you must find a phenomenon like Ikea and the philosophy behind it offensive?

M. G.

I actually don’t have a problem with its initial philosophy. When Ingvar Kamprad started it back in the day, it seemed to be a new way of looking at and thinking about furniture. It was a very clear and simple idea, with a very strong, design-led approach. One starts with the marketplace and the way you sell an item rather than starting with a product. And Ikea is not the only one. Muji, for example, is a company that was started based on a similar concept and they seem to be successful. I think it is quite important to know where you belong and within what framework you want to create ideas. Do you want to work for a company like Ikea that aims to sell the whole world objects that one could define as almost disposable or short-lived design, at a price that is way below its real price? But why should the value of a chair be less than ￡50 if we only are ever going to use six to ten chairs in our lifetime? It means that almost everyone with a job can afford to buy a chair a week! Of course, we don’t need that many chairs… It’s quite inflated. But it is the result of what a market does: mass-produced items that are omnipresent, the “McDonald’s effect” in design—fast furniture for the nation. But this also opens up other possibilities for a design that is more individualistic, as many people do want something of better quality that has personal meaning.

E. K.

Your work always has this very personal element to it. Is that something you can preserve in mass-production?

M. G.

When I left the Royal College of Art, I decided to create a fewer objects with more of a story for more money. I just didn’t see myself going down the mass-market side of design. It is quite difficult to retain this personal touch in a mass-produced item. But you can, by including more personal elements: little details to show that someone has thought about material, sensitivity, and functionality. And you can also “misuse” industrial manufacturing processes to achieve a more personal effect.

E. K.

Is your personal relationship to an object of yours that has been mass-produced different from single chairs that you actually built by hand?

M. G.

The two have a different manufacturing process, but even though a mass-produced object is manufactured industrially, it still has a very hands-on approach originally. Fig. 4 In its development stage, I try to work in the same way I do with one-off pieces. I work with my hands, but also with other tools, like CAD and other digital applications.

E. K.

How do you think your products when they are finished? Could it be compared to, say, a writer who has a special relationship with his characters as if they were real people?

M. G.

I try to work on different levels at once, sometimes playing them against each other: conceptual versus practical, personal challenge versus narration, aesthetics versus functionality, material versus process, overall appearance versus detail or content versus context. But this changes during the process; it’s a constant struggle between the inside and the outside. Inhalt, or content, versus Form. I have a very personal relationship with the finished objects, since I have mostly crafted them myself. There are always many little stories that take place while I am making them, so they are very much like characters for me. Especially when working with found and reclaimed material, every detail of patina and reminiscence of its past plays part in that.

E. K.

Is the Magis chair your only mass-produced piece of furniture?

M. G.

Apart from the Sessel Chair for Established & Sons, which never sold very well. Oh, and of course the Arnold Circus Stools and the books.

E. K.

Oh, yes, of course, the Arnold Circus Stools, which are everywhere. I think I saw them in an estate agent’s office the other day.

M. G.

Yes, they’re selling unbelievably well. It took three or four years for them to catch on, but now I have a friend of mine, Momoko, working one day a week to run our little online shop that we sell them through. We just sold 80 to the Hayward Gallery for the café. Now we have a new one called Victoria. We designed it as street furniture for a project last summer that creates a link between Victoria Park and Olympic Park. They called it Park to Park, but we called it Bench to Bench. The idea is that you mark the route with benches—as you arrive at each bench you can spot the next one.

E. K.

What are the benches made of?

M. G.

A wood and plastic composite, steel and recycled timber.

E. K.

So that’s the shape of the new Victoria Stool, next to the bench. But it’s concrete, not plastic.

M. G.

Yes, basically the stools turned out to be like that because we had to make moulds to cast the concrete.

E. K.

So it’s a kind of side project?

M. G.

Yes, we made two things from one.

E. K.

Why do the benches have these curved shapes?

M. G.

We did some research into all the different kinds of silhouettes you can find in London’s benches, and we took different elements from each one and used them as negative and positive shapes. It’s as you have the cookie and its leftover when you cut the cookie out.

E. K.

What kind of response have you had?

M. G.

We had really good feedback from some people. Whenever I go down there, I see people using them. There’s a guy who owns a garage. At first, he was very negative towards us because we made it impossible to park cars outside his business, but now he’s very happy and he really takes care of the benches because we transformed the space in front of his garage from a trash heap to a space where people want to hang out. There’s been a bit of graffiti, which wasn’t that bad. We thought it was going to be worse, to be honest. It is Hackney Wick, after all!

E. K.

Did you enjoy working with the urban community in this way?

M. G.

Yes, it is definitely something that I think I will further develop in the next ten or twenty years. I’ve always found it interesting, but I have to say that, after this experience, I will be quite careful about how many commissioners I will be working with. There were two councils involved and a government development agency, as well as the engineering company—that’s a lot of chiefs.

E. K.

What kind of concerns did they have?

M. G.

All kinds: safety, aesthetics, location. But it was a good experience and it actually did work out in the end. I met with some open ears in the council, some really interesting people that I stayed in touch with. We had to get structural engineers involved, but once you show them that you’ve taken care of all these issues, they’re actually quite okay.

E. K.

What was the most important element of the project from your perspective?

M. G.

For me, it was important to find places where I imagined there could be activity in the future, places where people might actually sit down. It was also about defining the street, as the street can be defined by buildings, or be defined by shops, but it can also be defined by street furniture. Originally, the commission was to create an artwork, but I thought there’s no point in doing that. We’re not going to put a sculpture that’s completely useless in Hackney Wick—it would only get taken and sold as scrap metal. You need to find a better way to animate the streets. I think the council was quite happy that we came up with something functional. It took the heat off them, in a way. Of course, we will only really know if it functions in the future. Funnily enough, we keep getting requests for similar projects now.

E. K.

In your opinion, is that one of the functions of design, to “animate the streets” and encourage social interaction? And can it actually achieve that, or is that too much to ask?

M. G.

It’s a very tall order, to go beyond the physical presence and use. For me, there is a weird and very unpleasant story attached to this project that just surfaced a few days ago. When I presented the first two prototypes, I affixed them to the ground outside my studio. This was on private property belonging to the warehouse my studio was in, but somehow it felt like they were public. The idea was to test the strength and how they would age in a real urban context. Almost everyone thought it was a great idea since the council doesn’t really provide benches in Hackney apart from in parks. So for more than a year, the benches were used by quite a large part of the community, from the lonely soul to couples kissing or splitting up to elderly people resting on their way to the shop. There was also a very mixed crowd from the drug and alcohol drop-in centres in the area. But there didn’t seem to be a problem, until I got this notice from the local resident’s association that they want me to remove them because they apparently encourage “antisocial behaviour”. It felt like the world was going backwards. I’m still arguing with them about it, because removing benches is not going to solve society’s problems and, if anything, they encourage community engagement. Basically, the benches have become a place where all the locals can meet and talk.

E. K.

But isn’t that a case in point that design can actually have a social impact?

M. G.

Yes, for sure, but in situations like this, you just lose belief in government. This is the closest that design can ever get to having a social impact on a community level, and everyone will be sad to see them go, apart from the few campaigners. I have to stop myself there because I’ve spent the whole last week writing emails and getting far too emotional about it… So one bench is going to Arnold Circus Fig. 5 and the other was bought by a neighbour to be installed on his roof terrace.

E. K.

The benches have somewhat unusual and funny shapes—they’re odd-looking in context, so they kind of stick out rather than blend in with their environment. Is that the sort of interaction with space you are looking for, this friction of not fitting in seamlessly?

M. G.

In this instance, it was part of the brief. It was about creating a visual link between these two parks, so when you walk around this post-industrial wasteland of Hackney Wick, you can find your way out. So they were meant as points of reference.

E. K.

Does the setting also influence the work, not just functionally but aesthetically? Would the benches look the same if they had been installed in, say, Knightsbridge?

M. G.

Yes, the spatial and local setting influences it very much. In Knightsbridge, they would contrast more with their surroundings. But, funnily enough, the wood for the benches came from West London. They are the reclaimed wooden stairs from the Chelsea College of Art.

E. K.

Did you envisage working in public spaces in this way when you left college?

M. G.

Yes, it’s something I have always been interested in. It goes back to the Berlino Bench in a way, a project I did in Berlin with Rainer Spehl in 2004.

E. K.

What was the context of that?

M. G.

I went to Berlin for a summer—I was thinking of possibly moving there. I was living with Rainer and every morning we used to have breakfast at this place called Toast, a little coffee place in Prenzlauer Berg. They didn’t have anywhere to sit outside, but there was this little tree-guard that you could just perch on, two at a time. It really annoyed us to not have a proper place to sit, so we approached the owner and he said, “Okay, go ahead. It’s a nice summer. I’ll chip in a bit of money and free coffee.” So we worked for two days and made the bench.

E. K.

And it was made from reclaimed furniture?

M. G.

Yes, we went to some junk shops, and also used some bits of wood Rainer had lying around.

E. K.

Is is still there?

M. G.

No, it’s gone. But it was there for five years or so, and he changed it a few times. It was a nice project. It kept evolving.

E. K.

I suppose that is really design at its purest: addressing a need and producing an object as solution. Maybe that is the problem with a lot of design: that it is created too often for aesthetic or self-fulfilling purposes and then needs to generate its own demand, rather than the other way around?

M. G.

In that case, necessity was the mother of invention and creativity, but it is still important that the process doesn’t become guided too much by practical or financial concerns. It still needs the design process and contextualisation. But I agree there is too much self-addressing in many design objects, with very little chance of becoming a demand.

E. K.

The Berlino Bench was before 100 Chairs, wasn’ it? Are they linked?

M. G.

It was before, yes. They are linked, but 100 Chairs actually resulted from the project Rainer and I did at the V&A Village Fete in 2001, Furniture While You Wait.

E. K.

That was when you offered to make furniture for people to their specifications?

M. G.

Yes, we brought along all these found and discarded materials, and people could pick and choose pieces that would then make into something weird and interesting.

E. K.

Most designers would be terrified by the idea of having the customer take the design decisions and being “reduced” to carpenters. But you always seem to reach out to your audience—you cook for them, you open the doors to your studio, you want to know their opinion. Why is that important to you?

M. G.

I’m very much in favour of sharing ideas and knowledge: I don’t like purely self-centred design. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t got an ego and I want to merely execute other people’s suggestions, but I do like having clients’ input influence my ideas. In that sense, I use their input and brief as a sort of vehicle for me to design. It’s also a learning process.

E. K.

100 Chairs also had this interactive element—you could have retired to your studio and come back out after 100 days. Instead, you invited visitors to come and observe; many people ended up bringing their own old furniture for you to use. Fig. 5

M. G.

It’s quite boring to just be by yourself, especially while creating. Isolation does not always create the best clarity in my mind. I prefer a little chaos and being influenced; creativity is not a void that is filled with ideas that come from nowhere. One has to be open-minded. The interaction with outside visitors or, in this case, even collaborators and donors opened the project up to a dialogue between the creation and origination. But I also had people helping me with the work; Harry Thaler, for example, who was at that time doing an internship in my studio, brought in lots of welcome ideas.

E. K.

You often collaborate with different people—sometimes over many years and projects—like with the design collective Åbäke. What is it you enjoy about this process of merging ideas and opinions with presumably a fair amount of friction?

M. G.

Collaborations are a vital part of my process and work, even though I can also be insular and introverted. Collaborative work, for me, is about sharing time, ideas and energy. It keeps one’s mind flexible; you compromise and get compromised. In this case of collaborations with Åbäke or Rainer, it was also about spending time with friends, trying to blend work, friendship, and experience. Rather than all of us sitting by ourselves, we could learn from each other; it was kind of post-college experience in sharing the time after we graduated from the Royal College of Art, trying to survive in London while pushing on with our practice. These collaborations are still very much part of my work. Now it is much more project-based than in the early years. With Maki Suzuki and Kajsa Stahl of Åbäke, Fig. 5 my wife Francis and Luke Gotellier, we run the publishing “hut” Dent-De-Leone. With Francis and Karl Fritsch, I have been doing exhibitions that mix craft, art, and design, called Feierabend and Gesamtkunsthandwerk. And with Maki, Kajsa and Alex Rich, I do occasional cooking events that encompass food and design.

E. K.

Do you like the kind of work that comes out of collaborations better than your own?

M. G.

The result is simply different from when I work solely by myself. I think it’s more balanced; less about the individual outcome and more about the journey.

E. K.

When you made 100 Chairs, was the restriction of creating each chair within a day useful?

M. G.

It meant you couldn’t be too precious about the ideas. I think that anyone who performs, who makes something, knows the feeling of not having time is an interesting aspect. It creates a different energy rather than pressure. In fact, the whole concept to sketch—not with a pen, but in 3D.

E. K.

You didn’t sketch any of the chairs before you made them?

M. G.

Some of the details, yes, but never the overall shape. Sometimes I needed to sketch something just to work out how I could actually join it, but in general it was always done on the chair itself.

E. K.

Many of your projects have this sense of a rough sketch. How important are the details for you? And how important would they be to the customer, do you think?

M. G.

The details are the essence. Without sophisticated details, this kind of amalgamation doesn’t work and becomes silly. The 3D rough sketch only works when the joint between one part of a chair and the other is well-done. They might look quite random at first, but there was a lot of precise detailing going on in the mixture of materials and styles. And 100 Chairs has an audience but it doesn’t really have a customer, because the chairs aren’t sold or reproduced.

E. K.

When and how do you know that something is finished?

M. G.

It’s a fine line between undercooking and overcooking, to use a culinary expression. With 100 Chairs, it was quite easy: I only had a day to worry about, so I barely had enough time to finish the piece in one day, let alone overwork it. It’s much more difficult with “real” products, because one worries about undercooking, but usually ends up overcooking. You have to take the steak off the fire when it’s just underdone, because on its way to the plate, it will cook to the perfect point.

E. K.

How did you feel about the result when a chair was finished? Was the outcome similar to what you had in mind?

M. G.

Initially, I had very low expectations; I was happy to get one chair a day finished. But as the project grew, I had to live up to the chairs from the previous days… So this became a constant challenge, to not repeat myself and to create an interesting character every time.

E. K.

Do you find now that you like the pieces best that at the time you weren’t sure about?

M. G.

Yes, some of them. There were chairs that I didn’t like that much at first, but as time passed, I made friends with them.

E. K.

The chair is somewhat of the ultimate fetish for a product designer—every designer wants to do one at some point in their career. Was it a deliberate pun to do not just one but 100, and in such an “unserious” way?

M. G.

Fetish is the right word, yes. Chairs are the closest piece of furniture to the human body that a designer can design. They are the negative mould of ourselves, giving us support and comfort for reading, thinking, and eating the way we are used to. So I would call it a challenge rather than a pun.

E. K.

Do you still use that kind of collage technique?

M. G.

Sometimes. There’s this chair I started a few months ago that I am now putting together—it’s a really crappy Philippe Starck copy combined with an Air Chair. I still like to use reclaimed materials. It’s something I’m still interested in, but maybe in a different way. I am becoming pickier about the things I’m going to take apart and in what context.

E. K.

What do you look for in used materials that makes you want to work with them?

M. G.

I’m quite attracted by materials that have an interesting story behind them—it can be based on location or technique, on historical aspects, their original designer, their use or the context. It can also be about the very material itself: for example, the wood I used for the tables of our Total Trattoria evenings was from school physics laboratory tabletops and from patent office shelves.

E. K.

Perhaps your most radical use of existing material was when you took apart furniture by Gio Ponti for your project in Basel. Weren’t some people very shocked by that?

M. G.

The Ponti furniture was from the Hotel Parco dei Principi in Sorrento. When the hotel was renovated in 2005, the furniture was sold in two lots; nice collectible pieces that are still around in auctions and all the other bits—doors, cupboard doors, headrests, bedsteads. Stuff that no one wanted to buy. Nina had bought those leftovers, but didn’t really know what to do with them—they were mainly in very poor condition. When I saw them, I loved the colours and the idea that something that was going to end up in warehouse storage could be made into something new. For me it wasn’t about taking something apart, I was asked to do a performance at Basel and I thought it would be a good chance to make something new from the old.

E. K.

Did you plan what you were going to make before you started?

M. G.

No. I was actually really nervous, because I didn’t have any idea what I was going to make.

E. K.

But some people at the fair were quite outraged by what you were doing.

M. G.

It was seen by some of the dealers as quite provocative, particularly before I had started making anything new, when I was just destroying. Even Nina was a little hesitant at the beginning. I was destroying the very pieces that the other galleries were selling, more or less. For me, it was also important to make a statement about the status of young designers in the fair. It is meant to be a contemporary show, but young designers don’t really have a place. I understand that someone like Jean Prouvé designed beautiful furniture, but should half of the fair be Prouvé?

E. K.

I am curious how you see your work in the context of the revival of minimalism and the influence of Dieter Rams on companies like Apple. Do you think you’re bucking a minimalist trend?

M. G.

Yes and no. I am realising more and more that I am very interested in thinking about Dieter Rams and Ulm—you know, the amazing art school that closed after 15 years, where Dieter Rams taught with Otl Aicher, Inge Scholl and Max Bill. It was all about really hardcore industrial design, and it led to companies like Gardena—the garden tools company who made the Gardena hose and many other items. I like to slightly mess with complex systems like that, to play with them rather than just take them for what they are. In a way, I think 100 Chairs made up a system for me to play with. And that’s why I like pegboard so much—it’s a system that I can work on top of, a perfect example of Rams’ principle of “form follows function”. You know the reception desk I made for the Centre d’Art Contemporain in Geneva? It’s punched metal that we made with our own tool— basically it can be created in any configuration. So you take one very simple element, but you can also create something quite complex from it. It’s like the shelving system that Dieter Rams made for Vitsœ—you could maybe create ten different variations of that.

E. K.

On a purely formal level, is your work a reaction to minimalism?

M. G.

No, I never tried to work against something or be provocative like that. Some of the 100 Chairs are actually very minimal—I like to embrace elements of minimalism. And I think the shelving system I made in Milan last year was almost minimal. It was very simple. What I dislike is when minimalism becomes a restriction. I like to mix things. That’s why I liked your introduction to 100 Chairs book and what you wrote about categorisation: the idea that you can categorise by style, or by material, or by where the chair has come from. For me, it’s interesting to really mix and work with all these different elements, rather than limiting myself to one approach. I want to create a certain freedom for myself within the design world. I want to be able to go into different worlds and not get tied down to one particular style, or one set of rules.

E. K.

When you say you want to create your own freedom within the design world, in what ways do you find it limiting?

M. G.

The design world is a rather young profession that has quite a clear image of how a designer should work. This might have to do with the clients or the industry, but already this set-up is somehow antiquated: we no longer work like the Italian maestro did 40 years ago. The conditions have changed; we don’t limit ourselves to just serving the industry. Designers have started creating narratives and working based on their own briefs, so it’s much closer to cultural designing. Freedom now is that the outcome is not necessarily only a physical product but, like the Trattoria al Cappello project, it’s about designing scenarios, encounters, atmospheres. There is no product to sell, but it is still design. When I do work for the industry, the limitation is frustrating when I don’t have the time to be creative, when I’m pressured to deliver a great product in very little time. And to be reduced to a fraction of the bigger picture.

E. K.

Do you find it easier to work based on a given brief rather than initiating your own idea from scratch?

M. G.

Limitation can be a very strong tool, when used in the right way. I use it quite a bit: I write my own brief when I’m given total freedom, and I try to break from the brief when I’m held on a tight leash. So it’s about not being conditioned by one or the other. I actually enjoy interpreting, developing and manipulating the briefs that are given to me.

E. K.

You don’t like it when minimalism becomes a restriction, and yet you often work with setting your own restrictions, in terms of time and materials or space. Is that different because it makes the outcome unpredictable?

M. G.

I don’t like restrictions that become a credo. In that sense, minimalism has become a sort of religion, whereby the people who actually started it just wanted to be pure in their work, while many others have followed and made it into an indoctrinated discipline. What I like about restrictions is how they force you to be more creative. I usually have too many ideas, and restriction is a way of focusing.

E. K.

Designers, or artists in general, often work on one subject or with one approach to go deeper, because that takes time and insistence. Is there a danger of just scratching the surface of things when you are going back and forth between different worlds and ideas?

M. G.

For me, scratching the surface is also learning, and to be able to move between worlds makes me feel free and fortunate. It also enables me to understand different worlds better. I would say that in order to know your own world you should look at it through another world, or from another world, because it’s only the context that makes you appreciate, learn and understand your work. But don’t get me wrong. I have a lot of respect for people who can reduce and take away, while still keeping the essence, similar to the chef that manages to subtract rather than add. But there is always a danger that you just end up with less is less, rather than less is more.

E. K.

In a way, setting your own restrictions is deliberately giving up of control, and it seems to lend a certain humanity to a lot of your work. Do you think this is something the world of design suffers from: too much control and perfection, leading to lifeless objects?

M. G.

Yes, I create a framework, a sort of mix between a straight line and a detour—a detour in the creative process. The easiest way would be to find a straightforward solution, but that doesn’t allow for any mistakes or experimentation or even a human touch. If there is no framework or border to work against, it would feel like being in a vacuum where one doesn’t feel oneself. Giving up some control and exchanging it with humanity and imperfection gives the objects a charisma; it makes them feel part of a bigger picture.

E. K.

Let’s talk a little more about aesthetics. On a superficial level, many of your objects do not conform to the current idea of good design. People who adore the aesthetics of Apple, for instance, might not know how to react to your work. Does that bother you?

M. G.

I think a good design in this case is just a good design. We all appreciate the fact that Apple product goes beyond its surface. Even though the surface is what sells, there is more to it; there is also software that seduces. In my case, I produce for a rather small crowd, and these people want to have something very special and different. The surface can be complex and unexpected, and also have hidden levels of functionality and design.

E. K.

Earlier, we spoke about the brown sink you bought for your kitchen because it was so ugly. Is ugliness a challenge, because it means not following the easy path?

M. G.

Proper ugliness can be really beautiful. We are conditioned by the taste of the masses. We are constantly surrounded by the right and the beautiful and their seductive images—so true ugliness can be a treat. Also, it’s very difficult to design something properly ugly.

E. K.

A lot of your pieces have a certain humour and fun element to them—how do you tread the fine line between irony and silliness?

M. G.

Humour is a difficult task. Either you laugh once or twice or never. And fun is similar: either you laugh with someone about someone or someone laughs about you. This can be done well by comedians, but for designers, it’s a tricky area. But some of my chairs are definitely playing with it. Fig. 7 It’s the moment when it puts a smile on someone’s face that is most interesting for me; it’s the having fun together when humour is at its best. The fine line, I guess, is when people start making fun of the work—then it becomes silly.

E. K.

Can we talk about your work with art galleries? Take your show at Franco Noero’s gallery in Turin last September, for example: was it different working in a commercial art context?

M. G.

Actually, no. I tried to stay very much on the furniture side of things with the work. Nina was even a little angry with me, as she would have liked to have the objects at Nilufar. She says “I have asked you so many times for a chair—and now you make chairs for an art gallery!” But with Noero, I was less interested in working in an “art” gallery than in that building in particular, especially because Franco lives there.

E. K.

It is a peculiar building.

M. G.

Yes, it was the oddest building that I ever lived in—I stayed there for a month and a half.

E. K.

It was built around 1860 as some kind of dare?

M. G.

Apparently, it was a bet whether it was physically possible between the architect and someone else. It’s really a folly. There are nine floors: two underground and seven above. It’s the shape of a polenta slice—the thin end with the staircase is less than half a meter wide; the thick end of the wedge is 3.5 meters. Sitting proudly on the corner of a street, it also looks as if it might collapse at any moment. Fig. 8

E. K.

And before Franco moved there, it was some kind of notorious bachelor pad, wasn’t it?

M. G.

Yes. I found a folder at Franco’s where the previous owner had kept lots of different menus for his butler to follow. He had these lists and the butler’s timetable: 8-10 a.m. cleaning, then shopping, then cooking from 11 a.m.-1 p.m., then a nap. And it had all this weird information, like where the owner had his shoe made.

E. K.

Did you only use local furniture in the exhibition at Franco’s?

M. G.

Yes, but not as a rule. I think it just made sense in terms of language and sometimes the quality of the furniture. There’s a particular kind of Italian bourgeois furniture in Turin. And the kitchen was made from a typical working man’s kitchen, like someone who works for Fiat.

E. K.

Where did you buy the materials from?

M. G.

Some from markets, but it was actually quite difficult. At one point, I thought I wouldn’t be able to buy anything. Eventually we found a couple of places. The weirdest thing happened in one of them. It was a backyard—you would never find it by walking down the street. We walked in and saw these amazing cupboards, like one with the wood carvings of mountains and the sea. We were looking around, and at a certain point, the guy working in the shop came up to me and said, “You’re Martino, no?” And I thought, “How the hell does someone in a second-hand furniture shop in Turin know about me?” But he said, “I know your work. You want to come with me? I’ve got my own storage space next door in a garage.” So that’s where I found a lot of stuff. At first, I thought he was going to ask for a horrendous amount of money, but he didn’t.

E. K.

Was the show at Franco’s perceived differently than your other shows, say those at Nilufar?

M. G.

Yes, it was different, as it took over the whole building—it was site-specific. I created an imaginary floor plan—a kitchen, bedroom, study, library—for imaginary inhabitants. The show was called Condominium, in reference to what it was built for: originally it was used as a shared house. I think it was still perceived as a furniture exhibition, even though it was very much a gallery context. But maybe because it was in the house in which Franco lives, that gave it a sense of domestication.

E. K.

How did it happen that you started working with art galleries? Did they approach you, or did you seek them out?

M. G.

It was them who came to me. I tried to find a gallery 12 years ago; obviously, it never quite works that way. I think that some art galleries find my work interesting to mix with their fine art. There is also a functional aspect of the art world: they all need chairs, tables and exhibitions stands, and they don’t want to use the same stuff as everyone else. I wander between the two markets in terms of exhibitions, because most of my work is one-off, handmade and irrational, so it doesn’t sit well with usual design, but, on the other hand, I very much consider myself a designer; it’s not art. I always think that’s the worst thing: designers trying to be artists and vice versa.

E. K.

So, tell me, why aren’t you an artist? What’s different about what you do?

M. G.

The difference is that I make functional objects. One could argue in some cases about the functionality or the comfort, but I think of it as furniture. But in some ways, I feel my mentality is quite similar to that of an artist. I don’t want to start in a narrow, limited way; I want to make things broader and to play. In particular, I want to play with space.

E. K.

Where does the difference lie between art and design, though? Can’t an artist make something functional?

M. G.

In short, art is and needs to be irrational, and design is rational but can have elements of irrationality. In the end, it is and has to be a functional object. It’s the difference between the chair you look at and the chair you sit on.

E. K.

Do you think the whole design/art thing has survived as a concept?

M. G.

Thank goodness, no. I don’t think it has survived the recession. I like to work with galleries, but for me it’s never been interesting to work in the context of design art or in an anonymous architectural space, the famous white cube. That’s the thing that makes me uneasy.

E. K.

But there is a very good reason for the white cube— to not interfere with, but emphasize, the work on display.

M. G.

Design for the designers is a bit incestuous. It was never my thing, really. I was always more drawn to what lies behind, around and below an object, the way that people react to it, their behaviour, and the process to get to a result and the narrative around it. And to achieve this, I try to create a very personal relationship and a kind of detour to find my own way of working. This also affects the way I show, present and engage with the audience. I find it quite boring just to show a chair or a table in a white space. One thing I really enjoy about working with art galleries is that they are much more open to ideas of any sort. They want to be challenged, whereas with design galleries, they want a certain product—like a chair, a table, a lamp. It’s nice to have freedom from easy functionality. Did I tell you I am going to show with Toby Webster?

E. K.

At the Modern Institute in Glasgow—that’s a nice space.

M. G.

Yes, but not in that space. We’re trying to find a different building—maybe even two or three different venues. We’re looking for locations now. I’m quite interested in the Mackintosh building, but then I’m also drawn to a Brutalist building from the 1970s. I am interested in having a conversation with different spaces.

E. K.

What exactly does that mean, “to have a conversation with space”? Does space influence your designs, or is it the other way around?

M. G.

While thinking of furniture or interiors, space is to a designer what the body is for a sculptor or a painter—one can’t separate them; they feed off each other. A designer that is only interested in a four-legged table is missing the point. We need more interaction between our spaces, places, people and their behaviour. For me, space is the starting point for most of my work, but at some point, it shifts and the design influences the space.

E. K.

You studied sculpture for some time before crossing over into design. How come and why? Did you ever regret going from fine arts into applied arts?

M. G.

The decision was taken without too much consideration. I was young and naive, but curious. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, apart from trying out all types of work. I started by studying both courses in parallel for a year, but felt that the design course was much more inclusive, while the fine arts course was packed with quite a lot of egos that really liked to talk—it was too much for me. I was young and hungry to make, not to talk. I do regret though that I didn’t do much with the project that our professor Michelangelo Pistoletto came up with. His progetto arte was a way of opening the fine arts to all kinds of other fields, including design. He was someone who recognised the different sensibilities and relationships that an artist needs to address, how space and time have shifted and produced a social imbalance that needs to be readjusted with a much wider approach. Only years later did I realise that this project had so much to do with that kind of discourse about art and design and many other areas of creativity, and was perhaps a major influence on my work after all.

E. K.

You taught at the RCA yourself for a few years. You’re not teaching at all anymore?

M. G.

I don’t teach very much anymore, but I do workshops. I did a workshop in Monte Carlo a few months ago, and I will do another one in September.

E. K.

How closely does your teaching relate to your own work?

M. G.

I have always tried to keep it separate, and always hoped that students didn’t follow what I do. One of my goals as a tutor was to help give students a sense of their own identity.

E. K.

Was that the way you were taught?

M. G.

I think so.

E. K.

Who was the most important teacher to you?

M. G.

Ron Arad.

E. K.

Because?

M. G.

Because he’s very critical, he’s very fast, and his standards are really high. You know, you couldn’t just show up with half an idea. He’d pick up on things immediately, the smallest details. I would be like, “Wow, I hadn’t actually seen that!”

E. K.

Was that the model you followed as a teacher?

M. G.

I’m maybe not as critical as Ron is, but I think I tried to create an environment where people would be challenged in a public way, to find projects that took place outside college.

E. K.

Do you miss it? Why did you give it up?

M. G.

Um, no, I don’t miss it. Well, sometimes I miss the immediacy of having to react to a situation, trying to make sense of what the students are doing.

E. K.

I feel the same. Teaching can keep you sharp.

M. G.

Yes, and I feel that I’ve lost a lot of sharpness. But I didn’t like the hand-holding, the feeling that I had to be responsible to them as people, other than just giving my honest opinion about their work and challenging them. After a while, I felt I couldn’t go to design openings anymore, as I would see half my students.

E. K.

Quite a few of your former students are doing very well now. There is always talk about how difficult it is for young designers to establish themselves, and yet, maybe there is more new work coming up than ever before. In your eyes, what is the state of young designers today, compared to when you graduated 12 years ago?

M. G.

There are many more designers out there than when I graduated, and there also seem to be more possibilities. There was little emphasis on furniture design at the time, while now there are quite a few more galleries, magazines, lots of design festivals, blogs, and so on. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s easier: one shouldn’t confuse press with success and being able to live from one’s ideas and designs. I think it took me much longer to find my way into the market and institutions, but I enjoyed every aspect of it. Straight after college, I lived with Rainer, who now works in Berlin. We did all kinds of work to survive and be able to pay our rent. Our carpentry skills helped us to get jobs where design was certainly not the priority, but this kind of making and learning kept us very clear on what was the reality. And it made us stand firmer on the ground as designers, the stuff that college never teaches you. And let’s not forget that it helped us build up our own workshops, with tools and expertise that would be indispensable for our work today.

E. K.

Last, let’s talk about cooking: it’s always been part of what you’ve done, whether it’s a meal for three in your studio or for 30 in a gallery.

M. G.

Yes, it’s always just been part of my everyday life. There wasn’t a moment when I thought, “Ah, I should do cooking because it would work perfectly with my design.” It was a way of reaching out to people.

E. K.

Your Trattoria evenings Fig. 12 were always highly popular. Can you tell me a little about how it all started, and what the idea was behind it?

M. G.

The Trattoria events came out of an interest in cooking and hosting people. I’ve always cooked, since I was ten years old or even younger, from having spent every summer from the age of ten at my aunt’s pensione in the Italian Alps. There, I learned the basics of the relationship between heat, flavour and time. Later in life, when I was travelling, cooking and gastronomy were the easiest way to earn some money, so I cooked in Italian restaurants, baking pizzas for a time, waiting tables in posh Swiss hotels. When I moved to London, I missed this very intimate relationship between the owner of a place and the customer. And when I was working and cooking with Åbäke and especially Maki Suzuki, Kajsa Stahl and Alex Rich, we all realised that we missed a similar aspect of this experience. Back in 2000, London didn’t have that many places where food, service, experience and cost would somehow add up. It would usually be disappointing in one aspect or another. So while hanging out at the Hat on Wall Bar in Clerkenwell, we met Yuki and Darren, who run this sort of secret studio/bar/club. The bar was designed by Michael Marriot and it had a very nice unfamiliar but personal touch. Alex asked Yuki and Darren if we could do our food events there. And from then onwards, we held about 30 events in various places and situations. Apart from the interest in cooking we also wanted to meet new people and show our work, so I made some furniture to go along with it, Fig. 9 et Fig. 10 and Maki, Kajsa and Alex did the graphics. This was a way for us to give our work more exposure, outside of galleries, institutions and industry. But we also realised that rather than having to earn lots of money and then go to fancy restaurants, we could cook anything we wanted and have a nice evening out meeting people, and with the best service, since we did it ourselves.

E. K.

There was a great sense of intimacy at the events. You designed the furniture for the evening, you cooked the food, you served it yourselves—but it was your visitors who had the pleasure and time to experience it as something special, whereas you guys were mostly super busy preparing the food and keeping everything running. What did you get out of it?

M. G.

In a way, it seemed like we were really busy and working, but creating a nice experience for others is enjoyable, and the work somehow fades to the background. Engaging in something actively and not passively feels so much richer as an experience. We got lots out of it: being able to play with our own work without interference, experimenting and exploring new dishes, and meeting new and exciting people.

E. K.

So why did you decide to stop?

M. G.

We needed to change the format. I have been talking to Maki and Kajsa and Alex about what would work as a new format. We have slightly different interests now, but eventually, we will do more.

E. K.

In what sense?

M. G.

I think I’m more interested in the cooking itself; less so in the pop-up aspect. There are so many pop-up things these days, I feel we’ve kind of been there and done that. I am still interested in experimentation, but now I want to cook some great food in a solid setting.

E. K.

What kind of food are you talking about when you say “great food”?

M. G.

First of all, fresh ingredients—nice seasonal ingredients that ideally don’t come from too far away. It will be more about those kinds of details and less about the performance around it; more like home cooking with love and experimentation and less about haute cuisine’s fancy confusion.

E. K.

Is making a meal a similar process to designing?

M. G.

For me, it is. You lead with a lot of different ingredients, a lot of different materials. And you have various ways of preparing them: roasting, frying, boiling. It’s similar in design. You have a material and you mould it, or bend it, or cut it. There are lots of variables, and you can use the same materials to create something very delicious or something very non-delicious. Perhaps the aspect that interests me most is the timing. Exactly as with 100 Chairs, in the kitchen you don’t have time, and there’s no “undo” button. So you have to have a strong concept, but it’s also important that you have a sense of freedom and you can improvise.

E. K.

I always think of Italians as quite rule-bound in the kitchen.

M. G.

Not always, but when it comes to traditional dishes, yes.

E. K.

Do you make traditional dishes?

M. G.

No, I usually mess with them.

E. K.

How does your mother feel about your cooking?

M. G.

It’s not always to her palate, but generally she likes it. For someone who only used to eat traditional local food, she has become quite adventurous. She uses much more ginger now.