Milan during Design Week felt like a city temporarily overtaken by design. Courtyards, galleries, apartments, museums, and even quiet side streets became filled with installations, exhibitions, conversations, and long lines of people moving quickly from one place to another. For five days, the city seemed to operate in a heightened state — overstimulated, crowded, visually saturated.
Serotonin, Loggiato Pinacoteca di Brera.
I arrived curious and excited, but by the second or third day, everything began blending together. I spent most days rushing between exhibitions and walking for hours across the city, moving from one atmosphere into another without much pause in between. At times it felt impossible to fully absorb what I was seeing. Colors, surfaces, lighting, sounds, and people layered over each other until the experience became less about individual works and more about the feeling of excess itself.
Entrance to Palazzo Citterio during Milan Design Week.
And yet, within all that noise, certain details kept pulling me back into attention.
At Alcova, I found myself lingering around tactile surfaces and material experiments more than the large gestures. Suspended textiles moving slightly with air, chrome reflecting distorted fragments of the surrounding space, soft woven textures placed against industrial structures — these smaller interactions stayed with me longer than many of the more dramatic installations.
Baggio Military Hospital, Alcova Milan Design Week.
I noticed how often my attention returned to craftsmanship. Not craftsmanship in a nostalgic sense, but in the way care could still be felt inside contemporary work: through material sensitivity, subtle textures, hand-finished edges, or the quiet confidence of restraint. Some spaces held this beautifully. Others felt designed mostly to capture attention quickly — visually loud, immediate, and highly photographed, but leaving little behind once I walked away.
That contrast stayed with me throughout the week.
Qualia of Things, 5VIE Milan Design Week.
At L'Appartamento by Artemest, the atmosphere shifted again — not quieter, but denser. Every room felt layered with textures, patterns, objects, lighting, and people moving closely through the space. At times it was almost overwhelming, yet I was impressed by how much attention had been placed into the details. Despite the richness of the interiors, certain material combinations still stood out clearly: woven textiles against polished surfaces, soft fabric catching warm light, carefully balanced contrasts between colors and textures.
L'Appartamento by Artemest.
Throughout the week, I kept thinking about the space between art, design, craftsmanship, and branding — how these boundaries blur so easily now. Some works felt deeply personal and intentional; others felt more like images waiting to be consumed and uploaded elsewhere. Seeing everything coexist at once left me both inspired and uncertain. I came home carrying more questions than conclusions.
Work detail at L'Appartamento by Artemest.
After Design Week ended, the city changed almost immediately. The crowds thinned, the long queues disappeared, and Milan seemed to return to itself again. I spent the remaining days more slowly — visiting museums and galleries, sitting outside cafés with coffee and croissants, watching trams pass and people move through the streets.
I especially loved the quietness of the museums after the intensity of Design Week. Moving slowly through the spaces, I found myself paying attention differently again — noticing textures, details, brushstrokes, materials, and the way light settled across surfaces without feeling rushed. After spending days surrounded by constant stimulation, those quieter encounters felt grounding.
Undead Undyed, Altai Gallery.
Looking back now, what remains are not complete impressions, but fragments. Certain textures. A room filled with soft light. The sound of footsteps echoing through a courtyard. Fabric suspended in space. The exhaustion of seeing too much too quickly. The strange feeling of being simultaneously inspired, disconnected, energized, and uncertain.
But perhaps that uncertainty is part of the experience too. Milan didn’t leave me with a clearer definition of what art or design should be. Instead, it sharpened my awareness of attention — of what feels sincere, what lingers emotionally, and what quietly disappears.
As someone working through textiles and material-based practice, I left thinking less about trends or aesthetics, and more about how work carries care, memory, and perspective. How material can hold emotion. And how, even in the middle of visual overload, the smallest details are often the ones that continue speaking afterward.
Gucci Memoria, Chiostri di San Simpliciano.