There is a sofa in Achille Salvagni‘s universe that is modeled on an alligator at rest. There are armchairs inspired by the way his children moved when they first learned to crawl. There is a cabinet whose bronze facade is borrowed from a Minoan fresco painted in 1600 BCE, and a floor lamp named for a hapless medieval knight from a 1966 Italian comedy film. Somewhere in the mix, there is also Cher.
Salvagni, who opened his Palm Beach atelier this past January, is Roman-born and trained as an architect. He founded his practice in Rome in 2002, launched his atelier for limited-edition collectible design in 2013, and has since opened ateliers in Mayfair, Madison Avenue, and now Worth Avenue, each one a natural extension of the world he has been building. He works in bronze, onyx, parchment, silk, and rare woods, materials that have been beautiful for millennia, and he collaborates closely with Rome’s master artisans, often beginning with what their hands can do before deciding what shape the object will take.
All of it, now, is the subject of a book. Published this May by Assouline with texts by curator and design historian Glenn Adamson, Achille gathers a decade of work into a single volume. To celebrate its release, we sat down with Salvagni to discuss beauty, memory, and the importance of curiosity.
PALMER: You’ve often emphasized process over style. How would you describe your method to someone unfamiliar with your work?
ACHILLE SALVAGNI: I have never been interested in style because style ages; method evolves. My method begins with observation. I look at history, architecture, mythology, nature, science, and human behavior not as separate disciplines but as parts of the same conversation. Then I search for unexpected relationships between them. Design, for me, is the act of revealing those hidden connections. Every project becomes an archaeological excavation of ideas. I remove what is obvious and continue digging until I find something essential, something that feels both ancient and entirely new. The result may have a recognizable aesthetic, but the aesthetic is only the consequence. The method is the real work.
If you hadn’t become a designer, you’d have been an archaeologist. What attracted you to it?
Archaeology has never been about the past for me. It’s about learning how to read time. Every civilization leaves behind an alphabet: fragments of stone, proportions, rituals, traces of everyday life. An archaeologist reconstructs a world from those fragments. I realized, at some point, that this is exactly what I do as a designer. When I enter a place, I don’t begin by asking what should be added. I ask what has always been there, even if it has become invisible. Design, to me, is not an act of invention. It is an act of excavation.
You’ve said your personal style signifier is “dramatic conflict.” Where did that love of tension come from?
Probably from Rome. Rome taught me that beauty is rarely born from harmony alone. The city is a magnificent collision of eras, ambitions, ruins, and reinventions. Ancient stones support contemporary life. Grandeur coexists with decay. Nothing is resolved, and yet everything feels complete. I am attracted to that condition. In my work, I often place opposing forces together: strength and fragility, discipline and fantasy, monumentality and intimacy. The tension between them generates energy. Without conflict, an object can be beautiful; with conflict, it can become memorable. I believe elegance is not the absence of contradiction. It is the mastery of it.
You love science fiction alongside ancient history. What are you reading or watching right now that’s feeding your imagination?
I’ve always believed that ancient history and science fiction ask the same question: what does it mean to be human? Lately I’ve been returning to The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin. Every time I read it, I discover something different. It reminds me that the most radical form of imagination is not inventing new technologies, but imagining different ways of living together. At the same time, I constantly revisit Roman architecture, not as nostalgia but as a source of clarity. The Romans understood that beauty could emerge from order, proportion, and permanence. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy moving between two extremes: one imagines futures that don’t yet exist, the other reminds us of ideas that have already survived two thousand years. Somewhere between those worlds is where I feel most at home.
Almost every piece you make has a hidden story encoded in it. How much do you want people to find it and how much is just for you?
The story is never there to be solved; it is there to be discovered. I am not interested in creating puzzles with a single answer. I prefer creating objects that reward curiosity. Some people will notice a reference immediately, others may never see it, and both experiences are valid. What matters to me is that the object contains layers. We live in a world increasingly designed for instant consumption. I like the idea that a piece can reveal itself slowly, over months or even years, much like a friendship. Of course, some of those stories are deeply personal. They are my private conversation with the object. But once the work leaves the studio, it acquires a life of its own. The most gratifying moment is when someone discovers a meaning I never intended and somehow it feels true.
