Simply stating who you are isn’t enough to truly tell your story.
What we do is shaped by lived experiences, by the way we create, by the ideas that guide us, and by the milestones of the journey that changed us.
In this section, you can explore these dimensions: from my personal background to the creative process, and from the philosophy guiding my work to the story that brought me here.
I don’t come from the tattoo world, and I didn’t drop everything to “follow a dream.”
My background is in architecture and spatial design. But I changed direction because where I was just wasn’t working. So I took what I knew how to do — observing, simplifying, storytelling — and brought it somewhere it could become something.
Something interesting, and made to last.
I like bringing to life images that tell your story, even when you can’t quite find the words yet.
I come from architecture, but I no longer need to design buildings.
I care about what keeps you standing.
Your story.
What changes you.
What brings you back to life.
I want to be clear right from the start: I don’t take on every project. I need a project to resonate with me too, so I can give it my absolute best. More than the subject itself, I want to understand your “why.”
That is why I don’t rush my replies, and I don’t offer standard quotes. You won’t find ready-made templates here—only a blank page.
In return, I promise you one thing: my full, undivided attention. We will work calmly, at your own pace, asking ourselves the right questions before we begin. It is a slow process, built on respect for your story and for my craft. If you are looking for a quick fix, I understand, but that is not my way.
Drawing bores me.
But drawing stories? Never.
I have a brother who is a year older than me. When I was born, he would cry during the day, and I would cry at night. For six months, there was never any silence in our house. At some point, my mother broke. She desperately needed sleep, of course. So she left me for a few days with my aunt—the sweetest aunt in the world. When I came back, I stopped crying. I don’t know what happened, but something had clearly shifted. Maybe I thought: “If I cry, you send me away. Now that I’m back, no way am I crying again.”
But you can’t not communicate.
And so, I started letting out everything I had inside through drawing, simply to express myself and find my own way of being in the world. Tattooing is the exact same thing, except now I do it for others too.
When people tell me a story—even if it’s messy, even if it’s in pieces—I see it.
I can’t quite explain how it works, but I see the image.
Drawing what you hold inside is the most natural thing in the world to me. Because it’s what I’ve done my whole life.
That is why I tattoo.
I care about giving shape to something that carries weight. Because it’s not just about looking “cool”—it’s about saying something you can’t say any other way, but that you instantly recognize the moment you see it.
And when that happens, yeah, that is a truly beautiful moment.
Style is a golden cage: once you step inside, people expect you to stay there.
But I need to keep moving.
I use color when light is needed, and black and white when silence is needed. I turn to the abstract when form is no longer enough, and I choose the figurative only when I need to say: “this is it, look.”
I don’t have a pre-packaged visual language to sell. I have a vision to bring your words to life.
I choose what is needed. Only what is needed, to leave something meaningful on the skin.
For you, not for anyone else.
In my artistic journey, I chose not to have a simple logo.
A logo is designed to be recognizable everywhere, reproducible on any medium, and useful for marketing.
But I am not looking for repeatability. My work is not a mass-produced product. It is an encounter, different every single time.
That is why I created a seal, not a logo.
It all started with a simple icon: the one you find printed on cardboard boxes.
“Handle with care.” Those two hands protecting a fragile cube have always struck me, and I realized we are all a bit like that. Like packages on a journey, carrying something inside that we don’t always fully know, but that we know is fragile.
I wanted to take that image and transform it. In place of the little cube, I drew a small skull. To me, it is the home of the mind, of emotions, of everything we are. A universal and human symbol.
That is how my seal took shape: to remind myself that every person who trusts me with their story carries something delicate, yet precious—and that my job is not just to draw, but to take care.
La mia storia
I graduated with a degree in Architecture. I worked at Massimiliano Fuksas’s studio in Rome, and then at Renzo Piano’s in Genoa. Two different visions, two schools of thought. Two intense experiences that left a deep mark on me.
I wasn’t one of those people who dream of dropping everything to chase a dream. In fact, I had done everything I was supposed to do. The right path. The right choices.
Then, with a few friends, we opened our own firm. We were good. We had talent, vision, drive. We believed in it. We gave it a shot. All the way. But it didn’t work. The earnings were low, the struggle was constant, and the rewards came only in drops.
And without even realizing it, I found myself at forty-five with the overwhelming feeling that I had lost. Not from a lack of effort. But because something inside had broken. And I no longer had the energy to put the pieces back together.
Yet, I had to start over from somewhere. And fortunately, I wasn’t alone. There was someone special by my side. One of those people who see you better than you see yourself. She was the one who got me back to drawing. Who reminded me of who I was. Or maybe… who helped me discover it for the very first time.
Because in the end, this is what I realized: I wasn’t an architect on loan to art. I was an artist on loan to architecture. I just didn’t know it yet.
In the beginning, there was no calling. No epiphany. Just the urgent need to make a living, and fast. And what’s more… I didn’t even like tattoos. For years, I had judged them through my own biases, convictions, and prejudices.
Then something happened. Or maybe, I just started looking closer. I began to understand that for some people, a tattoo wasn’t a whim. It was a threshold. Taking a stand. An act of identity. A way not to get lost.
And there, in that act, in that mark, I finally recognized myself. That was where I needed to restart from. That was how I had always spoken. Even when I didn’t know it.
The project originates with you, not with me.
Every piece of work I create takes shape only after listening to you.
If possible, I would like to get to know you in person first, over a good cup of coffee. No forms to fill out, no briefings. Let’s not talk about the tattoo right away. Let’s talk about who you are, about your story. I want to feel if there’s a shared frequency—to listen and just follow the flow. It’s not an obligation, and it’s not a binding step. If there’s a connection, we move forward. Otherwise, we’ve simply gotten to know each other.
Except for very rare cases, I never draw anything beforehand. No project starts at home. Everything happens on the day of the session.
In that moment, we will talk deeply—I will ask you targeted questions. I want to understand the meaning, the story behind your desire. I want to listen even to what goes unspoken.
A tattoo isn’t invented; it is gathered.
Once everything is gathered, the synthesis begins. Sometimes I start by using my iPad. Sometimes I go straight onto your body. It depends on how it all flows. I don’t have a protocol, but I do have a rule: to listen to each person’s right timing.
It’s an approach inspired by the Munari method: first you observe, analyze, and deconstruct. Only then does the idea arrive.
Regardless of the size of the piece, I dedicate the entire day solely to you. No overlaps, no rushing.
When the drawing is ready, we stop. We take a break. We breathe. Maybe we go grab a bite to eat. After so much focus, we need to clear our minds. When we come back, if we are both convinced, we begin. Otherwise, we start over. Even from scratch.
If something doesn’t feel right to you, we modify it or start over from scratch. If something doesn’t feel right to me, I modify it or start over from scratch. To me, the person sitting in front of me isn’t just “a client.” It is someone about to make an irreversible decision. And if I feel that tattoo doesn’t belong to you or doesn’t elevate you, I will tell you straight out.
Your skin deserves commitment. Not compromises.
I once listened to Giorgio Gaber’s song “Qualcuno era comunista” (Someone was a Communist).
It struck me because it lists, without judgment, the thousands of reasons why a person can feel part of something.
I wanted to bring that same spirit into the tattoo world.
Because the reasons really are endless.
Some get tattooed so they won’t forget.
Some because they lost, and some because they won.
Some because pain feels honest to them.
Some get tattooed to remember their mother.
Some get tattooed because skin is the only journal you can’t lose.
Some because the fridge was already full of magnets.
Some get tattooed to start over from scratch.
Some to feel alive.
Some get tattooed because they can no longer stand being invisible.
Some because they found themselves.
Some to cover up an old love.
Some to cover up an old tattoo of an old love.
Some get tattooed because they don’t want to heal.
Some to stop a pain that keeps walking.
Some to give themselves a name.
Some because they saw the sea and never forgot it.
Some to leave a mark before everything disappears.
Some because… well, the cat had to end up somewhere.
Some get tattooed because every inch of skin is a battle won.
Some to say, “I was there.”
Some to have a home, at least on their skin.
Some get tattooed to scream in silence.
Some get tattooed to say goodbye.
Some because “it was just a tiny little symbol”… and then it turned into half a back.
Some get tattooed to build a map for when they get lost.
Some to feel more real.
Some get tattooed because they don’t know how to write poetry.
Some to make peace with what has been.
Some get tattooed to celebrate a scar.
Some because they ran out of space in their diary.
Some get tattooed because they don’t want to forget a taste, a scent, a moment.
Some to feel whole, at least for once.
Some to keep from turning back.
Some because pain, at least, speaks to you clearly.
Some because, in the end, skin is the book that tells the best story of who we are.
Some get tattooed because one day they’ll want to look at it and say: “Yes, that was me.”
You don’t need to be precise, but if you don’t know where to start, here are a few ideas:
What story do you want to tell with this tattoo?
What kind of moment are you going through in your life right now?
What images, shapes, or words resonate with you?
Do you already have other tattoos? Where are you thinking of getting this one?
If, on the other hand, you have absolutely no idea, just write to me so we can set up a meeting—talking things through in person often brings out really interesting projects.
Once I receive your email:
I will get back to you within a few days.
If we are on the same page, I will suggest an introductory meeting (in person or online).
Only after that will we decide if and when to book the session.
In this first phase, you are not booking a tattoo—
you are booking a coffee to get to know each other.
I don’t just ask you “what do you want tattooed?”
I listen to you while you speak, but also when you say nothing.
I observe how you move, how you talk, what you leave out.
I look for the intention in your story.
Remove everything superfluous.
I remove what’s extra, until a clear, clean idea remains,
a concept you can carry with you, even if you don’t explain it in words.
I interpret with my vision, but I don’t decide for you.
I’ll lead you to see what you haven’t yet seen like this.
And I’ll give it back to you with something that remains.