Lifestyle
In Sardinia, a Showcase for Craft and Culture Rises From Ruins
This article is part of our Design special section about the reverence for handmade objects.
It took nearly five years for Kyre Chenven and Ivano Atzori to buy a cluster of ruined houses in southern Sardinia.
The single-story buildings, or rather, the skeletons that remained, once made up a furriadroxu, a type of agrarian community common in the southwest region of the Italian island. The farmstead, likely constructed in the 19th century, was home to a sprawling family that long ago abandoned it for village life. Since 2022, however, the property has taken on a new identity: as Luxi Bia, a revitalized rural haven where curious visitors can immerse themselves in local culture and the natural environment.
“I think there were 14 people present when we signed the deal,” said Ms. Chenven, a 46-year-old woman with a short crop of blond hair and a shock of red lip stain. She was following Mr. Atzori, 48 — whose long gray hair was tied up in a pair of French braids that rested on his shoulders — through their grove of olive trees while explaining that Sardinia’s complicated hereditary tradition meant that houses were often divided between heirs by room. It took the couple an entire year and much cajoling to gather all the family members and convince them to sell.
Ms. Chenven and Mr. Atzori relocated with their two children from Tuscany to Sardinia in 2014. Though they had vacationed on the island and Mr. Atzori had family roots there, it was fundamentally terra incognita. Ms. Chenven grew up in San Diego and later worked as a set designer in New York City, and her husband, a former graffiti artist who painted under the alias Dumbo, is a native of Milan.
The couple were drawn to Sardinia’s deep and layered history. First inhabited in the Stone Age, it has long been defined by its isolation from the mainland, which allowed it to cultivate an independent and change-resistant culture.
Their first Sardinian venture, called Pretziada (“precious” in Sardinian), pairs contemporary international designers with local artisans to produce handmade objects and furniture. Collections have included hand-knotted tapestries depicting abstracted Nuragic architecture — prehistoric stone structures unique to the island — and modern takes on ornamental nuptial vases.
Luxi Bia (pronounced LOO-zhee BEE-uh), which translates to “light that has been seen,” similarly represents an outsider’s interpretation of local culture. At its most basic, it is a collection of holiday homes. But for Ms. Chenven and Mr. Atzori, it represents a different approach to tourism — one that allows those curious about Sardinia to briefly experience an often overlooked world.
Luxi Bia sits at the bottom of a shallow dish among rolling hills, their slopes dotted with mastic, pomegranate and almond trees that in late winter are just about to burst into bloom. From the crest of a hill, a glimmering sliver of the Mediterranean comes into view, too far to see pale pink flamingos wading through the shallow marshlands and the stony beaches that disappear into pristine turquoise waters a 20-minute drive away.
Ms. Chenven and Mr. Atzori designed Luxi Bia to be as closely aligned with a traditional furriadroxu as possible. The whitewashed stone houses sit in a tight cluster, enclosed by several rings of stone walls and a rapidly expanding fence of prickly pear cactus.
After completing their own home in 2017, they renovated a cottage to host visiting designers working with Pretziada. That project, which became the guesthouse called La Residenza, was finished in 2022.
The latest addition to the complex, available for rent on their website, is the two-bedroom Casa Corte, with the one-bedroom Casa Cubo set to follow later this year. The two units sit side by side in the same narrow building, occupying the precise footprint of the original stone house.
“The traditional architecture was always boxes that would be added on as your family grew,” Ms. Chenven said of the long, rectangular structure. “We wanted to use that same sort of concept.”
In rebuilding the ruined houses, Ms. Chenven and Mr. Atzori adhered as closely as possible to other vernacular features while staying true to Pretziada’s contemporary aesthetics.
The floors, for instance, would originally have been poured cement or rammed earth — materials not ideal for modern comfort or durability. Instead, the couple used terra-cotta tiles made from local soil by a company based north of nearby Cagliari. The ceilings are traditional tapestries of woven reeds held in place by gnarled juniper branches, coated with beeswax from a local producer to give them a hazelnut patina.
“Obviously, the original houses didn’t have these large windows,” Ms. Chenven said, referring to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that floods Casa Corte with afternoon light. “To us, it was more about a visual language.”
The roof, however, is authentic, made of terra-cotta tiles salvaged from the existing ruins. The couple and their two teenagers spent days removing moss and dirt from each piece by hand. “I think one of the ingredients that keeps this engine running is definitely being crazy,” Ms. Chenven said.
Within the houses are Pretziada’s furniture and objects. In the living room of Casa Corte sits a side table inspired by the paw-like feet of traditional carved wooden chests, fashioned in ash wood and Sardinian Orosei marble. It was created by Ambroise Maggiar, a French product designer collaborating with Karmine Piras, a Sardinian woodworker, and the stonemasons at C.P. Basalti, a local firm. Atop the tiled hearth on the opposite side of the room is a cluster of glossy black vessels by Mr. Piras’s daughter, Maria Paola Piras, a ceramist.
In the bedroom, an oval-shaped, chocolate-colored armoire, with amorphous sand-cast bronze hardware inspired by the work of the Sardinian sculptor Costantino Nivola, stands next to a monumental wooden bed with a wavy, saw-toothed headboard. Both were designed by Pretziada Studio and fabricated by Pierpaolo Mandis, a third-generation carpenter from Mogoro, a village in the center of the island.
Though both Pretziada and Luxi Bia draw from Sardinian aesthetics — and the craft knowledge used to realize them — Ms. Chenven and Mr. Atzori said the project’s value goes beyond surface appeal.
“We want to create an economy,” Ms. Chenven said. This is why they mostly produce items in runs rather than limited editions, she said, ensuring that their artisan-collaborators have a consistent source of income, and why they largely sourced the materials for Luxi Bia from Sardinian firms. The couple have not installed a pool on the property because they want visitors to make their way to one of the many local beaches, and in the process patronize the surrounding shops and restaurants.
They criticized the growing trend of folk-inspired design projects because many, they said, capitalized on the allure of traditional craft without making an effort to understand it or sustain those who practice it.
“We feel the responsibility to be cultural translators,” Mr. Atzori said, “creating bridges between the island and the rest of the world.”
Sunday Puzzle
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This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
Phil Pritchard of the Hockey Hall of Fame works the 2019 NHL Awards at the Mandalay Bay Events Center on June 19, 2019 in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Bruce Bennett/Getty Images)
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