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.”
The kiss finally happened at a Halloween party Chatterjee hosted at her apartment, while the two were watching “American Psycho” on the couch at 3 a.m., when everyone else had gone out for food. “We’re sitting so close our legs are touching and I’m freaking out,” Braggins said.
“I looked at Abby, and I was like, ‘I’d rather kiss you than watch this,’” Chatterjee said. So they did. About a month later, they were official.
On April 10, Braggins suggested they take a trip to Home Goods in Brooklyn. When they ended up at Coney Island Beach instead, Chatterjee was none the wiser. It was an early morning, so the two, along with the dog they adopted together, Willow, enjoyed having the beach to themselves.
Braggins ran ahead with Willow and crouched behind some rocks. When Chatterjee got a glimpse of Willow, there was a bandanna tied around her neck. It said, “Will you marry me?” Braggins pulled out a shell with a ring in it. The answer was yes.
A few days before, Chatterjee had proposed to Braggins amid a gloomy, cloudy sky on top of the Empire State Building.
The two were married on April 21 at the New York City Marriage Bureau, in front of three guests, by Guohuan Zhang, a city clerk. Afterward, they celebrated at Bungalow, an Indian restaurant in the East Village, with a few more friends.
Though Chatterjee’s parents were not present at the wedding, one of the couple’s most meaningful moments came in 2023, when Braggins traveled to India to meet Chatterjee’s family for the first time. Chatterjee had never brought a partner home before, and she had warned Braggins that same-sex relationships were still not widely accepted there. But by the end of the trip, Chatterjee’s mother had embraced Braggins as family, telling her, “I have two daughters now.”
I was comfortable being called “weekend girl” and had even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talked about food. Our second date: dinner. We talked about running. I was coming out of a sticky romantic relationship and into a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had endless common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I’d ever come across, but I still liked my solo weeknights.
It continued that way for a few months. There were sleepless nights of laughter and love-making. I didn’t care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dumpy, dark one-bedroom further south on the disregarded part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed and nicely lit two-bedroom, so weekends were at his place or occasionally the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.
“Do you want to be adventure buddies?” he asked while we dined at the hotel bar.
“Well, yes, I like that title. Does that mean I’m not ‘weekend girl’ anymore?”
“Adventure buddies” had a nice ring, but it was vague.
“I was thinking we can clear out a closet at my place, and you could spend more time there.” He faced forward.
We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a T-shirt and just my underwear, while he was wearing his sleeping shorts, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to a warm California sun and hot coffee, sipped on the balcony. Noticing that the outdoor space got just enough light to wring out some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to top off our nest.
I had been a serial apartment dweller with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We plucked three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times, and I wondered if I was wearing something that screamed “gardening noob.” We declined the help, as it seemed easy enough; put the plants in the dirt and water them.
Two blissful months later, we were getting some tomatoes and lots of loving. We were planning adventures, date nights and what we would cook with our forages from the farmers’ market. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I felt fortunate. Gratitude is due when your biggest problem is the sad-looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.
Back to the garden center we went, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to the neem oil. We got back to our babies, and as we started to spray, there they were: hornworms. They were bright green with pokey stinger-looking things on their butts, and they were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant mason jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions in the beginning? How did I not notice this sooner?
“Wanna get froyo?” I was a sucker for mochi and figured that would cheer me up.
“Sure, just gonna take a quick shower.” He set his phone down and hopped in. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.
“I wish I were with you tonight, but Em is here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up — boobs but no face. Who was this girl?
I didn’t move to L.A. to become an actor, but I sure put on a performance that night. I let the phone go black without a word as the shower shut off. We ate the yogurt and called it an early night. I lay mummy-style and wide-eyed next to him through the sleepless night. By daybreak, I had a plan.
I spent the next morning with his iPad reading through text chains. “You’re so gorgeous,” or “I’d love to take you to dinner,” or “I am not with that girl; you are the one for me.” There were nudes and sexts and I love yous. And so, so many people. I gasped and shook while reading the first few lines, but it became more like entertainment as the minutes passed. It was more than two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet he had left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.
I got home before he did and prepped myself for the fireworks. The bubbles and the “five-more-minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.
“Babe!” he exclaimed, excited and clueless.
“Babe!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”
I was calm while he paused.
“Oh my god. Get out. I can’t believe you violated my privacy,” he yelled.
I responded without defensiveness. “It’s sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 others — and that ain’t gonna work for me.” With calculated confidence, I directed him to pack my things from the closet. I was eager to get back to my dungeon-like, safe apartment.
“I hope you get help. It seems like you need it.” I really did care for him, and it was hard to drive away.
It was a lot to take in over a short time, but I am grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions up-front is a must. Even when the dating gets tough, I won’t settle for less than the truth. This summer, I will be companion planting basil, dill and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.
The author is an entrepreneur and working on a book about overcoming betrayal. She splits her time between L.A. and Michigan. She’s on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
There are, as I’m writing this, just shy of 500 reader comments on our recap of our 15 favorite looks from the Met Gala on Monday. The top comments are almost all negative.
“I’m sorry. I find this display of ‘fashion’ disgusting and I wish the NYT wouldn’t celebrate it,” reads the most recommended comment. “I’m struck by how out of touch and unrelatable this feels for the average American,” is the one just below that. A few down we get the first of many comparisons to the elitist incongruity captured in “The Hunger Games.”
The uneasy state of the American economy watered the soil for this sentiment to grow. Gas prices have soared since the onset of the war in Iran. The cost of groceries remains stubbornly high. The word “inequality” came up five times in the comments section of our story. It seems that the gala, to some, landed as a financially frivolous, Marie Antoinette-like affair.
For a few years, the Met Gala has ignited these “Hunger Games” comparisons, as the event has mutated into a competition of which attendee can wear the most baroque, procession-halting dress. I lost count of the celebrities who proudly shared how many hours it took to make their ensembles.
This, more than anything, seemed like the point where they were misjudging the simmering animus toward them.
If the intention was to laud the work and elevate the craftsmanship involved in making garments like these, it was ringing hollow in this forum, where tickets cost upward of hundreds of thousands of dollars for a table. The opulence of the clothes became another example of billionaire class entitlement for a cause most people don’t benefit from.
It’s not an entirely new conversation, even if the critiques were louder this year. Five years ago, when Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wore a dress splayed with “Tax the Rich,” she sprayed lighter fluid onto a hot conversation about the class politics of this particular charity event. (At this year’s gala, Sarah Paulson arrived with a dollar bill stretched over her eyes, an intended critique on the influence of money that many viewers saw as a hollow gesture.)
The discourse roared with a particular fervor in the lead-up to Monday for the marquee presence of Jeff Bezos and his wife, Lauren Sánchez Bezos, one of the world’s wealthiest couples.
Placing the Bezoses at the apex of the gala ratcheted up the sense that something already well outside the reaches of the average person had been taken to a new tier of exclusivity. There were protests centered around Bezos, and at the event Christian Smalls, a former Amazon union leader, attempted to storm the carpet. He was arrested and charged with two misdemeanors.
“It shouldn’t be that way when you have all of this money and wealth,” Smalls said of Bezos in an interview with The Times on Wednesday. “He should pay his workers a fair share.”
In responding to cries of elitism, the Met Gala’s organizers have long pointed to the money that the event raises. They did so again this year. At a news conference on Monday introducing the Met’s new fashion exhibition, Anna Wintour, the event’s longtime chair (and the global editorial director of Vogue magazine), shared that this was the most successful Met Gala ever, having raised $42 million.
“That money could feed and clothe many hundreds of less fortunate people,” read the top comment on our Met Gala story.
We’ve come to expect anti-celebrity comments when we cover cultural events. “Who cares!” is a common, if slightly disingenuous, refrain given how many readers clamor to see and vote on their favorite looks from awards shows.
But there’s a meaningful difference between the Met Gala and many other red carpet events. At the Oscars or the Emmys, the arrivals lead to a star-studded performance the public can watch, shows with a purpose — celebrating talent (subjective though that is) — that is self-evident. For the viewing public, the Met Gala ends at the doorstep of the museum. If you’re watching at home, the gala can be seen as nothing more than a bunch of grandiose clothes that lead nowhere.
In reading up on the life of Ted Turner, who died Wednesday at 87, I perked up at this five-word sentence in Malcolm Gladwell’s 2010 profile of the media mogul: “He dressed like a cowboy.” It led me to scroll through photos of the Cincinnati-born businessman — especially in the 1970s, when he was sailing in a piqué polo and an incongruous striped conductor’s cap or taking in his Atlanta Braves with his button-up shirt undone to mid-chest.
Turner, a college dropout, who was a prolific drinker (and philanderer), looked rugged — swashbuckling even. He was, it should be said, handsome. In some images, Turner, with his modest mustache, looks like Robert Redford’s body double. But it’s remarkable to visit these images now, when all corporate titans — of media, tech and otherwise — dress so alike. They’re Sun Valley clones in their fleece vests, stretch chinos and dad caps that they theatrically pull low in front of cameras.
But Turner was indeed a telecom cowboy, upending how networks ran in his rugby shirts, knit ties and denim. He looked suave. How few media C.E.O.’s can we say that about now?
Everywhere I go I see young men in ribbed tank tops, sometimes with unbuttoned shirts on top, but often not. The tank tops can be black, white or gray, but they’re worn with everything — not just as undershirts, as I was taught was correct. What is going on? — Richard, Philadelphia
The tank top may seem basic — just a sleeveless cotton top with a scooped neck — but as a garment it contains multitudes. It has roots in the working class and the professional class, the military and the farm, men’s wear and women’s wear, sports and Hollywood, gay culture, rap culture, gym culture and indie sleaze. Read more …
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