Applied art must become a PDO product

If everything is ‘artisan’, then nothing is. This is the contradiction from which we must start in order to understand what it means today to be true artisans of excellence. Since 7 April, in Italy, ‘artisanal’ is no longer merely an adjective used to describe a product: it is a legally protected designation. This tightening of the rules stems in part from a phenomenon that is anything but marginal. According to Confartigianato, there are at least 850,000 ‘fake artisans’, compared with around 588,000 legitimate artisan businesses in sectors such as food, fashion and furniture. The issue is not merely linguistic. The term carries economic value: it evokes quality, craftsmanship, expertise and uniqueness. It can justify a higher price and build a reputation that some may exploit without being entitled to do so. The law seeks to curb this, but its effectiveness will also depend on inspections and penalties. Above all, it cannot, on its own, explain what that word truly means. To do so, one must step inside the workshops and listen to those who practise the craft. Such as Anita Cerrato and Simone Crestani, two of the outstanding artisans selected by Homo Faber, the biennial Venetian event dedicated to the arts and crafts, now in its fourth edition. In Milan, Cerrato works with kintsugi, the ancient Japanese technique for restoring ceramics that mends and enhances cracks using gold or silver.

Crestani began shaping glass at the age of sixteen, almost by chance, when he took a summer job at a glassblowing workshop. Today, his studio comprises a team of seven people and his designs are commissioned by major international fashion houses. Two different trades, one shared idea: the contemporary artisan is not someone who merely repeats a technique, but someone who knows what to do with it. “Artisans are experts in problem-solving,” says Cerrato. In her work, tradition is not a constraint but a tool. When a collaboration with Montblanc came about, for example, she had to adapt kintsugi to the project’s timeline: urushi lacquer takes months to cure. “A Japanese person would never have done that,” she explains. She did. “Professionally speaking, it saved my life.” It is this skill that distinguishes a genuine craft from a mere label: knowing a technique well enough to be able to adapt it and find a solution when conditions change. Yet today, it is no longer enough for a craftsperson simply to know how to make things. They must also know how to sell, tell a story, take photographs and promote their work. Websites, social media, quotations, invoices, communication: “All things that go against our nature,” says Cerrato. Crestani has undergone the same transformation. Her workshop creates one-off pieces and special projects for the luxury sector: visual merchandising, jewellery, even buttons. The fashion houses, he explains, have become “like patrons” of high-end craftsmanship: they bring an idea and ask for it to be developed. It is precisely within that scope of research that manual skill becomes invention once more. But growing also means becoming a business. “To carry out work at this level, you need a team. And a team costs money.”

In his studio, two people handle content and storytelling. “My main expense is communication.” Even a workshop in the province of Vicenza, if it’s targeting international clients, needs to know how to get noticed: “You make something beautiful, you photograph it, you tell its story.” The price of this growth is also time. When he worked alone, Crestani could leave a prototype on the table, think about it, and come back to it. ‘Today, I can’t afford to do that.’ Yet it is precisely that time that forms part of the value of craftsmanship. Cerrato knows this only too well. Restoring an object can take him three months, and the materials are costly: in his case, urushi and gold. The problem is getting the customer to understand what they’re paying for. ‘Consumers often don’t realise how much manual labour goes into it.’ This is where the word ‘artisan’ risks becoming a shortcut: if everything can be described as handmade, it becomes difficult to distinguish a product built on years of expertise from one that merely imitates its appearance. Crestani has a strict rule in his studio: everything that leaves it must be 100 per cent handmade. But he does not believe that a label alone is enough to certify its value. ‘A brand is always a double-edged sword.’ The reputation built by organisations such as Homo Faber and Wellmade, which select and showcase artisans, also counts for a lot. The problem of passing on the craft remains. Crestani learnt the trade at a very young age and now tries to train young people in his studio. But in Italy, he notes, there is ‘no school’ for glassblowing. In the United States, the Netherlands and Germany, such training programmes are more widespread. This is why he believes that a relationship with the material must begin before a career choice is made: “You have to learn to get your hands on the material, even if it doesn’t end up becoming your profession.” Wood, ceramics, glass: a relationship between thought and the hand that takes time. It is a challenge that Cerrato also sees in his own courses. Kintsugi cannot be learnt in an afternoon: it requires patience, repetition and waiting. ‘Do something 10,000 times and then you’ll start to get the hang of it.’

The hand, even before the mind, must learn the craft. This, ultimately, is the value that the term ‘artisan’ should convey: not an image, but a set of skills. A craft that takes years to master, time to execute, and a market willing to recognise its value. The law may determine who is authorised to call themselves an artisan. The rest must be demonstrated by the hands.