Summer isn’t merely a meteorological matter. As the temperature creeps up, the heat is on to make the most of your time off, soak up some sun and uncover a little inspiration (and why not cut a dash with some fresh trunks and a new towel, while you’re at it?). So our editors clubbed together to select 21 things to improve your summer, from the shades to have poking out of your pocket to the publications to stuff into your tote and thrillers to stack beside the lounger. We have identified the Portuguese ‘praia’ on which to host your family gathering, the nippiest set of wheels for an urban adventure and the breezy Mediterranean retailer for all of your warm-weather needs. What more do you need?

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21.
Ideas for a better world
The conversation starter

There’s one other thing that will really enhance your summer, leaving you inspired and with an address book full of fresh contacts, while revealing a new side of a Mediterranean city. You need a ticket for this year’s edition of Monocle’s Quality of Life Conference, which will take place in Barcelona from Thursday 4 to Saturday 6 September. There will be fun receptions, tours and a day of panels focused on making better businesses, cities and lives. Join us.
monocle.com/events

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Illustrator: Antonio Sortino

Pia Ilonen first visited Vähä-Kiljava when she was 12 years old. It was the 1970s and her architect parents, Pirkko and Arvi, were building a family cottage in the village, a popular holiday destination about 50km north of Helsinki. At the time, her mother and father were designing petrol stations for US petroleum company Esso; they decided to order one of the ready-made station structures and convert it into a house. Pia remembers the building site: initially, there was only the bright-yellow metal station skeleton with a hearth in the middle. “All of our neighbours remember our family,” says Pia. “We would be grilling sausages in the fireplace with nothing but a steel frame surrounding us.”

Some 50 years later, Pia’s car is under the cottage’s parking canopy and her two grandchildren are playing inside the house. The building no longer looks like a pit stop on the side of a highway; it now has a green wooden façade and a happily cluttered interior with large windows, an Alvar Aalto seating arrangement and tapestries on the walls. It has served as the family’s summer home for decades and Pirkko often hosted pancake parties on the terrace for all of the children in the village. Pia, who grew up to become an architect like her parents, is now trying to work out how to renovate the cottage, which her neighbours still refer to as the “Huoltoasema” (petrol station). It’s in need of new windows, a new roof and a fresh lick of paint.

Today the Ilonens’ house and most of the other cottages surrounding it belong to the Finnish Association of Architects (SAFA), a public-facing organisation that counts more than 70 per cent of practitioners in the country as members. It co-ordinates building competitions, consults on new legislation and represents the interests of Finland’s architects.

But SAFA also has a less publicised role: managing Vähä-Kiljava’s 25 mökki (cottages), which were built between 1940 and 1970, and most are rented to SAFA members. This curious collection of houses serves as a kind of open-air museum of Finnish mökki culture, as well as an extended experiment in what happens when a group of architects decide to spend summers in the wilderness together.

Vähä-Kiljava was established in 1936 when Väinö Vähäkallio, a prominent architect and the then-head of Finland’s building commission, decided to donate 30 hectares to SAFA for the purpose of providing a “recreational and holiday-making place for architects”. (There are competing explanations as to why he did so: some say that it was simply out of altruism, while others claim that he was in trouble for handing himself commissions and needed to curry favour.)

The plot was pretty: a gently sloping moraine covered in moss, spruce trees and porcini mushrooms, with a sand beach bordering the crystal-clear Sääksjärvi lake. The founding document spelled out the rules of the place: in addition to building a central venue with hotel rooms and a communal dining hall, plots would be given over to architects on which to create cottages. The document also specified that after the original tenant’s death, every house would become the property of SAFA and rented out to other members.

The community is still governed by these rules, says Jukka Karhunen, a founding partner at Hyvämäki-Karhunen-Parkkinen (HKP), the firm that designed the Helsinki Opera House in 1993, as well as many other public buildings. He welcomes Monocle to Vähä-Kiljava on a balmy summer’s day. “It’s the perfect combination of isolation and togetherness,” he says. “There is a community but nobody comes knocking on your door unannounced.”

Karhunen, who is wearing a striped T-shirt and shorts, is in a decidedly laid-back mood. He offers us a sparkling drink made from blackcurrant leaves. He and his architect-poet wife, Kati Salonen, are longtime residents of Vähä-Kiljava, spending several months there every summer. They read, swim, go mushroom picking, barbecue and wash dishes outside, before taking turns in the communal sauna in the afternoons. “We all agreed that you don’t talk about work in the sauna,” he says.

This mökki lifestyle – in which people of all walks of life spend their summers in the forest, ideally with no wi-fi or even running water – has become a trope of Finnish culture. Social equalisers of this kind are far less prevalent abroad, even in neighbouring Scandinavian countries. “In Sweden, those who were better off used to build seafront villas instead,” says Karhunen, pointing out that the mökki tradition is younger than many Finns imagine, only emerging in earnest in the second half of the 20th century. When planning started for Vähä-Kiljava in the late 1930s, it was still highly unusual to own a second home. “At that time, it would have been extremely rare for somebody to have a cottage,” says Karhunen. “Most people didn’t have a car.”

Nonetheless, Vähä-Kiljava thrived from the start. The people behind it first had to decide on the initial designs for a master plan, as well as a name for the site. Among proposals such as “SAFA-RI”, the association settled on the idea of borrowing the name of a nearby village, Kiljava, and adding a prefix paying tribute to the project’s commissioner, Vähäkallio. After completing the so-called “Kasino” – not a gambling den but an airy, functionalist communal building with a sea view and Artek-furnished interiors – the association announced a contest sponsored by a construction company to build a single-family cottage. The winning entry was a proposal by Jorma Järvi: a traditional red puutalo (wooden house) with asymmetrical windows and a sloping wall on one side. The jury, which included Alvar Aalto, praised the design for its “fun” and “thought-through” structure. The angular space contained a sleeping cupboard for children, so that a family of seven could fit into just 24 sq m. This foreshadowed the standard mökki construction that persists to this day – a spartan structure made from found materials at minimal cost.

The designers also took cues from Norwegian and Swedish sporting huts (or sportstuga), which were built out in nature and intended for sleeping in after days spent outdoors. This influence is clearest in Rake, a red-stained cottage that was completed in 1943. Designed by Kaj Englund, this compact square house is lined with bunk beds on two sides and wooden benches on the other two. It’s pared back and dimly lit, partly because it was built during wartime shortages. It’s also a favourite of Sari Nieminen, an architect who completed an exhaustive survey of the buildings in Vähä-Kiljava in 2013. She points out that the small windows are strategically placed so that somebody sitting at the table has a view out in all four directions. “Nature becomes part of the interior,” says Nieminen. “This is skilled planning based on how people would inhabit the space.”

Rake is complemented by a dozen or so summer residences, which were completed in the 1940s and 1950s, when the lakefront started filling up with baby boomers and their families. Households of seven could often be found packing themselves into tiny cottages. “I have never spent a summer anywhere else,” says Harri Hagan, who first arrived at Vähä-Kiljava in the 1950s. His family first lived in one cottage, which his architect father expanded. When Hagan started a family, he renovated the Vesikari cottage, which was originally built in 1946. “This was the Finnish Association of Architects’ land, so of course there were never any building permits,” says Hagan. He still spends almost half of the year in the well-tended cottage, which is set on a steep slope with a herb garden and has a generously proportioned firepit.

More experimental types of construction arrived at Vähä-Kiljava in the 1960s. Up the hill from Hagan’s house is the Mustikka, which is Finnish for “blueberry”, taken from the wild berry shrubs surrounding the house. Built in 1968, the cottage is believed to be a version of architect Kristian Gullichsen’s Moduli 225. This was one of Finland’s first prefabricated houses, for which all of the parts were factory made and could be assembled on site in less than a week. Its first resident, Riitta Thuneberg, had wanted the house to “touch the planet as lightly as possible” (like most of the houses, it is built directly on rocks) and insisted that everything in it be either yellow, white or orange. Though its current resident, Peter Solovjew, has relaxed the rules on interior decoration, he is strict when it comes to not harming the surrounding nature. “I don’t let anyone step outside the paths,” he says, as Monocle tiptoes away.

Further along the crest of the moraine is Pirunpelto, the cottage that marks the far end of Vähä-Kiljava. This house was built in 1966 by Ilkka Pajamies, who picked a remote plot next to an ice-age boulder formation known by the same name, meaning “devil’s field”. The starting point for Pirunpelto’s design was 17 pairs of glass doors, which Pajamies salvaged from an old building in Helsinki. These now make up much of the cottage walls. The architect spent an entire summer sleeping in a tent on the site before deciding on the placement and orientation of the building.

“He wanted to understand how the light changed,” says Pirkko-Liisa Schulman, its current occupant. When the architect moved in with her biologist husband, Alan Schulman, they were amazed how the midnight sun shone in through the patio and the full moon rose directly in front of the bed in August. “If you hang up anything, you ruin it,” she says. The couple have kept the original interiors with a fold-out dining table and kitchen that’s hidden behind Japanese-style sliding doors.

Construction at Vähä-Kiljava ended with the Ilonens’ petrol-station home in 1970 but the concepts pioneered at Vähä-Kiljava spread throughout Finland. The 1970s and 1980s were the busiest decades for mökki building, with the most common type becoming the modular wooden cottage that could be assembled on site. But while the level of mökki amenities has slowly risen – today most new builds are kitted out with proper heating and running water, if not a jacuzzi – Vähä-Kiljava has remained proudly primitive. There’s no tap water or sewage system and even electricity only arrived recently. “There’s often a discussion about installing water pipes and somehow improving the living standards here,” says Hagan. “But this is the enamel-bowl-and-root-brush lifestyle and it’s a good thing that it can still be found somewhere.” The traditional way of life also keeps the community closely knit, since only certain kinds of people are willing to sign up for carrying their own water, washing their clothes by hand and composting a dry toilet. “We’re trying to uphold the 1950s way of spending the summer,” says Karhunen. “It requires work. You can’t just arrive and fold out your deck chair.” Most maintenance at Vähä-Kiljava is carried out through talkoot: everyone in the community has to come together to carry out heavy tasks, with the reward of a barbecue and a spell in a sauna at the end. The midsummer festivities are famous and there’s an annual crayfish party that all SAFA members can join. Friendliness is essential, given the layout of Vähä-Kiljava, where there are no clear demarcations between adjacent properties. “One time someone put up a fence,” says Karhunen. “There was a village war.”

The values inherent in Vähä-Kiljava – besides providing a framework for designing a restorative holiday space – continue to guide architects towards a way of building that’s efficient and in tune with the environment. The houses are constructed with minimal resources and a do-it-yourself approach. It’s thanks to this that they all have ingenious space-saving solutions, elegant examples of recycling and reuse, and a sense of true closeness to nature. The village now draws a younger generation of Finnish architects, who can rent a mökki on a weekly basis, as well as international visitors, who can rent rooms in the Kasino.

Perhaps inspired by the upkeep required for their summer homes, many of the architects who spend time at Vähä-Kiljava have turned to preservation in their professional lives. Rake’s resident, Henna Helander, played a key role in ensuring that Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium was preserved and turned into a foundation. Pia Ilonen helped to found Helsinki’s Cable Factory, an early example of an ex-industrial building-turned-cultural hub.

In her teaching, Ilonen often refers to Vähä-Kiljava. She points out how her parents didn’t worry about expensive finishes but instead thought about how the family would use the space, building private, tiny bedrooms and a flexible, light-filled living area. “I always make my students draw the floor plan of this house,” says Ilonen. Perhaps there’s more to learn from the mökkis that Finland’s modernist architects built in their downtime than the shopping malls, offices and petrol stations that they drew up during office hours.

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Five Vähä-Kiljava cottages
With a host of Finnish architects calling Vähä-Kiljava home (at least, for the summer), there are many outstanding works on site. Here are five of our favourites.

1.
Aalto (1949)
This cottage was built by a lesser-known Aalto, Arvo, an architect whose firm designed Helsinki’s functionalist office building Lasipalatsi. The mökki represents a return to tradition that was in vogue in the late 1940s, with a pitched roof, painted windows and untreated wood. The cottage also has a spacious atelier.

2.
Koiso-Kanttila (1953)
Erkki Koiso-Kanttila built this cottage for his large family in 1953. There are small sleeping booths and a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the lake. In an open competition in 2021 the Finnish National Museum picked Koiso-Kanttila as the quintessential Finnish cottage. The house will be moved to an open-air museum in Helsinki next year.

3.
Sommelo (1960)
This 1960 building by Pertti Luostarinen was thoroughly renovated by its current tenants, Ulla and Lasse Vahtera. The roof, wooden sheds, and entire garden were redone and the interiors were freshened up to take full advantage of the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake. The warm, airy space is now finished with an open kitchen and Artek seating in blonde wood.

4.
Savolainen (1967)
To build this house, Sulo Savolainen purchased a decommissioned bus, towed it to Vähä-Kiljava and placed it on a concrete base. The vehicle is covered by a wooden façade but the entrance is still a door of the bus and the beds are where the seats used to be. The bathroom is in what was once the driver’s cabin.

5.
Mustikka (1968)
This 30 sq m cottage is thought to be an interpretation of Moduli 225, one of the first modular houses in Finland. The system was designed by Kristian Gullichsen and features a series of square rooms that can be assembled according to need, featuring bright colours and wooden brise-soleils. The Mustikka is a one-bedroom version with a hearth that opens out both to the living room and the patio.

The Milan offices of Italian fashion house Tod’s feel more like a high-end hotel than a commercial HQ. On the third floor of the Corso Venezia palazzo, past immaculate wooden and marble fixtures, Monocle is being served coffee in a light-filled room while awaiting the arrival of the brand’s patriarch and group chairman, Diego Della Valle, the third-generation family owner. He soon walks in through a side door, dressed in a navy blazer, his shirt collar riding up over a dark silk scarf. He sits down at the head of our table, placing a yellow notepad headed with his initials in front of him.

Della Valle oversees an Italian success story. In 2023 Tod’s reported annual sales of about €560m, while group figures (the Tod’s Group portfolio also includes labels such as Paris-based Roger Vivier and Hogan) topped €1.13bn. The company, which Della Valle’s grandfather started as a humble cobbler’s workshop, is now a global powerhouse. It’s still renowned for its shoes but has also branched out into everything from bags (Princess Diana was a fan and has a bag named after her) to ready-to-wear, the latter since 2005. The company is based in the family fiefdom of Casette d’Ete in the central Marche region and production remains in the area to this day.

Its continued investment in Marche’s artisan community, known for its mastery of leather, is what sets the company apart, says Della Valle. “We’re always looking to do difficult things,” he says, in a hushed, considered tone. “That means products that are difficult to make and also hard to copy.” He adds that, unlike a bag with a big logo emblazoned on the side, you can’t fake superior quality. “Every leather hide is different.”

As you might expect from a fashion player such as Tod’s, embodying Italy’s lifestyle – including its craft prowess, as well as its flair for quality and slower living – is part of its raison d’être. Indeed, one of the reasons why we are sitting around the table at the Milanese outpost of Tod’s is to celebrate the company’s new book, Italian Hands, the latest instalment in its coffee-table collection. The book tells the stories of Italian creatives and the artisans with whom they collaborate, from a glassblower in Murano to a master of terracotta. The limited-edition book, which puts the spotlight on what Della Valle calls “Italian good taste”, is filled with images of bag straps being braided, Gommino loafers being stitched and ceramicists’ brushes being dipped in sunny yellow pots of paint. The idea is to capture the company’s ethos of celebrating handcraft. There are barely any commercial or marketing objectives, with the edition only available to private customers.

For Tod’s, investing in the quality of life of in-house talent, as well as that of the broader community, is a priority. Whether it’s providing a crèche at the Marche headquarters and helping build an elementary school or financing the restoration of the Colosseum in Rome and Milan’s city hall, Della Valle is a strong believer in the positive social and cultural impact that successful companies can make – an ethos once followed by the likes of Olivetti and more recently Zegna, which has invested heavily in the Piedmont countryside. Della Valle talks about “the leadership role” that powerful companies must assume and the importance of helping to build something for their countries.

The publication of Italian Hands is also designed to celebrate the Gommino shoe – perhaps the best-known product in the Tod’s portfolio. Blending a leather driving loafer with a more technical rubber-studded sole, it became an instant hit on its launch in the late 1970s. The key was creating a shoe that could accompany both dress-up and dress-down looks and, by extension, be used throughout the whole week.

“At the time there was a world of elegant things but they were all formal,” says Della Valle. “And then there were things for the weekend but they were almost always technical and sporty. So what we did, quite intentionally, was to turn designs that were originally used for moments of relaxation into products that could also be worn with work clothing.” Part of the job involved what he calls “nobilising” rubber, which had previously been looked down upon in bourgeois circles, despite how practical and versatile it could be. Today you’ll spot as many pairs of Gommino shoes in boardrooms as you will in beach clubs – the most stylish wearers usually pairing them with linen shirts and bright-coloured trunk shorts, only to swap them for open-toe sandals moments before stepping on hot sand.

Della Valle might have been central to the Gommino’s genesis but he likes to credit the team around him, as well as his father, Dorino, who died in 2012 at the age of 87. Together they created a design icon that allowed Tod’s to enter fashion’s big leagues. However, around the same time in the early 1980s, Della Valle realised that the company needed to move beyond the family surname that it was using at the time. “My only request was to have a short name that was easy to pronounce,” says Della Valle. The idea was to move on to something that better reflected the company’s increasingly international market.

In 1984 the company was rebranded and renamed JP Tod’s (the initials were officially dropped in 1997), a choice that has plenty of lore around it. Some have suggested that the name was picked from a US phone book – a story that Della Valle says is only true in part. “Having a name that was a bit Americanised was a concept that was very much in vogue at the time among the big brands,” he says. “The people who came up with [our rebrand] were me, the typographer from my village and the owner of the printing press. Now there are 3,000 people doing that work.”

Like most large companies that are invested in makers, Tod’s has a talent pipeline to think about. Ensuring that people have “the desire to do [the work]” is at the forefront of Della Valle’s mind as he tells Monocle about the pride of the sewers who work at the Marche factory. Bottega dei Mestieri, a programme created in 2012, is a key part of this nurturing process. Artisans nearing retirement are paired with interns who often go on to work for the brand. “Young people give a bit of energy to the [older artisans] and they give back their wisdom in return,” says Della Valle, adding that instead of simply asking workers to show up and put their heads down, the scheme fosters dialogue between generations. “The artisan manages his own hands,” says Della Valle, turning philosophical for a moment. “It is very important for young people to understand the concept that if you are a craftsperson, you are truly free.”

As well as its nationwide largesse, Tod’s continues to build abroad. Recently the brand explored digital product passports to ensure that its supply chains are more traceable. It has also shaken up its ready-to-wear offering, with Matteo Tamburini, formerly of Bottega Veneta, joining as creative director in 2023.

Meanwhile, last year, Tod’s Group made the decision to delist and go private – a move that involved Della Valle stepping away from his role as CEO. (John Galantic, formerly of Chanel, now holds this position.) “It was the right moment to leave [the stock exchange] because we need to invest a lot in future development, which potentially is enormous,” says Della Valle.

As for what that future looks like, the chairman of the board and owner won’t give too much away, though he admits that he is interested in furniture and leather jewellery. And while he might be slightly less involved in the day-to-day running of the company these days, there has been no dip in his enthusiasm and his travel itinerary remains packed. He is already planning a swift return to Marche following his meeting with Monocle, then on to Morocco.

The key thing seems to be to stay true to what the brand does best: producing wares to the highest standard and achieving that delicate balance between novelty and continuity. “It’s important for companies like ours to never betray the quality,” says Della Valle, summing up his – and by extension, the company’s – ethos. “And we need to be absolutely modern.”
tods.com

When Philippe Delhotal joined Hermès as its creative director of watches in 2008, he was tasked with establishing the French luxury house in horology – a highly competitive field dominated by Swiss specialists with centuries of watchmaking experience. Earning respect in the sector isn’t easy, even for a powerful luxury player such as Hermès. But Delhotal, who usually wears a T-shirt, loosely tailored trousers and brightly hued Hermès silk scarves (a far cry from the formal suiting that seems to be the watch trade’s uniform), approached the task with an open mind and a sense of humour.

Rather than adhering to the industry’s playbook, Delhotal began rewriting the rules and asking questions about the concept of time. “If you can’t differentiate yourself, you can’t exist,” he says. So he introduced Le temps suspendu (French for “suspended time”), an award-winning complication that allows the watch to be stopped with the single press of a pusher.

The innovative idea brought the house the acclaim that it had sought among the watchmaking community. It also created new opportunities to tell stories about the ultimate luxury that is time, riffing on themes such as the importance of having moments to yourself and being able to enjoy the present. This year the house has reintroduced its Le temps suspendu complication in refreshed versions, featuring an openworked dial and available in deep-blue, red or brown colourways.

The summer months are a time of sunny getaways and seeking a slower pace of life, and Delhotal seems to capture the spirit of the season with his optimism and relaxed demeanour. He has often turned to nature for inspiration. Some of his sportier, more casual designs, such as the Hermès H08, are fitted with an array of yellow and blue straps, which look particularly good on the beach. The Hermès Cut, another recent hit featuring a round, satin-brushed case and sharp angles, was introduced last year on the Greek island of Tinos. Alongside marble artisan Giorgos Palmaris, who works in an open-air workshop in the village of Pyrgos on the island, Delhotal spoke about drawing inspiration from the ways in which materials such as marble and steel are shaped.

The creative director of watches has made Hermès well-known for artistic, one-of-a-kind pieces featuring hand-painted dials and the same kind of intricate drawings that you’ll find on the house’s silk scarves. Now he is also experimenting with jewellery watches, rethinking what a watch should look like and how it should be worn. His latest design, Maillon Libre, can be clipped on a sleeve, pinned on a lapel or strung on a leather cord and worn as a necklace. Here, Delhotal tells Monocle about breaking design rules and viewing timekeeping through a new lens.

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How did you approach the challenge of establishing Hermès as a serious player in watchmaking?
It wasn’t easy because from early on we were up against intense competition and a lot of important watchmakers. When it comes to mechanical movements, the big challenge is creating something different. We aren’t a watch brand – we’re a house that specialises in 16 different métiers – so we needed to have a movement that would prove to the horology community that Hermès was capable of entering this territory legitimately. In other words, we needed to chart our own path and come up with a compelling story. I quickly realised that this story should revolve around the concept of time. I wanted to talk about it in a different way than the rest of the industry and be a little unconventional. So we began discussing time that runs, stops and speeds up, as well as precious moments. Then we decided to explore the notion of stopping time and created a new complication based around this idea. We presented it in 2011 at Le Grand Prix d’Horlogerie de Genève and won. It was both a joy and a surprise. It allowed us to talk about Hermès as a maison that was daring to be different, to offer something that you wouldn’t find anywhere else. That’s our mission.

Why do you think the concept of suspending time has proven to be so compelling?
Horologists have always been making complications that are extremely precise in terms of telling the time but what we did is turn the concept on its head. When you stop time, it’s a moment of privilege that you can dedicate either to yourself or to others. Imagine a meeting in which you can talk without worrying about how much longer you have left or being in a space where nothing else exists aside from the present moment.

Le temps suspendu put the house on the watchmaking map more than 10 years ago. Why did you choose to return to it this year?
It has been three years since we activated the relaunch of the concept. But three years ago we weren’t in the situation that we’re in today, facing huge uncertainties both politically and economically. We all feel the need to escape, to talk about something else and take advantage of the present moment because the future seems so precarious.

Is that also why you’re doubling down on humour with this year’s limited-edition art watches?
Yes. We presented a watch that depicts a horse whose tongue sticks out because it’s funny. Watchmaking is a craft that is very serious. I have worked for many traditional watchmakers and that’s how they tend to be. At Hermès, it’s not that we’re not serious but we are different. We do things with lightness and people enjoy it. These days we need that, as well as a sense of fantasy that encourages us to stop and take a breath.

Do you draw inspiration from other departments of the house?
I’m always inspired by the silks, which are a canvas for so many types of drawing and colour experimentation. I find leather interesting too, especially when I’m researching colour. There’s a certain exchange between us and it’s interesting to see the collaboration between the silk, leather-goods and accessories departments. We share experiences because we are ultimately one house and all of our creations need to have stylistic coherence. The Métiers d’Art range of artistic, hand-painted dials is a signature because it reflects the drawings of our silk scarves. There’s so much richness and history in these drawings and every square also encourages us to speak about our heritage and play with colour.

As well as unique Métiers d’Art watches, you have also introduced more casual, sporty designs, such as the Hermès H08. Why is it important for you to have such a wide repertoire?
There are people who only wear one watch but others prefer to adjust to different situations. I would wear the Hermès H08 on the weekend because it’s more casual, while the Arceau is a watch that you can wear throughout the week. Every design has its own community. We have customers who are extroverted and fashion-forward and others who are a little more discreet. The diversity of our customer base is what makes it so interesting. Different times of the year also call for different watches. Sometimes people lean towards watches that are more elegant and jewellery-inspired, while at others they prefer something more sporty. We need to take advantage of this with a sufficient offer that caters to various types of people and occasions. If you only focus on one category, things become more complicated.

Your new designs, including the Hermès Cut and the Hermès H08, have been very well received by collectors. Do you see them becoming future icons?
The making of an icon happens naturally. You can’t control it. In perfumery, for example, there are certain scents that are iconic – Chanel No 5, Mugler’s Angel and so forth. But when they were being created, no one could have imagined that they would achieve this status. Even if you try to design an icon, it won’t necessarily become one – only time can tell. I simply design a watch and it’s either welcomed by the community or not. Sometimes it might not be the right time; at others, everything just aligns, from the trends of the moment to people’s interests. I hope that all of our watches will become icons but for the moment they’re not. We need to wait and see. It’s just like in the film and music industries: when an actress or a singer makes a great movie or song, people are quick to call her a star but in reality she’s not. A star is someone with a 30- or 40-year career.

You have been experimenting with making jewellery watches, including the brooch watch, which nods to the house’s anchor chain motif and also challenges a lot of watchmaking conventions. Was that your intention?
We had this idea of offering a new watch and a new way of wearing it. The anchor chain motif has existed for a century on our bags, on our belts and on our pocket watches – so why not tell a new story with watches and break some rules? That’s what makes you original. There’s nothing more boring than things that look identical. There are so many parallels in other industries as well: just look at cars or even clothing.

Having now firmly established the house in the world of Swiss watchmaking, what’s next?
We want to be more creative and audacious. Once you have built a solid foundation, you need to continue doing better. Every year we try to build on what we already have, just like in life. In this industry, you always need to be proving yourself and your ability to make things well.

When Cenk Debensason is hungry, he rarely reaches for a Michelin guide for tips. “Whenever I think of food in Istanbul, I think of this,” the chef behind the celebrated Arkestra restaurant tells Monocle as he stands beside a vendor while a fish sizzles on the grill atop a simple cart. Debensason is here by the edge of the Bosphorus for balik ekmek: mackerel with onions, parsley, sumac and cumin, served in a hunk of fluffy white bread. Alongside the simit – sesame-crusted rings that are sweetly caramelised outside and pillowy soft within – such simple snacks are the city’s staples. But for all of the tiled lokantasi (workers’ bistros), black-tea sellers and kebab shops, Turkish fare has undergone something of a reinvention of late.

Debensason trained in France and, with his wife and business partner, Debora Ipekel, creates simple yet sophisticated spins on modern European and Turkish classics, using ingredients grown and caught around the city. The Michelin guide arrived in Istanbul in 2022 (the inspectors went to the western provinces of Izmir and Bodrum a year later) and Arkestra, based in a discreet modernist villa in the Etiler district, was one of the establishments that earned a coveted star. It marked a major step up in the city’s culinary reputation.

Meanwhile at Turk, a sleek establishment with a months-long waiting list in fashionable Bomonti, Fatih Tutak fuses Turkish flavours with techniques that he learned during his 15 years working in some of Asia’s top restaurants. At Neolokal, set in the grand building that housed the Ottoman empire’s central bank, Maksut Askar riffs on the flavours of his home region of Hatay (Turkey’s gastronomic capital, according to some), adding a sustainable slant by using regional produce and providing a vegetarian menu – something that would have been hard to come by just 10 years ago.

There’s a fierce wind whipping across the Bosphorus when we arrive at the packed terrace restaurant of the Sakip Sabanci Museum. This landmark building in Istanbul’s affluent northern suburbs has one of the best waterside vantage points in the city and a menu to match. It is the training restaurant for the MSA (the Mutfak Sanatlari Akademisi, or the Culinary Arts Academy), Turkey’s premier school for chefs, meaning that the food here, as affordable as it is, reaches the standards of the city’s most elite institutions.

Here we meet Sitare Baras, the managing director of the MSA, and Sabiha Apaydin Gonenli, one of Turkey’s foremost sommeliers. Baras is keen to try the new dishes on the menu, so we order delicate slivers of beef tartare in a tangy sauce; icli kofte, tiny meatballs stuffed inside bulgur dough; hummus; and delicate lahmacun, crispbreads topped with meat and tomato. Dessert is a twist on an Istanbul street-food classic: candied chestnut, reimagined as a creamy mousse topped with feather-light whipped cream. “We didn’t have avant-garde chefs before the 2000s,” says Baras. “Turkish food used to be very local. We transformed the quality of the education in the country. Our graduates work in all of the biggest restaurants and a lot of them who came from Anatolia want to go back to their hometowns and raise the bar there.”

The MSA’s premises in Maslak, a bustling business district on the European side of Istanbul, is a mix of nostalgia and cutting-edge efficiency. In the foyer are glass-fronted cabinets stuffed with vintage food tins and wine bottles but the training kitchens are kitted out with stop clocks and viewing windows that allow visitors to watch the trainees in action, replicating the high-octane atmosphere of a working kitchen. Here, Baras hopes that chefs will be able to hone their skills to the millimetre-fine accuracy required in the top kitchens.

“We tell the students that it should be a reflex when they are cutting – their mind should be on the next stage,” says Sergin Keyder, one of the trainers, who started as a student at the school eight years ago. “At first I was working with a ruler and stickers on my cutting board. I ate carrot purée for two months.”

The MSA’s diploma is internationally recognised and its former students, who number about 30,000, have gone on to work in kitchens worldwide, as well as refilling the city’s culinary talent pool. Turkish cuisine is the school’s bedrock but it also teaches other styles, reflecting the increasing appetite for variety in Istanbul. Birol Can is one of the 2025 cohort. The 27-year-old had already completed a degree in cinema and was living in his home city of Tekirdag when he decided to pursue his childhood dream and sign up at the MSA. He hopes to open a French or Italian restaurant in his hometown once he graduates.

Turkish wine is also stepping up after years of obscurity. Apaydin Gonenli is a former chief of front-of-house operations at Mikla, an Istanbul institution where she was responsible for food and wine pairings. In 2019 she organised the first Root, Origin, Soil conference to showcase Turkish viticulture, an event that is now held biannually. “We were always drinking the same six Turkish grape varieties and I wondered why,” says Gonenli. “In Turkey we have about 800 unique varieties and I started promoting them. When I set out, there were 20 indigenous varieties available commercially. Now there are 60.”

The bottles are now making their way into high-end restaurants and a few pioneers are popularising wine bars. Chief among them is Foxy in Istanbul’s smart Nisantasi district, a venture by Maksut Askar and wine expert Levon Bagis, where an extensive and ever-changing selection of regional varieties is available by the glass, alongside fresh twists on classic mezze.

Above all – and despite the role that Michelin has played in internationalising and glamorising Turkish food – there is still something pleasingly democratic about the restaurant scene here. “Our customers come here for a good time, not to feel overwhelmed,” says Debensason, while explaining why Arkestra offers à la carte rather than the tasting menu often favoured by Michelin inspectors.

On the weekday evening that Monocle visits, the atmosphere at the restaurant is fittingly fun and informal. The tables are full but Debensason and Ipekel mingle with guests, explaining new dishes and recommending wine pairings. When Monocle asks where he would head for a taste of the city, Debensason suggests Donerci Engin, an unassuming hole in the wall with plastic furniture in Beyoglu that serves nothing more complicated than a classic doner kebab. Prices might be on the rise but don’t let anyone tell you an international reputation has cost Istanbul’s food scene its authenticity or its originality.

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Tastes of the city
Here are some of Istanbul’s culinary attractions beyond the white tablecloths and polished dining rooms.

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Pandeli
This canteen feels like a hidden palace and is the best spot in the city for a quick, inexpensive lunch with views over Eminonu port. Turkish staples have been served here for about a century and the quality has never dipped. Arrive early or reserve to secure the best table.
pandeli.com.tr

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Karakoy historic fish market
You need to venture to the lesser known side of Karakoy to get to this market. Cross through the underpass that runs under the Galata Bridge and you’ll find it just a few steps beyond. This is where locals come to buy the freshest catch to take home. But you can also ask one of the adjoining restaurants to cook your choice for you or get it served in a sandwich or wrap to eat by the waterside.

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‘Simit’ stands, citywide
You’ll find simit everywhere but if you want the freshest available, look for the vendors with the highest turnover. You can’t go far wrong at any of the city-centre ports, where thousands of people pass by every hour. One of the most atmospheric is the cart just outside Besiktas port, which has a lovely backdrop of the historic terminal and the Bosphorus beyond.

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Basta!
Founded by two chefs who worked in Michelin-starred restaurants outside Turkey, this no-fuss spot has the best wraps (dürüm) in the city. The menu is tight, with options that you can count on one hand, but the flavour combinations are so well balanced that you’ll keep coming back for more. Try the lamb with harissa and yoghurt. The pavement seats make for prime people-watching spots.
bastafood.com

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Kebapci Zeki Usta
Proprietor Yilmaz Omeroglu uses only the freshest meat for his kebabs and meatballs. There’s no doner here, however. Zeki Usta’s specialities are adana and urfa kebabs, richly spiced and served with pillowy pitta bread. This atmospheric café is in the heart of Kuzguncuk, a quaint neighbourhood of coloured houses and ancient churches on the Asian side.
Kuzguncuk, Icadiye Caddesi 31

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Moda Tea Garden
Tea is a way of life in Istanbul and you’re never too far away from a seller brewing a fresh batch. Seek out the tea gardens if you want to retreat from Istanbul’s chaos and sip your drink in peace. Our favourite is in the Moda district on the Asian side, on a bluff overlooking the Sea of Marmara.
Caferaga, Park Ici Yolu, 34710 Kadikoy

Enrique Olvera has 14 restaurants in cities from New York and Los Angeles to Mexico City but he likes to spend his downtime far from the hustle of a busy service. When Monocle pulls up at his wooden bungalow in Reserva Peñitas, a nature development in Valle de Bravo, a two-hour drive west of the Mexican capital, the chef is distractedly removing fungus from one of his 100 fruit trees. “It’s what I like to do with my free time,” says the Mexican chef with a smile. He acquired the site during the pandemic, built the Japanese-style residence, then set about planting local flora and helping it all thrive. “If a plant isn’t supposed to grow here,” he says, his fingernails black with soil, “then I must respect that.”

Dubbed Casa O, Olvera’s weekend residence is a long way from anywhere, marked only by a large steel “O” on a gate that even a neighbour struggled to direct us to. Here, Olvera – a man who changed the face of Mexican cuisine and put street food on the top table – seems almost anonymous. And, it turns out, that’s exactly how he likes it.

Olvera’s story began in 2000 with the opening of his debut restaurant, Pujol, in the Polanco neighbourhood of Mexico City. It would prove to be a rather revolutionary idea. He saw no reason why the street food traditionally consumed by blue-collar workers couldn’t be fused with the likes of tuna tartare, lobster ceviche and beef empanada. He was 24 years old and only just out of the Culinary Institute of America in New York but Pujol quickly became the revelation that launched his career and his hospitality firm, Casamata. “Until very recently, Mexican restaurants abroad reduced our cuisine to stereotypes,” says Olvera, his brow briefly furrowing. “Our gastronomy is often exported as fast food but in Mexico we eat healthily because we have always relied on seasonal produce found within our borders.”

Overlooking the gently swaying heather from the veranda, Olvera says that he’s still riding high from Pujol’s 25th-anniversary celebrations in May. Attendees at the dinner included the great and the good of the Mexican dining scene: Lucho Martínez of Michelin-starred Em, Diego Klein, Joaquín López-Dóriga and Gabriela Cámara of Contramar, and Edo López of Mexico City’s growing Japanese-inspired hospitality empire, who gathered in Olvera’s newly renovated space to toast his achievements. More than the star-studded guest list itself, what pleased Olvera was the way that it demonstrated how the scene had grown in the quarter-century since he started out.

The chef isn’t one to linger too long on an idea without leaping to the next. “There’s a misconception that Mexican food is expensive because in the US you pay $3 [€2.60] for an avocado,” he says pensively. “Here, the same amount will buy you a kilo because we have so many,” he says with an expansive gesture.

Olvera worked with Mexican architect and developer Javier Sánchez to build Casa O. Sánchez was a safe bet, having also designed many of Olvera’s other projects, including Pujol and mezcal bar Ticuchi. “The brief was to design a residence from which I could give back to the territory, rather than taking away from it,” says Olvera, explaining the adentro-afuera (“inside-outside”) nature of the sliding doors and wide apertures.

Brought up in Mexico City, where water rationing is common, Olvera has built a home that collects and recycles rainwater for self-sufficiency. He leads Monocle to the artificial pond where his labradors Maia and Uma, never far from his side, are lapping a little of the rainfall that has been collected. “It’s still the dry season,” says Olvera, who moves eagerly about amid the foliage and rarely sits down. “When I used to visit the area as a child, the wet season would begin in May but now it starts in June,” he adds, a cloud passing over his face as he considers the changing climate to which we’re all slowly adapting.

Is Casa O the vanity project of a wealthy chef? Olvera sees it as a long-term investment. “I built it for my children but also for my grandchildren,” he tells Monocle enthusiastically. Valle de Bravo’s climate allows him to grow tropical produce here. “We’re at the limit of the state of Michoacán,” says Olvera, pointing out his favourite tree, the floripondio, which is sprouting fragrant trumpet-shaped flowers. We might be hours from anywhere else but Olvera’s talk inevitably turns back to his obsession with plants and his restaurants. “At Cosme, we substitute the pumpkin flowers that grow here with rhubarb, which we don’t use in Mexico,” he says. “There are no good or bad ingredients.”

Olvera has trained some of Mexico’s most prominent chefs, including Jorge Vallejo of Quintonil, currently ranked seventh globally, and Gabriela López of Máximo Bistrot, a regular on Latin America’s list of its 50 best restaurants. But it’s not past successes that Olvera wants to discuss. Instead, it’s the possibility of fresh ones. “You won’t find these methods used anywhere else in the world,” he says of his famously outré flavour combinations, from coffee in mayonnaise and a mole containing 100 ingredients to the use of ants and creepy crawlies. “Eating Mexican food means being open to trying new things.”

We walk a little further and look back at the house, encircled by blackberry bushes, apple orchards and macadamia groves, as well as plum, pear and lemon trees. We see fat cucumbers, lettuce, crimson chillies, tomatoes and avocados, each crop planted according to the reserve’s sloping topography to give it the best chance of flourishing. There are two towering agave plants, one green, another brown. “The plant uses all of its energy to bloom and then it dies,” says Olvera, with the satisfaction of a botany professor eager for his student to understand his enthusiasm for the topic.

Olvera is the consummate host but it’s hard not to feel as though you were intruding on somewhere special to the chef while you’re here. “I try not to invite guests – I like to walk by myself,” he says. “I feel at peace because I can’t see or hear the neighbours.” Away from the city in which Olvera became a household name, the introverted chef prefers to spend his evenings experimenting with flavours or examining his crops.

So what does the future hold for the godfather of modern Mexican gastronomy? Olvera’s appetite for commercial success appears sated. “I don’t plan to conquer the world with Mexican food,” he says. “Every restaurateur’s dream is to be able to pay their producers fairly and to celebrate the value of the produce once it’s on the plate. If I have that, I’m content.” Right after saying this, Olvera admits a little ambition that subtly undermines his previous statement and opens up a conversation about a new hospitality project. “In a restaurant you have hours to impress your guests,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “In a hotel you have days.”
casamata.com

If Italian cities could be personified, Milan would be a bejewelled grand dame and Florence a dandy cycling along the Arno in a linen suit. But Rome? The capital is too vast, ancient and complex to distil into one stereotype. The city has exerted its gravitational pull on the world for millennia. It has been a melting pot since the days of the Roman Empire, when every road was said to lead there.

The Eternal City has also been captured on screen by the maestri of Italian cinema, who used its Cinecittà film studio as a base in the mid-20th century. Directors including Michelangelo Antonioni, Bernardo Bertolucci, Federico Fellini, Roberto Rossellini and, more recently, Paolo Sorrentino have captured Rome on film in a seductive light, with leading men prowling the streets at night in tailored suits and tilted hats while their love interests dance at rooftop bars or splash around the Trevi Fountain (please don’t try this). Today, Romans navigating cobblestone streets in formal footwear or zooming past on Vespas stand out from the backpack-toting tourists. There’s a sharpness to Romans’ presentation and also in how they move through their city.

“Roman style is more sober compared to somewhere more eccentric such as Naples,” says master tailor Gaetano Aloisio when Monocle meets him at his atelier behind the Spanish Steps. Aloisio has dressed heads of state and royalty from around the world, receiving a knighthood from the president of the Italian republic in 2011 for his contributions to the country’s fashion industry. “I seek sophistication in every detail,” he says. “My aim is to craft suits that inspire strength and command respect.” One sartorial detail that Aloisio abhors is the shoulder pad. He prefers the fluid lines of Italian tailoring over the more military style associated with London’s Savile Row. And this soft shoulder has soft-power credentials – many city tailors and shoemakers rely on a moneyed global clientele from the US, the Middle East and France but rarely Italy. We hear similar stories at tailoring atelier Sartoria Ripense and shoemaker Bocache & Salvucci, where orders are more often placed from outside the Bel Paese.

But a younger generation is poised to take up the mantle of la bella figura. Throughout the day we spot students dressed for their graduation ceremonies, donning traditional Roman crowns of laurels instead of tasselled caps. In the afternoon we stop by Piazza de’ Ricci to meet the team behind Le Tre Sarte, a fashion brand spinning a modern take on formal womenswear and menswear. In its atelier, vests, dresses and jackets are crafted using end-of-roll materials – wool, linen, silk and velvet – from Italian factories. Customers can choose to dial up or down the saturation from a palette ranging from forest green and deep burgundy to light pinks, blues and a zesty yellow.

“In Rome, we’re surrounded by beauty,” says Camilla Voci, who co-founded Le Tre Sarte with Niccolo di Leonardis in 2021. “If you’re always surrounded by materials that are high quality – bricks, marble – it translates into how you dress and your taste in design.” Di Leonardis agrees. “There’s a heritage of bespoke,” he says, “and tailors are passed down through families.” Exceptionally well-turned-out Romans who wouldn’t go near flip-flops with a barge pole assure us that the city’s style can be described as somewhere between “relaxed and elegant”.

But perhaps Roman style isn’t something that can be bought or replicated so easily. It’s an attitude, the way that a jacket might be nonchalantly slung over one shoulder while strolling down the street, its owner holding a loud conversation on their phone. It’s the proud upward tilt of a chin, paired best with an aquiline nose. A fearless commitment to navigating cobblestones in heels rather than trainers. It’s thinking that a tailored suit paired with calf-leather brogues and a carmine red silk tie is a “sober, simple look”.

As the sun sets, we make our way to the Rhinoceros hotel and art space foundation for our final appointment. We meet Alda Fendi and her sizeable entourage in the gallery. The last Fendi shareholder of the namesake luxury fashion house (now majority owned by LVMH) is wearing head-to-toe yellow and spiky sunglasses that echo her energetically coiffed blonde hair. As she reclines in a La Mamma armchair by Gaetano Pesce, we ask the doyenne of the city’s fashion scene how she would describe Roman style. “How people dress here reflects the city when it scintillates at night,” says Fendi with a smile. “It’s romantic and mysterious. It’s poetry.”

Atsushi Hasegawa, the head of creative at luxury hotel The Newt in Somerset, can be spotted wandering around its verdant grounds in a straw boater, longline linen shirt or even a kimono-inspired work jacket that he designed for UK gardening brand Niwaki. Hasegawa was born in Japan and became fascinated with fashion in the late 1980s, when he worked at Vivienne Westwood’s Tokyo shop. A passion for fly fishing brought him to Paris, where he worked at Maison de la Mouche, a shop that caters to the outdoors hobby. After about 10 years in the city, where he also worked in textile design, Hasegawa crossed the Channel to become the head of creative concept at footwear brand Clarks. Today he oversees The Newt’s visual identity, marketing activities and cultural partnerships. He tells Monocle about his spontaneous approach to getting dressed and his many sartorial obsessions.

How has your style evolved?
In the 1980s I went to university in Tokyo at the same time as Kenzo Takada [the founder of Kenzo] and Yohji Yamamoto. That’s my generation. I would read magazines such as The Face and i-D, and I was into hip-hop. These things weren’t mainstream in Japan at the time. Since then I have been addicted to fashion. In Tokyo at the time, there were codes. If you were a skater, you’d wear Stüssy. If you were into reggae, you wore Kangol hats. You were either a Yohji man or a Comme des Garçons lady. Nowadays fusion is completely normal but it wasn’t allowed back then. So when I moved to Paris I loved the freedom. Parisians wear anything naturally. Now I dress according to how I feel. Sometimes I’m more expressive; at others I’m more humble in how I present myself. My colleagues would probably describe me as a peacock.

Do you mean that your style reflects your state of mind?
When life gets stressful, I become almost punk and more expressive. When I’m more relaxed, it’s reflected in my laidback clothing. Clothes protect you so I’m serious about what I wear. As I get older, I know that what matters is what suits your body, your height, your posture. I’m quite obsessed with understanding what kind of hats suit me or how a T-shirt is made. I collect clothes and never throw anything away. I still have clothes that I bought when I was 18 because I don’t want to be a part of throwaway culture.

How would you describe your everyday style?
I’m a chameleon. I like the unexpected. Yesterday I wore an all-pink jumpsuit to the beach and my daughters said that it was cool. In some ways, hospitality is like show business, so as head of creative I want people to see my outfits and think, “Oh, wow.” When I left Japan, I slowly understood that there is unique craftsmanship there and I’ve since become obsessed with it. I might mix a kimono with European clothes. I look to 1920s and 1930s society fashion for inspiration: white trousers, a chain, a funny way of doing a tie. I’m now enjoying this phase of my life and being myself completely.

Do you pre-plan your outfits?
No, I wake up and start from there. I’m a DJ and only mix with seven-inch vinyls with the aim of seamlessly connecting everything without planning. I like to do the same with getting dressed, almost in a half-stressed state and with only 20 minutes to put together an outfit. I start with one item and then co-ordinate from there. Fashion is where I find joy.

The Venice Biennale’s International Architecture Exhibition is the world’s most significant showcase dedicated to the discipline. Its 19th edition, running until November, sees more than 750 participants present projects and research inside the Arsenale – a cavernous renaissance-era former shipyard, housing multiple displays – and the historic Giardini della Biennale (Biennale Gardens). Here, in their country’s respective pavilions, national delegations share innovations and ideas that respond to pressing regional concerns.

The resulting showcase is a global collection of work from the industry’s leading lights, offering a glimpse into the architectural paradigms that could potentially shape our built world for decades to come. Monocle picks 10 proposals on show, from the simple to the radical, that illustrate how we might all build – and live – better.

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1.
Confound expectations
‘Porch: An Architecture of Generosity’, USA
Giardini della Biennale

Given its current administration’s stance on immigration and international imports, the US contribution to the Biennale raised a few eyebrows with its themes of openness and generosity. “The timing is coincidental but this type of architecture rises above the historical moment,” says co-curator Peter MacKeith, an Arkansas-based architect. The exhibition is an ode to the porch, a design feature that bridges public and private spaces. The US’s neoclassical pavilion has been extended with a timber porch of its own. “A porch is a liminal space,” says MacKeith. “It’s in between absolute privacy and the public world. This is where encounters can occur, formal or serendipitous. The porch as a concept has value on the civic scale.”

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2.
Make space for conversation
‘Traces’, Oman
Arsenale di Venezia

As it makes its debut at the International Architecture Exhibition, Oman puts the focus on conversation. Led by architect and designer Majeda Alhinai, an exhibition titled Traces draws on the principles of the sablah, a traditional and informal gathering space found across Oman. A modern iteration of this communal setting, with perforated panels of raw aluminium that have been cut and folded to resemble woven palm leaves, takes centre stage. “We wanted to create a space that was open and inviting so there are no fixed interior or exterior elements,” says Alhinai. “It’s a space where people can congregate and hold more intimate conversations.” The result is a debut that proudly explores how tradition can inform the architecture of our time.

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3.
Sometimes the answer already exists
‘(Re)Invention’, Brazil
Giardini della Biennale

Why not reinvent the wheel? This year’s Brazilian contribution to the biennale explores how ancient solutions could help to cure our contemporary urban ailments. Curated by São Paulo-based collective Plano Coletivo, the South American country’s exhibition is aptly entitled (Re)Invention. It includes new archaeological findings of Indigenous infrastructure in the Amazon, as well as 12 different case studies on how this new-found-yet-foregone knowledge can be applied to improve urban environments, from water drainage in favelas to the use of native plants in architectural contexts. “The new findings on the Amazon show that human occupation can be balanced [with nature],” says co-curator Matheus Seco. “This idea of a symbiosis between nature, humans and cities is possible.”

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4.
Develop a metabolism
‘Build of Site’, Denmark
Giardini della Biennale

It’s no secret that new construction is a significant source of carbon emissions. It’s appropriate, then, that the Danish Pavilion, which is currently undergoing renovation, is looking at ways to address the issue. For the duration of the biennale, the space will become a paused construction site, with its displaced materials used to provide temporary walls, furniture and flooring in the pavilion. “I think there’s a future where buildings start to reconfigure themselves in a metabolic process, using their own materials for renovations,” says curator Søren Pihlmann. “This isn’t just about being more resource-aware, it’s also about amplifying some of their past qualities of an architecture in new future configurations.” In short, the Danes see reuse as not only a question about sustainability but also one about retaining a sense of place.

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5.
Feel the heat
‘Stresstest’, Germany
Giardini della Biennale

Germany’s Venice Architecture Biennale pavilion tackles urban climate change head-on with contrasting “stress” and “de-stress” rooms. In the former, a sweaty, claustrophobic atmosphere is created by artificially heated, ceiling-mounted mats, replicating the unpleasant nature of an urban heat wave.

Directly opposite, the curators offer respite in a bright “de-stress” room with three resilient common hornbeam trees standing in large burlap pots as a reminder of simple strategies available for urban cooling. “We wanted to create an uncomfortable atmosphere to elicit emotion,” says co-curator Nicola Borgmann. “We know that there’s a problem but we think that you can only connect with this if you really feel the effect of rising temperatures. There is a gap between knowledge and emotion and if you don’t bring both together, we won’t take action.”

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6.
Find the fun
Gateway to Venice’s Waterway
Arsenale di Venezia

It can be a challenge to walk across Venice, with only a few bridges spanning its Grand Canal. It’s something that the Norman Foster Foundation has addressed in partnership with German automaker Porsche. Together, they have collaborated on a shimmering 37-metre-long bridge on the edge of the Arsenale that extends to a floating pontoon, which is currently being used as a mooring point for water bikes. “It’s about showing people that exploring new forms of mobility can be fun and enjoyable,” says Norman Foster, the UK-born architect and president of his namesake foundation. “If you get on one of these water bikes and start to pedal across the lagoon, you’ll find yourself smiling.” The Foster and Porsche collaboration is a reminder that we can – and should – find simple ways to bring joy into our built environment.

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7.
Get hands on
‘Master Builders’, Slovenia
Arsenale di Venezia

Can everything be automated? The commissioners of Slovenia’s pavilion don’t think so. Its showcase, Master Builders, is a celebration of the bond between architect and craftsman. Curated by Ana Kosi and Ognen Arsov, it features four symbolic totems, made from materials as varied as tiles, air-conditioning ducts and lighting, which represent specific techniques and knowledge employed by Slovenian construction workers. “Not all construction sites are new, and the best way to work with old buildings is with skilled human labour,” says Arsov. “It’s about the head and hand coming together. We need intelligence on a construction site.” By putting construction workers on a pedestal, Slovenia reminds us of the human ingenuity and material intelligence, even as technologies evolve, that craftsmen bring to architecture.

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8.
Novel interventions
The Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain by Jean Nouvel
Fondazione Giorgio Cini

Opening this autumn, the Fondation Cartier’s second Paris location by Pritzker Prize-winning architect Jean Nouvel is a masterclass in how to contrast the old with the new. A 19th-century Haussmannian building next to the Louvre is being modernised through Nouvel’s distinctive steel-and-glass style and the addition of five mobile platforms that can modify the enormous surface area of the exhibition space. “Any commission for culture in Paris is a challenge,” Nouvel tells Monocle when we meet at the Fondazione Giorgio Cini in Venice, where an exhibition that delves into the intricacies of the project is taking place alongside the biennale. “The vision was to pierce through the Haussmannian shell of the building to create an invitation to come inside.” The project, combined with Nouvel’s vision, is a prime example of how building interiors can be given new life through novel additions.

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9.
Time and place
‘Migrating Modernism: The Architecture of Harry Seidler’
San Marco Art Centre (SMAC)

Co-organised by the San Marco Art Centre (SMAC) and the University of Sydney’s Chau Chak Wing Museum, this retrospective honours the late modernist architect Harry Seidler. The exhibition traces Seidler’s life, from fleeing Nazi-ruled Vienna and his studies in the US under Walter Gropius and Marcel Breuer, to his relocation to Australia, where his bold geometric forms, clean lines and honest expression of structure – often utilising glass and concrete for a sense of lightness and transparency – defined Australia’s mid-century modernism. The showcase features architectural drawings, sun-soaked photos and handwritten correspondences between Seidler and his collaborators. “What’s intriguing is that this work took place before the internet or even fax: everything was conducted through letters,” says architect Penelope Seidler, Harry Seidler’s widow, who now runs the family firm. “He designed buildings that were of the time.” And maybe that’s the lesson here: Seidler’s timeless work shows that buildings with longevity can still bear the mark of their era.

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10.
Talk more
‘Home’, Australia
Giardini della Biennale

The Australian Pavilion draws inspiration from the knowledge-sharing traditions, known as “yarning”, of its Aboriginal people. Featuring a curving earth and plaster wall and bench – a physical form that encourages dialogue – it incites visitors to look at ways in which an Indigenous understanding of landscape can be shared with Western approaches to architecture. “It’s about coming together and telling stories about who you are and what’s important to you,” says Michael Mossman, one of the Australian exhibition’s seven First Nation co-curators. “If architects can develop a deeper relationship with the client by doing this, then we can connect with culture and really bind people together.” The effect, believes Mossman, could be architecture that people feel strongly attached to as well.

1.
Rosewood Amsterdam
Amsterdam

What took 10 years to build but 10 minutes to become the most talked-about opening of 2025 (so far)? The Rosewood Amsterdam, of course. Extending across a city-block-sized building on Prinsengracht, the striking hotel, which was once an orphanage and then a courthouse, was reworked by Studio Piet Boon for its spring opening. Current city regulations suggest that this will be the last new hotel to be developed within the capital and it could hardly have picked a finer establishment: think coffered ceilings, velvety nooks and a rich palette of warm bronzes, greys and inky blues across the 134 guest rooms and the Asaya Spa.

For those planning a longer stay, there’s a set of five vast canal-side residences. The Netherlands’ favourite garden designer, Piet Oudolf, has rolled up his sleeves to plant the courtyard garden, while drinks and dinner are covered by the Advocatuur bar and Eeuwen restaurant. Is Rosewood resting on its laurels and taking a well-earned break? Not quite: all eyes are already on London for the slated September opening of The Chancery in the former US embassy on Grosvenor Square.
rosewoodhotels.com

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2.
Los Felices
Ibiza

Tucked away in Ibiza’s Cala de Bou, The Concept Hotels Los Felices is a technicolour homage to the glamour of Palm Springs. The 113-key property is the inspiration of Diego Calvo, an Ibiza native who feels that hospitality can sometimes be too conservative (you could probably glean this from the colour scheme that he has chosen). “I see myself as a rebel,” he tells Monocle. “I wanted to create a hotel that is a destination in itself.”

Los Felices is certainly that. It’s a riot of colour and playful nostalgia, designed by Il Mio Design, an Italian studio based in Madrid that has collaborated with Calvo on all of his projects to date. Here, 1960s motifs are combined with the world of high fashion; each of the guest rooms is named after a designer and decked out with photos from their campaigns, as well as a piece created by them.

The pool area is the hotel’s pièce de resistance, a space that is as inviting as it is photogenic. Bespoke flooring, parasol collections created exclusively for Los Felices and floating sunbeds by Canacana Design add vibrant Mediterranean flair that is a world away from whitewashed Ibiza minimalism. And it’s all the more summery and fun for it.
theconcepthotels.com

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3.
Taberna Bask
Ghent

In a fast-changing corner of Ghent’s green belt – a bucolic network of open nature and canals – Belgian restaurateurs Sam D’Huyvetter and Nina de Cuyper are channelling the spirit of San Sebastián’s pintxos bars at Taberna Bask. “We saw it as a challenge to create a space where neighbours, families and curious passers-by alike feel welcome without the fuss of having to book ahead,” says D’Huyvetter.

Applying Basque thinking to the Belgian terroir, the couple serve homemade morcilla, chorizo and coppa made from family-owned pigs, daily sourdough and imaginative creations including guinea fowl croquetas and red mullet with chipirón squid. Built with vintage finds, this corner spot strikes a balance between Belgian conviviality and soft ochre walls and warm lighting which evoke a Spanish late afternoon.
tabernabask.be

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Images: Louise De Groote