Issues

Upping the ante: Four of the best new restaurant openings around the world

1.
Corner Shop 180
London

British entrepreneur Nick Jones can’t get a table at his own restaurant. “It’s a good problem to have,” he tells Monocle at Corner Shop 180. As we queue, a customer recognises him and offers some unsolicited praise. “Great job,” he says of the space off London’s The Strand. “Thank God for that,” says Jones. The restaurateur is humble about what he has achieved since stepping down as the CEO of membership club Soho House in 2022, though he remains a stakeholder.

Part of designer Alex Eagle’s new development 180 Quarter, the venture is designed to be a one-stop shop. “It’s a café, bakery, grocery store and wine bar,” says Jones over a plate of herby rotisserie chicken, a roasted slab of pumpkin and crispy kale (we get a table eventually). “There’s even a gelateria.” But at Corner Shop 180, there’s no real delineation between the spaces. “We don’t have arrows directing you because I believe that a bit of chaos is a good thing,” says Jones.

Hybrid and multi-hyphenated hospitality “concepts” might be in vogue but Jones’s thinking is more practical. “I have never liked the idea of creating something that’s closed in the evenings or on weekends. In a city like London, it doesn’t make sense.”

By day, a tidy stream of commuters and well-heeled thirtysomethings come for patisseries handmade in-house by Populations Bakery. By night, locals and residents of the development’s 115 apartments drop by for a glass of wine, picking up some fresh pesto, a red lentil dhal or a puff pastry pie for dinner.

Come 2026, guests of the nearby 90-key St Clement Hotel will be able to follow suit. “I envisage this as the place where people come to find the last 20 per cent of their groceries and have a bite to eat while they’re at it,” says Jones, who works with about 30 global suppliers. So are there reasons to be optimistic about the capital’s dining scene? “Ignore the naysayers,” says Jones. “Londoners are still obsessed with eating out.”
7 Arundel Street, WC2

2.
Universal Bakehouse
Kuala Lumpur

In The Campus Ampang, Kuala Lumpur’s lively former school-turned-mall, Universal Bakehouse is churning out freshly baked pastries with an Asian twist. Here you’ll find everything from crusty sourdough loaves and coconut and mango choux buns to jalapeño minced beef tartines to red-bean-and-sesame twists.

“We want the community to feel like Universal Bakehouse is part of their daily ritual,” says co-founder Marcus Low. For the interiors, Low took inspiration from the original building’s academic facilities to create an old-school cafeteria atmosphere. Patrons are invited to dine in the semi-outdoor seating area that merges with The Campus’s open corridors. This sense of place is reflected in the bakery’s bold signage that hangs over the entrance, a nod to the street-level charm of traditional Malaysian coffeehouses.
universalbakehouse.my

3.
Tarántula
Paris

Chef Emmanuel Peña, owner of Parisian cantina Tarántula, doesn’t mince his words when it comes to Mexican cooking. “I wanted to open a restaurant without all the Frida Kahlo décor, piñatas, skulls and bursts of folklore,” he tells Monocle. “So many places claim to be Mexican but most of them don’t even use good ingredients.”

After spending more than a decade running the first taqueria in Paris, Peña levelled up with Tarántula, offering a refined take on his culinary roots. Housed in a former 1960s bistro, the space blends vintage Parisian charm (think red-and-white tiled floors and time-worn wooden tables) with a moody Mexican taverna vibe. Dim lighting and a carefully curated soundtrack set the tone, while the deceptively simple menu combines French seasonal produce with bold doses of acid and spice.

His favourite dish? “Honestly, just the grilled onion. It’s such a simple dish but the flavours are complex. People always ask what’s in the ‘sauce’ and they’re surprised when I tell them—it’s just burnt chillies with lime juice and garlic and a grilled roscoff onion.”
13 Bis Rue Keller, 75011

4.
Ultramarinos Demar
Mexico City

Mexico City is known for its long lunches – you might sit down at 14.00 and not look at the bill until four hours later. Opened by chef Lucho Martínez, who runs a string of restaurants in the capital, Ultramarinos Demar is a seafood spot that connects Mexico City with his Veracruz roots. Inside a dining space of sea-foam-green tiles, matching marbled tabletops and terrazzo floors, waiters dash around in white jackets and black ties. “I have always been inspired by old-style restaurants here,” says Martínez. The menu has everything from clam chowder to tuna tostadas – it’s like a favourite beachside restaurant but in the heart of the city.
demar.rest

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How staircases became the latest status symbol in Asian luxury retail

Stairs might be a hassle in many places but in Asian cities, where most of us live in apartments, they are a sign of luxury. French brand Cartier has just opened a boutique in Bangkok’s Siam Paragon shopping mall and the two-storey shop, with its own internal staircase, is being billed as a first of its kind in Thailand.

Duplexes have become all the rage in high-end retail. To keep up with Cartier, other boutiques are now undertaking renovations. Physical shops are the most important sales channel in Thailand and European luxury houses require more room to pamper customers with special “experiences”: intimate dinners and that exclusive staircase to a higher level of service.

A similar shift is under way in Hong Kong, where the Landmark in Central is in the middle of a major remodelling job: its ceilings are being knocked through to build multistorey “maisons” for its wealthy tenants. Amid this scramble for stairs, one of the best retail spaces to open inside a luxury mall in 2025 is stepping in a different direction: rather than up, it’s going down. Friend Friend at the Emporium shopping mall, Siam Paragon’s closest rival, has commandeered two levels of the car park and made use of a car ramp to connect the floors, stocking designer furniture, homeware, kitchenware, hardware, house plants, magazines and vinyl records.

While luxury brands wrestle with being both exclusive and accessible – creating roped-off areas for top spenders and cheaper products for the mass market – Friend Friend is notable for using stairs to elevate an experience.

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Three new public buildings in Rotterdam, Arkansas and Weil am Rhein that are elevating urban life

We have high expectations of public structures for good reason: they are essential for community life. At their best, they provide a welcoming physical framework for socialising, learning and reflection. Here are three benchmark buildings that do all that and more.

1.
Anthony Timberlands Center
USA

Many buildings draw their sense of place from their architects’ use of local materials. The University of Arkansas’s newly finished Anthony Timberlands Center for Design and Materials Innovation is one of them. Designed by Grafton Architects, a Pritzker Prize-winning Irish practice, with US firm Modus Studio and landscape design by Ground Control, the building uses timber sourced primarily from Arkansas forests and mills. “Our design envisions the building’s timber as the structural bones and the enclosing skin,” says Yvonne Farrell, co-founder of Grafton Architects. The cascading roof filters natural light into the interior and is positioned to mitigate the effect of intense winds and seasonal rainfall. The result? A structure that houses classrooms, studios and a lecture hall, while serving as an education in itself.
uark.edu; graftonarchitects.ie

2.
Doshi Retreat
Weil am Rhein, Germany

The final building designed by the late BV Doshi has just been completed on the Vitra Campus in Weil am Rhein. It was inspired by a visit to the Modhera Sun Temple in India. “I showed Balkrishna Doshi a photo of a small shrine I had seen there,” says Rolf Fehlbaum, Vitra’s chairman emeritus, who commissioned the project. “I then asked whether he would be willing to design a place of contemplation for the campus.” Doshi accepted. The result is a winding path, defined by weathering-steel walls, that leads to a small pavilion with two stone benches and a gong. “It is sound, resonating through the visitor’s body, that erases the boundary between self and structure,” says Doshi’s granddaughter, Khushnu Hoof, who helped oversee the project’s completion. “The building reflects the sound, transforming the chamber into a resonant instrument.”
vitra.com

3.
Fenix
Rotterdam

On Rotterdam’s city harbour, the Fenix art museum opened in May as a cultural space dedicated to migration. The first commission for a public cultural building in Europe for Chinese studio mad Architects, the structure weaves together narratives of past and present. Its main structure is a 100-year-old former warehouse. Here, 1920s windows and postwar sliding doors blend effortlessly with new sculptural additions.

Highlights include a swirling stainless-steel “Tornado” staircase that rises in a double helix from the ground floor to the rooftop, which overlooks the Maas river. A vast green roof also reduces the museum’s impact on the environment. Sustainable and experimental, it’s an architectural testament to the museum’s mission: to bridge Rotterdam’s past and future.
fenix.nl; i-mad.com

Why Keiji Takeuchi believes a walking stick can change how we see ageing

Milan-based Japanese designer Keiji Takeuchi has turned his attention to one of humanity’s oldest tools, the walking stick, which is now the subject of a globe-touring exhibition. Speaking at Monocle’s Quality of Life conference this year, he sauntered across the Monocle stage to chat with Andrew Tuck about the elegance of this seemingly modest tool and its links to quality of life and human dignity.

Andrew Tuck: I’ve been looking forward to chatting to you since I saw your humble exhibition at the Triennale during Milan Design Week. Where did the idea come from? What made you think, “I’ll do an exhibition about walking sticks”?

Keiji Takeuchi: The idea came from my travels and from living in Japan and New Zealand, among other things. Being out in the world, I began to observe the different designs of walking sticks. Where I once lived in Japan, I used to see canes that were more functional and practical, whereas in Europe, they were more personal and emotional. I started gathering a collection of walking sticks. It became an important task for me, because while design seems to be tending towards the commercial, I felt more strongly than ever that its true purpose was to bring happiness through the objects that we use every day.

AT: Well, as a man who might need one in the coming years, it certainly piqued my interest. The collection is large, with walking sticks made by well-known designers who you’ve commissioned, as well as found examples. Tell me about the ones you featured.

KT: At the Triennale exhibit, there were 18 sticks from 18 designers. I’m quite closely connected to all of them – I knew what they were good at and how they approached design. There was Hugo Passos, who created a utility-inclined stick with a basket. Henri Frachon is a French designer and artist who is obsessed with holes and their incorporation into design, as evidenced by the stick that he developed. Alban Le Henry turned in a telescopic design that can be adjusted for use by multiple people and aid better posture. One has a grip that helps you to get up from a sitting position on the floor, while another has a lip on the handle from which you can hang a shopping bag. And there are many more.

AT: Do you think that designing walking sticks in such ways could help to give some dignity back to their users?

KT: Absolutely. The walking stick has quite an impressive lineage. Once upon a time, it was a sign of authority or a tool for walking long distances across forests and harsh landscapes. At certain points, it became a weapon. But it has slowly been stigmatised and has become a symbol of disability in some ways. If I gave somebody a walking stick as a present, they wouldn’t like it, as it would make them question themselves: they might think about whether they need one or worry that it draws attention to an inability. It could even obliquely highlight mortality. But why should gifting a tool to somebody mean all that? This was the question of the exhibition.

AT: So many objects in our world today are disposable. Do you think that you have a role to play in the transformation of how we treat things?

KT: I sometimes have the opportunity to speak to students. When I do, the idea of patina often comes up. Let’s say that there are two tables; they’re both clean and well designed but one of them gets damaged. Many will want to throw the “bad” one away, as it’s no longer perfect and they can see what the pristine one looks like and would rather have that. I’m encouraging a shift: sometimes you’ll damage a table but that isn’t necessarily a negative. It’s a mind-set change – to believe that it can be a “patina” – and it’s starting to catch on. If the user likes a product enough that they see it as part of their lives, they’ll take care of it and keep using it. Emotional engagement is important. That’s something that can be affected directly by us in the design process, by making a product correctly and occasionally allowing things to go wrong.

AT: Will the walking stick endure?

KT: Undoubtedly, because the walking stick, in a way, is just a vehicle for a bigger idea – that someone, no matter their age, wants to move and to get out into the world. That’s what this is all about: bringing that spirit back into society, through the design of a simple object.

The forgotten underpass of Tokyo’s Skwat Kameari has become a creative, cultural hotspot

Until recently, east Tokyo’s Kameari neighbourhood was perhaps best known as the setting for KochiKame, a popular manga about a hapless policeman that ran for 40 years before bowing out in 2016. These days, however, there’s a new crowd coming to this far-flung corner of the city – and they’re here to visit a bookshop under the railway tracks of the Joban Line, along with a record store, an exhibition space and a coffee shop.

The tracks that snake out from Kameari Station run high overhead, cutting through a residential area with a narrow road on either side. Underneath this is mostly blank space; there’s some bicycle parking here and there, as well as a small supermarket, but the railway line’s underbelly was otherwise left unused – until now. Stroll 10 minutes along the railway line from the station and you’ll find Skwat Kameari Art Centre (SKAC).

This unconventional cultural outpost is a quiet presence with no splashy signs or bright colours. Instead, big windows and wooden benches encourage passersby to engage with this fresh addition to their neighbourhood. Peer through and you’ll see people rifling through crates of vinyl or scanning bookshelves. A café, Tawks, is also inviting, while a battered but coolly retro sofa sits outside.

Inside is one of the most unconventional bookshops in Tokyo, a hybrid shop-warehouse for art-book distributor Twelvebooks, founded in 2010 by Atsushi Hamanaka. The company’s inventory of 80,000 volumes is stacked here on open metal shelves. Record shop Vinyl Delivery Service (VDS) sells mostly second-hand titles, while the exhibition space is currently showing a video of a collaboration between upcycling brand Format and artist Seongil Choi.

How did this project come to be here, in an area that’s generally considered unfashionable? SKAC is the work of designer Keisuke Nakamura and his firm Daikei Mills. Until 2019, Nakamura ran his office and an events space known as Vacant in Harajuku, one of Tokyo’s buzziest neighbourhoods. For about 10 years, it was a magnet for a cross-section of cultural scenes; but as that era began to draw to a close, Nakamura tentatively launched Skwat to explore his interest in Tokyo’s overlooked places. In a city that’s teeming with construction sites and epic mixed-use developments, he was curious about the possibilities of buildings or, in this case, voids, that ostensibly had no commercial value.

From the outset, there was a strong cultural element to Skwat. Nakamura made his first stab at the project six years ago. It involved taking over a small house and former dry cleaners in Harajuku – a compact building that was painted in a vibrant blue and filled with art books supplied by Twelvebooks. In this cobalt building, they launched Thousandbooks, where every book was priced at ¥1,000 (€5). Nakamura later opened another Skwat pop-up, again with Twelvebooks, in the glitzy Minami-Aoyama district.

The term squatting – Nakamura became familiar with it as a student in London – implies illegal occupation but this was never Skwat’s intention. “Our concept is to flexibly reimagine spaces,” says Daikei Mills’ Masaki Jo. “We’re trying to find value in places that don’t fit within the existing framework.” Nakamura seeks out places that others might not notice. “When it was decided that we would leave Minami-Aoyama and we were searching for our next location, this underpass caught our attention,” says Jo. After a few conversations with the Japan Railway East Urban Development Corporation, the Daikei Mills team saw potential in what was effectively an empty space.

Twelvebooks is bringing the same kind of thinking to the rarefied world of art books. “We want to popularise them,” says Yoko Nakayama, one of Twelvebooks’ staff. “We seek to provide opportunities for people to pick up and browse photo books, and art books published overseas that are often difficult to find in Japan.” The advantage here is that they can also buy them.

Twelvebooks is an organiser of the annual Tokyo Art Book Fair, the largest event of its kind in Asia. Unsurprisingly, the company doesn’t focus on obvious blockbusters. Its most mainstream offerings are a selection of Phaidon titles but otherwise it stocks an eclectic selection of obscure exhibition catalogues, photography books and hard-to-find editions, mostly from overseas. They choose books, mostly from small publishers, that are desirable as objects. Customers might not come with specific titles in mind but they will leave with a slim volume on a house by Balkrishna Doshi, say, or a cookbook from Apartamento.

SKAC’s architecture is determinedly industrial. “From the start, we had a deliberate intention to try to ‘reveal’ the raw materials and structure,” says Jo. “We felt that there is a unique beauty to be found in places that seem forgotten within the city or in spaces left unfinished. So, rather than over-decorating, we intentionally left space and openness.” The result is a bracing palate cleanser after the deluge of crafted good taste that’s on offer elsewhere in the city.

The irony is that Skwat’s radical rejection of retail and property norms has made this place a hit. The SKAC project was originally intended to have a limited run but, at least for now, it continues. “I think that it’s because the way we frame our perspective is a little different,” says Jo. “At SKAC, it’s not just about viewing an exhibition. You can pick up a book, listen to music and spend time over a drink. It serves as a place where people relate to their environment through real experiences.”

Skwat’s success has inevitably attracted interest within Japan and further afield. And while Twelvebooks and VDS are core collaborators here, the next outing could look very different. “Each Skwat project is operated by a changing team with a different composition,” says Jo. “Likewise, SKAC is not a fixed team but rather structured according to the goals and content of each project.”

An outing to SKAC should be on the list of any curious traveller in Japan. It will take visitors to a pocket of Shitamachi (downtown Tokyo) that they almost certainly wouldn’t see otherwise – and they can also stop in at the new museum for KochiKame, which opened earlier this year. The project is a radical reimagining of the conventional bookshop format and offers a thought-provoking perspective on what to do with the overlooked pockets of our cities. If you do make it here, come with an open mind, not a shopping list.
twelve-books.com

Read next: The Monocle City Guide to Tokyo, featuring the best hotels, restaurants and retail spots in the Japanese capital

Thom Mayne on designing cities, museums and The Line in Saudi Arabia

“I’m more interested in the compelling than the beautiful.” The message is the medium at Thom Mayne’s studio, a nondescript cube of concrete breeze blocks on a busy corner in Culver City, Los Angeles. Across its walls are statements such as the one above, rendered and layered in stainless steel and crawling like calligraphy over its façade.

At the age of 81, Mayne remains an imposing figure – born in Connecticut, he was raised in Chicago and Los Angeles, where he forged his legacy. From humble beginnings in a studio above a bait shop in Venice Pier, he founded Morphosis in 1972 and co-established the Southern California Institute of Architecture (SCI-ARC).

After greeting us at his studio’s front door (which has “door” written on it, also in metal), Mayne leads Monocle into a cave-like workspace. His practice spans continents, from Orange County museums to Saudi Arabia’s new US embassy, but he’s far from everybody’s architect – his buildings frequently raise the hackles of critics and detractors. He belongs to no school, outside of a modernist’s imperative to always make things new.

Los Angeles is full of concrete boxes. How has the vernacular of the city influenced you?
Early in my career, I began to think about the idea of “architecture without architects”. A building that isn’t “architecture”, as it were, will still have its own characteristics and have formal qualities, even if you strip the design right down. Los Angeles is a temporary city. It is made up of these simple little buildings that were almost the first growth of the city. Architects were the second growth, taking down the little buildings or adding to them. And over time, the city was filled in.

Your first studio was in Venice Beach. How did the area inspire your early work?
At the time, it was an affordable place to be. It was pretty rough and I would hear gunshots at night. I had only just finished school and everybody used to gather at this café called DuPar’s, where you could get dinner with a beer for a few bucks. Ed Ruscha was there with this whole group of architects and artists, who were just kids then. I remember buying one of his early books, which was all about stripping stuff down visually. I connected with that.

How should Los Angeles rebuild itself after the recent wildfires?
At an architectural level, it’s a question of materials. So many of the houses here are faux-something – people want to build faux-Greek villas, for example. But they should build it like an actual Greek villa: make it out of stone, rather than flammable wood. In the recent fires, the architecture became the fuel. Fires of this scale happen maybe once or twice a century. But they can be used to create a positive outcome.

You worked on the original designs for The Line, a 170km-long development in Saudi Arabia arranged in linear form through the desert. Why did you want to design a city in this way?
I’m interested in how landscape informs architecture. They can have a hybrid, in-between relationship in which the project becomes more like “augmented land” than a building in the purest sense. In Saudi, there are mountains and ocean, and it’s a site the size of Belgium – a fascinating scale. It has since become a complicated project that many different people have worked on.

In California, you designed the Orange County Museum of Art. You described the building as “a fragment, not a whole”. What does that mean?
The project is open-ended – it’s not static. I want my buildings to be dynamic, with the viewer translating it and understanding it on their own terms. That would be different for someone who is highly educated in architecture and someone who is not.

You have said before that there’s “no zeitgeist”. What does that mean for architecture?
Go to a place that has vast amounts of new architecture – Shanghai or Shenzhen, for example – and there’ll be a couple of hundred buildings that are more than 50 or 60 storeys tall. There isn’t a set of constraints or rules, so you get a city that’s something of the moment and not about agreement or continuity. It’s a very modern notion of the city: a political, social and cultural expression of the individual, personified and concretised in the architecture of these cities. They give it form. And that’s where the conversation starts.

The architecture of empathy: Yvonne Farrell and Shelley McNamara on building for communities

Soon after graduating from University College Dublin in 1974, Yvonne Farrell and Shelley McNamara began teaching architecture at their alma mater and, shortly after, co-founded Grafton Architects on the Dublin street of the same name. In the first few decades of their practice, they predominantly worked on projects in their homeland, from schools to public housing, but a competition to design a lecture hall at Università Luigi Bocconi in Milan (completed 2008), launched them onto the global stage. They have now worked in cities from Lima to London. Additionally, they have curated the Venice Biennale’s International Architecture Exhibition (2018), picked up a World Building of the Year award and were awarded the Pritzker Prize in 2020.

When Monocle visits their studio, models and maquettes are being prepared for competition entries and team members are poring over drawings. Awards and trophies, from Silver Lions to Prix de l’Équerre d’Argent, are set on shelves. Despite the accolades, the duo remain committed to building with clients and communities in mind. “Architecture, whether it’s a door or a huge campus, has the capacity to be everything,” says Farrell. “If it’s done properly, it’s a gift to humanity. And if it’s an afterthought, it’s absolutely horrible because it affects everybody’s life.”

How did your early life shape your desire to work in architecture?
Yvonne Farrell: I grew up in Tullamore in the middle of Ireland. It was a small place but it had a public swimming pool, which was unusual for an Irish town at the time. Every child would cycle to it in summer. I saw a freedom in having that generous public infrastructure. That’s why architecture is amazing: it’s building the world. It’s misunderstood as a discipline, with people seeing it as a series of Taj Mahals instead of the infrastructural web that makes community possible. Shelley and I talk about it as built skin.
Shelley McNamara: I grew up in Lisdoonvarna, a spa town in County Clare. For a month every year, I would watch farmers come after the harvest to have their sulphur baths and massages. What I loved about it was that all ages and income groups would use the same place in the same way. It shaped my views. I saw the mixing of people in towns and cities as the secret that brings an exchange of energy that everyone benefits from. Architecture provides the framework for this.

Tell us about your approach to practice.
YF: For us, one of the lovely components of architecture is that it’s a social and cultural responsibility, where the work is usually initiated by the client. You don’t go off and think up a design irrespective of the people who commission you. Instead, they come with their hard-earned money and say, “Can you translate my words – the brief, the list of needs and requirements – into space? And can that space have some cultural value?”
SM: We start by trying to articulate how a space might feel, not how it’s organised. With the Anthony Timberlands Center for Design and Materials Innovation at the University of Arkansas, for instance, we loved the idea of creating a big hall, in the form of a workshop, as the heart of the space. The result is a beehive of activity where you’re never separated from the process of making.

How important is it for your projects to have a strong sense of place?
YF: It’s about cultural continuity, which is what anchors us in the world. If you’re not connected with your culture, you’re floating. Even nomadic people have a home. It might not be a physical one – maybe it’s a memory, a person or a thing. We need to consider the geological and landscape aspects of culture too. That might be remembering that there’s a breeze from the ocean that a contemporary work could possibly absorb.
SM: The interesting thing about this outlook is that there isn’t just a building and then culture – there’s an interconnectedness of it all at multiple levels.

How can a work of architecture reflect this view?
SM: One of our projects that captures this is the headquarters that we designed for the Dublin Electricity Supply Board. It was on a site where Georgian-era townhouses had been knocked down in the 1960s. People were very sensitive about their loss. Our design embedded a new tiered structure along the street, with façades at the same height as the original streetscape, referencing the original language of that part of the city. The question was how to make something authentic that’s also directly linked to the past. We found the answer by learning from an Italian architect about how to make a beautiful door and steps that feel as though they’re from the 18th century, referencing the doorways that were once there. The key to this was being true to the craft – making real brick walls and not brick cladding like so many buildings.
YF: Architecture is a spectrum of good, ordinary and, sometimes, gorgeous. It’s important to remember this – and that there’s a place for it all. There is, for instance, a spectrum of decent housing. You can have a lovely place to live with a terrace looking out over a beautiful bay or an ordinary, light-filled home within walking distance to a good school. You can look at it in the same sort of way as you would the joy of fiction: you can read The Grapes of Wrath or poet Eavan Boland’s work. It’s like that with architecture.

Giorgio Armani’s farewell show at Milan Fashion Week

This was supposed to be a period of celebration for Giorgio Armani and his brand, which turned 50 this year. Il signore Armani, as his friends and colleagues often referred to him, achieved what once seemed impossible: building a global fashion business on his own terms. He was his company’s sole shareholder and spokesperson; he signed everything off, from the merchandising of shop windows to the amount of blush on his models’ cheeks. And he resisted fashion’s fleeting trend cycles in favour of his own purist design vision: neutral colour palettes, relaxed tailoring and pared-back elegance.

To mark the milestone, the brand began the season with the launch of Armani/Archivio during the Venice Film Festival in August. A visual archive of some of the brand’s most significant collections and advertising campaigns, it contains everything from a sketch of a woman’s suit from spring/summer 1984 to a 1998 campaign shot by Paolo Roversi and featuring Canadian actor and model Shalom Harlow. An anniversary runway show and the opening of an exhibition at the Pinacoteca di Brera – a stone’s throw from Armani’s offices and apartment – were scheduled to take place shortly afterwards, on 28 September, coinciding with the spring/summer 2026 edition of Milan Fashion Week. Three weeks before the anticipated show and exhibition opening, however, Armani’s family and colleagues announced his passing.

Even if the mood in Milan was more sombre than celebratory, the show went on – just as the 91-year-old designer, known for his unparalleled work ethic, would have wanted. You could feel it in the air the moment you approached Via Brera and saw the procession of fashion professionals heading towards the Pinacoteca, just as the sun was beginning to set as if to salute the late designer. One journalist cycled through Brera’s cobbled streets in a velvet skirt and a black tuxedo jacket. The company’s long-serving shop managers, who flew in from as far as Japan and the US, wore dapper velvet tuxes. Muses and friends came dressed in the brand’s signature evening uniform of palazzo trousers, embellished jackets and pillbox hats. There was an unspoken agreement of sorts among attendees to not only respect the event’s black-tie dress code but also to interpret it in the way that Armani would have wanted: without pomp or unnecessary excess.

This was one of the rare occasions when the usual pandemonium that comes with large-scale fashion shows was replaced with an orderly, almost reverent atmosphere. For once, fashion editors respected the queue, marching quietly towards the show’s entrance and leaving their phones tucked away to be fully present. A sense of awe settled in the moment you entered the gallery: glowing lanterns surrounded Antonio Canova’s imposing statue of Napoleon Bonaparte in the guise of Mars the Peacemaker. Guests embraced, complimented each other’s sharp tailoring (“We scrub up well,” was overheard more than once) and spoke of the privilege of witnessing history. “It’s emotional – he really was one of a kind and he created modern fashion culture,” one fashion editor told Monocle. “It was really just him and Ralph Lauren.” Further down, fellow designers Paul Smith and Dries van Noten spoke about how much they admired his work and clarity of vision.

After an hour of quiet socialising, guests took their seats. From pristine white chairs placed around the cobbled courtyard, they took in Pantelleria/Milan, the last collection designed by Armani himself. He had reportedly been working on the anniversary collection through the summer, attending fittings and approving looks before going on his final summer vacation. Italian composer and pianist Ludovico Einaudi took to the stage first, followed by some of Armani’s favourite models, from Gina di Bernardo, who starred in some of his earliest ad campaigns, to Agnese Zogla, who closed the show. They mostly walked in pairs – another Armani signature – gliding through the Pinacoteca to Einaudi’s soft, emotional melody.

True to his independent spirit, the Italian designer was known for always asking his models to smile and walk at a slower pace so that his audience had time to appreciate the quality of the garments. Even when fashion favoured stern faces, loud techno and rapid walks, Armani clung to his vision of relaxed luxury. “You are young, beautiful people – you should look happy,” he told models during a fitting, captured in Julian Ozanne’s 2000 documentary Giorgio Armani: A Man for All Seasons.

Armani knew how to paint a picture of joy and elegance. Watching his models walking down the runway with that subtle smile and a sparkle in their eyes, you didn’t just want to buy his clothes. You felt an urge to become part of his entire world too. He was among the first fashion designers to understand the importance of building an identity that extended beyond clothes, expanding his business into furniture in 2000 with the launch of Armani Casa and entering the hospitality sector a decade later with Armani-branded hotels, cafés and restaurants.

“He created environments defined by a kind of austere warmth that feels both minimal and richly textured,” says Enric Pastor, the editor in chief of interiors, art and architecture publication Manera, who in the past interviewed the designer to discuss the Armani Casa collections. “At first, the atmosphere would be almost theatrical, with the [Armani team] orchestrating every detail. But this would soon be offset by the designer himself, his warmth and his clarity of thought.”

This same warmth was palpable on the runway, which paid homage to two places close to Armani’s heart: Milan, “the city of modernity and work”, and the Mediterranean island of Pantelleria, where he spent many of his summers. He was drawn to the island’s wild nature, its proximity to Europe and Africa, and the endless blue of the Mediterranean Sea. His house there, as Pastor puts it, “remains a perfect example of what Armani stood for: symmetry, restraint and refinement”.

You could immediately imagine the opening looks – linen suits, palazzo pants, smart vests in the brand’s signature “greige” hue – gliding down the vibrant streets of Brera. The more casual khaki sets that followed, accessorised with bucket hats and leather sunglasses cases strung around the models’ necks, transported you straight to Pantelleria’s rocky landscapes.

Even when the show shifted to evening wear, with beaded handbags for women, heavier jacquard suits for men and deeper, nocturnal-blue colour palettes, the same sense of lightness and ease prevailed. The word “effortless” might be overused in fashion discourse, especially at the moment. In the context of Armani and his work, however, it carries real weight. “Armani’s touch lies in this paradox,” read his team’s show notes. “A powerful stylistic statement, expressed through weightless clothes.”

The final look, a clean-lined, beaded dress bearing the portrait of a young Armani (visible only when you looked closely) perfectly encapsulated that paradox. Model Agnese Zogla received a standing ovation when she walked down the makeshift runway in the gown – as did Armani’s niece, Silvana, and his longstanding partner, Leo dell’Orco, who took a bow in matching black velvet, the look in their eyes betraying both melancholy and pride.

The guests were then invited upstairs to view Milano, Per Amore, an exhibition of about 120 Armani looks displayed alongside masterpieces of Italian art from the 13th to the 20th centuries. A series of pinstripe suits from the 1990s surrounded another colossal statue of Napoleon by Canova, while a group of signature greige suits for men and women sat across a painting of an “invented Orient” by Giovanni Bellini. The connection between the historic artworks and Armani’s contemporary fashion collections might not have been immediately obvious but, as the Pinacoteca’s director, Angelo Crespi, noted, Armani’s commitment to purity of form puts him among Italy’s most important artistic ambassadors. It’s also why the mayor of Milan, Giuseppe Sala, declared a day of mourning for the designer’s funeral.

“Giorgio Armani stands as one of the highest expressions of Italian creativity, manifested through the essentialness and rigour of form,” added Crespi, who said that he thought it was both “right and necessary” to pay homage to the designer in his own neighbourhood. “He is the most emblematic expression of Brera’s culture, a place where for five centuries art, research and innovation have flourished.”

As models, editors and retailers waltzed through the gallery, glasses of champagne in hand, what had begun as a sombre farewell quickly turned into a joyous celebration of a life well lived, a moment to reflect and be inspired. “It is especially important for us to be here to salute Mr Armani because he was such a supporter of print,” said Konstantin Spachis, the fashion director of Munich’s Madame magazine. “He wanted to see his products on our pages.”

Notably, succession was not discussed – as always, Armani commanded quiet respect. His design team has been meticulously trained to continue his legacy for seasons to come but, in the near future, the search for a new creative lead will become inevitable. “I think that brands need to stay current, so a refresh [under a new designer] would benefit the company,” says Luca Solca, a managing director at private wealth-management firm Bernstein, adding that a new leader could also modernise the company’s sub-brands and its approach to wholesale.

Armani left little to chance in business matters. His will instructs his heirs to begin selling the €2bn company within 18 months of his passing, giving priority to heavy-weights such as LVMH, L’Oréal or EssilorLuxottica. “This confirms – if it wasn’t clear already – that Armani had no interest in building a mythical Italian luxury conglomerate,” says Solca. “He just wanted to stay independent for as long as he was running the show.”

And while bidding wars might already be brewing, that Sunday evening in Milan wasn’t about the Armani business or its future. It was about Giorgio Armani, the man – and the power of consistency, refinement and obsession with detail. By insisting on those values, he created a universal design language, a new way of getting dressed. Just as Coco Chanel freed women from corsets, Armani will long be remembered as the “King of the Blazer”, the man who loosened up tailoring for the modern world.

By about midnight, the candles in the courtyard of the Pinacoteca had dimmed and the Steinway piano was packed away. By January, the collection will return to the brand’s archive. But the Italian designer’s legend will remain etched in our memories. Whenever someone orders his favourite meatballs at the Armani restaurant on Via Manzoni, checks into the Armani Hotel next door or dons a perfectly tailored greige jacket with no shoulder pads, the Armani name will come to life.

Three independent publishers getting book design just right

1.
Charco Press
Edinburgh-based Charco Press has helped fresh voices in Latin American literature to reach English speakers since 2016. Co-founded by Samuel McDowell and Argentinian Carolina Orloff, the imprint has become known for its simple but evocative covers, which typically feature line drawings against vivid hues. Charco’s in-house designer, Pablo Font, continues the transatlantic relationship from his base in Argentina. “Designing our covers is a long process,” Orloff tells Monocle. “He’s an essential part of our team.”
charcopress.com

2.
Wetlands
Venice is the base of operations for Wetlands, a publisher known for its catalogue of non-fiction books, much of which is loosely themed around social justice and the environment. Its entire production process is based in the city, with the titles’ distinctive covers created by local designers and printed on sustainable paper made from algae. “Venice is often considered just a backdrop,” says Clara Zanardi, the editorial director and co-founder of the company. “We want to make it a place of production again.”
wetlandsbooks.com

3.
Poursuite Editions
“We are dedicated to publishing photography that is anchored by a sense of place,” says Benjamin Diguerher, the founder of Arles-based Poursuite Editions. Its location is apt; after all, the city is home to the Rencontres d’Arles festival and a prestigious school dedicated to the medium. From the edgy 1980s clientele of London’s Blitz Club to the French countryside, Poursuite’s photographers capture their subjects with subtlety, depth and charm.
poursuite-editions.org

Read next: Monocle’s new book, Designers on Sofas, explores what the humble couch says about who you are

Studio Museum’s return is finally giving Harlem the cultural space it deserves

The Studio Museum in Harlem closed for a major renovation in 2018 and was expected to reopen in 2021. Its belated return, after a series of delays, comes at a tempestuous moment for the arts as the Trump administration seeks to influence cultural institutions. But it’s also well timed: after all, aren’t the arts supposed to make sense of such precarious moments?

“We were founded in an era [the 1960s] that was very much like the one that we’re in now,” Thelma Golden, the museum’s director and chief curator, tells Monocle. On 125th Street, the museum showcases the work of artists of African descent in a vast, boxy new home designed by Adjaye Associates with executive architect Cooper Robertson.

The opening exhibition focuses on the late US sculptor and activist Tom Lloyd, who also featured in The Studio Museum’s inaugural exhibition in 1968. Harlem has changed in many ways since then but has clung onto its identity and the museum is keen to stay rooted in the community. “I take a lot of inspiration from our founders, who understood why it was important to create space for dialogue – for the ability to engage with art and ideas and each other,” says Golden. “And that’s what we hope to be again.”

Beyond Harlem, the city of New York is experiencing a cultural moment. Earlier this year, The Frick Collection – which showcases art from the Renaissance through to the late 19th century – reopened on Fifth Avenue in the Upper East Side, following a $220m (€187m) renovation. Also in the pipeline is the New Museum, a contemporary art establishment that will unveil a sprawling expansion designed by OMA/Shohei Shigematsu and Rem Koolhaas (in collaboration with Cooper Robertson). It promises an opening exhibition featuring more than 150 international artists.

In a charged moment, when many are searching for glimmers of hope, who better to look to than artists? “They have always been important because of the way in which they allow us to see, think, feel and, perhaps most importantly, imagine,” says Golden. “In both good and bad times, our ability to imagine a bold future is essential.”

studiomuseum.org