Issues

Colorado’s ritziest ski town now doubles as a high-altitude art mecca

The residents of Aspen, Colorado’s ritziest ski town, have long sought to preserve their splendid isolation. When the writer Hunter S Thompson ran to be the town’s sheriff in the 1970s, he pledged to change its name to “Fat City”, hoping to dissuade any newcomers. But in the past few years there has been an extraordinary influx of people, initially seeking solace from the pandemic in second homes or mountainside chalets. This has put a rocket under the art scene of one of the country’s most affluent enclaves.

“The joke is that the millionaires were shoved out by billionaires,” says one collector, who asked to remain anonymous. In the summer of 2021 galleries such as White Cube and Mitchell-Innes & Nash opened pop-up spaces within blocks of each other, bringing their artists’ works to Aspen’s captive market. In 2022, Sotheby’s launched a permanent gallery. Artcrush, the Aspen Art Museum’s annual fundraiser, has become an essential midsummer fixture for collectors around the world.

All of this has transformed the local art scene. By one estimate, 32 of the world’s most prominent collectors now spend part of their year in Aspen. Marianne Boesky, who runs her eponymous gallery in New York’s Chelsea neighbourhood, has a seasonal outpost on East Hyman Avenue, hosting shows through the warmer months. In contrast to the initial fever of 2021, commitment to the town is now essential for newcomers. “Aspen is a real community,” she says. “Showing up for a month and trying to sell art might work in the short term but it won’t bring the relationships that we all need in our business.”

Nextdoor to Boesky is a young dealer named Simon Miccio. He opened a gallery in Aspen in 2023 and runs a year-round programme there, even in off-season months when the slopes are empty. “There’s a critical mass of collectors from across the US here,” he says. Indeed, curators whisper about art hoards hidden away in these mountains’ modernist chalets.

The Powers Art Center is a private foundation that exhibits the collection of the late publishing mogul John Powers and his wife, Kimiko, in a space that’s a short drive from Aspen. It is a world-class art institution in the middle of a cow pasture and holds one of the world’s largest collections of editioned works on paper by Jasper Johns.

The Aspen Art Museum is another beacon lighting up this city to the art world. Its wooden latticed façade was designed by Pritzker Architecture Prize winner Shigeru Ban in 2014 and gives the glass-fronted interiors an inviting alpine glow. Monocle meets the museum’s director, Nicola Lees, on the roof, which is being readied for a winter installation that looks directly onto Aspen’s manicured ski run. “Our model is like that of a European Kunsthalle, which means we’re a non-collecting museum,” says British-born Lees, who landed in Aspen in 2020 after long postings at non-profits such as the Serpentine Gallery in London and 80wse in New York. “This is an opportunity to have a kind of Serpentine in the mountains.”

Lees has used her network to build bridges with institutions such as Dia Art Foundation in Upstate New York. Today she leads us through the gallery, where crushed and twisted automobiles, the work of US sculptor John Chamberlain, are being unloaded. It’s challenging work, especially for a rural art museum, but Lees says that there are open minds among these mountains.

Aspen’s art scene is currently riding high but it’s also tapping into a long history. In the 1940s a Chicago industrialist called Walter Pepke came to the town, which was then a dying silver-mining community. He saw an opportunity to create a ski resort and gathering place for artists and thinkers. Pepke founded the Aspen Institute, a think tank of sorts that could host conversations on the arts, design and sciences. He then commissioned Austrian painter and Bauhaus-trained architect Herbert Bayer to transform the town into a “total work of art”.

Last year a new museum opened in Aspen dedicated to Bayer’s legacy. His influence is evident everywhere, from the design of the institute’s modernist campus to the colour schemes used in the houses. “I learned a lot from him that I still use now in the studio,” says Dick Carter, a self-taught constructivist artist who was Bayer’s painting assistant in the 1970s. Carter co-founded the original Aspen Art Museum in 1979. Today he worries that the money flying around the local art scene could kill the valley’s original creative vibe, a view shared by others. “It’s cheaper these days to rent a gallery in New York than in Aspen,” says Sam Harvey, a local gallerist who represents artists from across the US. “It’s important that this valley is still a place where artists can work.”

Thankfully, there are institutions to safeguard that. Anderson Ranch hosts visiting artists and residencies in log cabins that are dedicated to disciplines such as ceramics, woodworking and printmaking. The ranch is as much a hub for local residents who want to refine their watercolour technique as it is a retreat for the US art elite. Previous alumni range from sculptor Arlene Shechet to the Haas Brothers. According to the faculty, artists visit knowing that they can take risks and look for new directions in their work.

It was founded in 1966 by ceramicist Paul Soldner, who also built his own home, piece by piece and all by hand, in the foothills just outside Aspen. This monument to self-reliance, curiosity and creativity is known as the Soldner Center. His daughter, Stephanie, still lives in this remarkable A-frame and gives tours of the home that her parents built over the course of 40 years.

“Aspen has always been a place of invention and ingenuity,” she says, surrounded by her father’s earthen vessels and paintings by her artist mother, Ginny. “It’s somewhere people could come and do exactly what they wanted to do.”

This Swiss village proves that it takes little to improve a town

The owner of the village shop in Monte, in Switzerland’s Italian-speaking southernmost canton Ticino, has the panini ready. She knows the order of the two architects visiting her shop well, having met Rina Rolli and Tiziano Schürch two years earlier when they analysed her shop and the surrounding streets, looking for ways to fine-tune Monte’s public spaces to better serve its residents. During their visits, the shop had often served as a meeting point. Now, thanks to new interventions from the duo, its architecture shows off their work.

The architects, who co-founded Zürich-based design office Studioser in 2019, have paved the street in front of the building and installed a storage cabinet that now acts as a sort of shop window, showcasing some of the business’s products. Inside the space, which also serves as a café, tables have been rearranged and new shelves have been built. These additions are almost invisible but have noticeably enhanced everyday life in Monte.

The project is the outcome of a study that was commissioned by three Ticino municipalities, in partnership with the Swiss Senior Citizens’ Council. The aim was to find ways to improve the lives of elderly residents in Switzerland’s remote regions. This resulted in a list of 10 recommendations, including social, technical and building guidelines, for local governments to implement. These recommendations prompted the municipality of Castel San Pietro, where the town of Monte is located, to commission Studioser to develop practical solutions.

In response, the architects implemented 13 small projects, including the shop. In front of the former community centre, they built a large natural-stone table, around which metal chairs are placed for residents to meet and socialise. Nearby, handrails provide support along narrow streets and another bench allows locals to stop to rest. A small fountain was added at the entrance to the cemetery, its marble slabs and concrete telling the material history of the region, and a tree was planted next to another fountain in the centre of the village, which is surrounded by a small wall that serves as a place to sit.

Situated on a hillside in Valle di Muggio, Monte’s streets are steep and narrow, and therefore not wheelchair accessible. Therefore, these new modifications allow the town’s elderly population to stay in Monte for as long as possible – it also has benefits for the local youth. Children can use the handrails as a ball track, with marbles available for purchase from the village shop. “Our goal was not to just build handrails throughout the village but rather, like the architect Lina Bo Bardi, to link poetic ideas with political and social requirements,” says Rolli.

The two architects spoke to many of the village’s 100 or so residents, who opened up their photo albums in order to share their memories of the past. During this informal participation process, the architects got to know the village’s history, which they drew on for inspiration for their work. “Our architecture makes the history of the place visible,” says Schürch, explaining that the upgrades are akin to heritage conservation. Studioser’s work, Schürch adds, also references Austrian designer Hermann Czech’s theory of “silent architecture” and the notion that architecture can respond to everyday needs with subtle adjustments.

The resulting architectural measures are atmospheric as well as practical – and serve as a social tool. By involving the population and then designing precise interventions, Rolli and Schürch have created modifications that subtly reflect patterns of everyday use. “The best solution is of little use without people’s commitment,” says mayor Alessia Ponti. “The interventions are small, but important for people. Other places can learn from Monte.”

Naturally, the project has had an effect beyond the village. Nearby town Castel San Pietro plans to renovate its town centre too. The neighbouring municipality of Breggia has also commissioned Studioser to carry out a similar analysis of their town. In other places and on a larger scale, this poetic approach might not have the same effect but an approach to urban improvements, built around the careful reading and adjusting of a location, offers potential for public spaces that are often neglected. It will become especially important for certain communities whose population is migrating and whose financial framework for big improvements is limited.

In contrast to the Bilbao effect, which transforms a city with a high-profile project, the Monte effect has a far more subtle impact on the location. Sadly, it cannot stop ageing and migration in the villages; larger economic contexts and realities of life are responsible for this (though in Monte, at least, the population was already stable before the project). But using Monte as an example, an approach to village maintenance – enhancing a place’s strength with acupuncture-like treatments – can certainly enrich the lives of those who stay and even attract new people. The adaptations are a kind of architecture that enables a better life in an old environment – with little effort – but lots of imagination.

This story was translated by Monica Lillis from a report by Andres Herzog for ‘Neue Zürcher Zeitung’, where this article first appeared.

Monocle comment: Take a leaf out of Monte’s book and make your neighbourhood more liveable with small urban interventions. Try modest adjustments that benefit the old and the young – a bench on a steep street, for instance.

Mocho, the international design agency that can redefine your public image

From the logo of a museum to the badge of a car, brand design is everywhere. And for as long as branding has existed, there has been the need to rebrand too. In a world that’s cluttered with visual communication, great design stands out. Refreshing a tired image can help companies to cut through the noise.

“The stakes are high with a rebrand because the existing customer base can easily walk away,” says Pablo Juncadella, a founder of branding and design agency Mucho. The firm is a collective of 50 employees that started with an office in Barcelona and now includes outposts in Paris, Melbourne and San Francisco. When Monocle meets several of the team – connecting via teleconference – they are discussing their approach to rebranding. “Some clients can be nervous, which is understandable,” says Juncadella. “But on the other hand, a good rebrand can transform a company.”

If any company should know about this, it’s Mucho. The agency has worked on projects for Apple, Chanel, Thames & Hudson and FC Barcelona. The assembled brain trust agrees on the essential first step for would-be rebranders. “You have to ask yourself why it is necessary,” says Rob Duncan, a partner based in San Francisco. “A genuine rebrand is needed if a company is struggling to stay relevant or if there is significant change afoot.”

A case in point is Mucho’s recent work with Visa. The company, known for secure financial transactions, was seeking a new look to align with its new digital-first approach. “Visa is now more digitally oriented and its messaging is about equitable access to the economy,” says Duncan, who worked on the campaign. Mucho used Visa’s existing logo as the basis for the redesign. It kept the thick, parallel gold-and-blue lines while shifting the word “Visa” from between them to above, making the symbol read as an “equals” sign. “We didn’t create anything new,” says Juncadella. “This was always there. We just generated a new way of seeing it.”

The Mucho team prides itself on being a group of generalists who can flit between different projects. “We would get bored if we specialised,” says Tilman Solé, a Barcelona-based partner who recently worked on the rebranding of Colnago, an Italian cycling brand that was founded in 1954. In 2020, an Emirati company bought a controlling stake in Colnago. “The purchase necessitated a rebrand since the company was starting a new chapter,” says Solé. “It’s heading into territory beyond cycling.”

Solé and his team dreamed up a new palette featuring gold, while slightly altering the brand’s iconic “ace of clubs” symbol. The logotype was also redesigned to look more aerodynamic and to better fit the bicycle’s frame. Yet the most significant change was the presentation of Colnago as a cycling company and a lifestyle brand too, with its new branding now being used across apparel and coffee and, in future, potentially hotels.

About the same time, in Australia, the agency oversaw another legacy rebrand with the Art Gallery of New South Wales. “The institution was celebrating its 150th anniversary and opening a new exhibition space,” says Dominic Hofstede, a creative director and partner at Mucho. “They needed to bring all of these sub-identities under one brand.” Mucho’s creative efforts saw the gallery move away from its solid black square logo to adopt an ultra­marine blue palette, deliberately reminiscent of artist Brett Whiteley’s canvases of Sydney Harbour.

This project, Hofstede says, was still tackled as a rebrand using the same methodology – one built around asking, “Why?” Hofstede explains that such an approach has rarely faulted the 20-year-old business. Yet in recent times, one thing has changed: companies, he says, are gaining an increased understanding of the power of design.

“Businesses are no longer treating it as an afterthought,” says Solé. “They recognise that to communicate effectively, visual culture is essential.” Juncadella nods in agreement. “We are at the decision table in a way that we were not before.”

Monocle comment: Refreshing your image comes with its risks but the benefits are many, ranging from reaffirming your company’s relevance to signalling a change in the way that you operate. Rebranding is a matter of how you engage with your customers and clients – so don’t treat it as an afterthought.

Get behind the wheel and fall in love with driving again : The all-new Toyota Land Cruiser 250

It’s rare that the launch of a new vehicle excites enthusiasm beyond the auto industry but when Toyota unveiled its new Land Cruiser 250 last summer, the word on the street was that the Japanese car giant had a classic on its hands. Its boxy lines, stripped-back aesthetic and absence of chrome announced a fresh direction for Toyota’s longest-running vehicle. The chief designer is Yoshito Watanabe, an amiable figure for whom the Land Cruiser holds a strong personal connection. On his desk in Toyota’s under-wraps design lab is a photo of himself as a 10-year-old standing in front of his father’s prize Land Cruiser 60. For a man whose team works on everything from a moon buggy to state-of-the-art mobility vehicles, this was his dream project. 

For Toyota too, the Land Cruiser is rooted deep in its DNA. The story goes back to 1951 when Japan was under US occupation and a call went out to Japanese car makers to produce a domestic equivalent to the Jeep. Toyota’s response was the Toyota Jeep BJ, a no-nonsense vehicle that was the first to make it up (and down) Mount Fuji. By 1954 that original vehicle had been tweaked and renamed the Land Cruiser, and was being exported, first to Pakistan and then to Saudi Arabia.

Since then there have been multiple models and myriad variations of the Land Cruiser; more than 11 million have been sold in more than 170 countries. Each iteration has its fans: the 40 series (which started in 1960) and its successor, the 70 (from 1984), are admired for their rugged functionality, while the 60 (1980 to 1990) and its successors pointed the Land Cruiser in more of a lifestyle direction. Its reputation for durability and easy maintenance in tough conditions have taken the Land Cruiser to the furthest corners of the globe. Aid workers have counted on its reliability in the harshest environments; Toyota has even made a special version for the United Nations.

And so to the new Land Cruiser 250, which, after much discussion, is a back-to-basics project. “When we were talking about the direction of the design, Akio Toyoda [Toyota’s chairman] told us that we should, ‘Go back to the origins of the Land Cruiser,’” says Watanabe. “There were no specifics as to what the ‘origin’ meant, or what he envisioned exactly, but it got us thinking about the essence of the Land Cruiser. His words were enough to give us the courage to make a major change in direction.”

The challenge was to create a vehicle that would keep the core traits of the Land Cruiser, be more environmentally friendly than its predecessors and with a broad enough appeal to sell in dozens of countries to customers with very different needs. “Over the years, there had been an evolution in a more luxurious direction,” says Watanabe. “We decided to strip away the excess so that we could offer the full performance to a wider range of customers.” Watanabe says the no-frills Land Cruiser 40 – the one that marked the transition from police to civilian vehicle – was the “spiritual starting point of this process”.

If functionality was essential, so too was recapturing the joy of driving. The sloping angles of modern cars that can make them feel claustrophobic have been replaced by a more upright stance which drivers will love; the bottom of the window frame has also been lowered by 3cm to increase road visibility. The headlights have been pushed towards the middle to minimise damage from debris on rough roads (“wide car fronts are fashionable, but we went in the opposite direction”). The bumper is made up of small parts like a jigsaw puzzle so that it can be repaired without having to junk the whole piece.

The inside is refreshingly pared back too. Instead of touch panels, Watanabe opted for proper buttons (“like keys on a piano”), which are easy to access and satisfying to use. The team talked to rally driver Akira Miura to see what works best when drivers are careering over rough terrain and therefore can’t look at the controls. Instead of urban metallics, the earthy colour palette includes a “desert sand” and smoky blue colourways. It took some convincing to persuade top management that the car would be better without Toyota’s triple oval logo but Watanabe got his way: the word “Toyota” appears in its place.

The new frame is lighter, the carbon footprint is lower and seat fabric uses thread made from recycled bottles from the Toyota office. There is a new hybrid option (as well as regular versions) and electric power steering – also a first. Watanabe anticipates enthusiasts will want to customise their Land Cruiser. The car can survive the worst conditions but might also be used in smooth urban settings. “It’s like owning a watch that can function on the moon,” he says. “There’s still pride in knowing that the car can do all these things even if you don’t put it to the test.”

Watanabe didn’t want to do a retro Land Cruiser. “All the different past designs are so iconic and many of them are still up and running, so there’s no point in just imitating.” His ambition was to create “a modern space that is comfortable even after hours of driving”. Watanabe says that many people were reluctant to make drastic changes to the existing model. We’re glad that he didn’t listen to those voices. The Land Cruiser 250 launches in Japan this spring: please form an orderly queue. 

Monocle comment: Automotive brands have been reluctant to celebrate the pleasures of driving, creating cars that dampen our enthusiasm for getting behind the wheel. But good design looks set to make a timely return.

Limburg’s velodrome puts its users’ needs front and centre

Keen to work up a sweat? The wielerdroom, or velodrome, in the Belgian province of Limburg commissioned by the municipality of Heusden-Zolder (population 33,000) and the Flemish sports agency Sport Vlaanderen is just the place. The building, which opened in late 2023, houses a sports complex with an indoor racing track, which is set to host a series of the European Track Championships in the next few years. It is a flexible space where people of all ages and fitness levels, from international competitors to recreational athletes, are welcome. The outcome is a facility that both locals and touring professionals can enjoy. 

“Sportspeople spend hours training in these kinds of buildings. For them, it is like an office or living room,” says Sven Grooten, general director of B-architecten, the Belgian architecture firm that won the competition to design the complex. “As architects designing these spaces, we must ask, ‘What is the light like? Can you see some trees or is there a terrace where you can take a break?’ If we can bring in this quality of life, it will attract people.” 

It’s a sentiment with which Karin Hupperts, the project leader at B-architecten, agrees. “When you design a sports complex, you must look at the project through the eyes of sportspeople, visitors and members of staff,” says Hupperts, a former athlete and keen cyclist who specialises in sports-facilities architecture. “Their wellbeing matters.”

For the project, the architects joined forces with DBV Architecten, which is based in the nearby town of Hasselt, and whose staff were able to visit the construction site regularly. Their presence was essential as the team worked on narrow trapezoidal terrain and an ambitious list of requirements. Essential inclusions were a 250 metre racetrack, 1,000 fixed seats (and another 1,000 mobile seats), courts for basketball, badminton, football and volleyball, a gym, medical centre for the neighbouring Circuit Zolder motorsport racetrack and fitness room. To accommodate everything, the architects came up with a single building with courts in the centre of the cycling track. Made of Finnish pine by German company Velotrack International, the track was modelled on the Tissot Velodrome in Grenchen, Switzerland, and optimised for top performance. Changing rooms fit neatly under the stalls. “Every square metre is accounted for,” says Hupperts. The one-building design has a further advantage: sportspeople from various disciplines can interact. “It is good for sportspeople to meet, including for the atmosphere in the building,” says Hupperts. “It is like an Olympic Village.”

Inside, there is a sense of openness, with a view of the cycling track from the café upstairs, and wide corridors can comfortably accommodate cyclists with their bikes or a crowd of spectators. Interior windows offer views of the gym below. The architects stuck to a palette of black, yellow, grey and white, which recurs throughout, from the lockers to the racing bikes by Belgian brand Ridley Bikes that can be hired on site (cyclists can also store their own in lockers inside the complex). “We wanted to build a timeless building. The idea is that sportspeople are the ones who bring in colour with their flashy gear,” says DBV’s Robin Jame, who led the project with Luc Baert.

The complex is the second Union Cycliste Internationale-approved cycling track to be built in Flanders (the first is the Eddy Merckx track in Ghent, also designed by B-architecten) and both are informed by Hupperts’ personal experience. “When I was an athlete, we spent the whole day training indoors without daylight. Here, you can see that it is daytime,” she says, gesturing at the windows and the trees beyond. To add more light, the architects incorporated translucent skylights that bring in natural light while avoiding glare on the track, which could distract the cyclists.

The wielerdroom has already become a fixture in the local community as a place to watch and play sport, book a cycling initiation session, work up a sweat in the fitness room or simply catch up over a beer. “As an architect, you want to design a nice building,” says Jame as cyclists whizz around the track below. “Here you have to be humble and put the people who will use the complex first.”

Monocle comment: Good design can anchor a community. When Monocle visits the wielerdroom, the complex is buzzing. Friends chat as they prepare their bikes, volleyball players warm up for practice and visitors watch from the café.

Adopt your own look: The case for dressing in a personal uniform

For New York writer Fran Lebowitz, it’s an Anderson & Sheppard suit, made bespoke on Savile Row. For the designer Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons, it’s a black leather biker jacket and a trademark razor-cut bob. At Milan Fashion Week, Miuccia Prada tends to take her catwalk bow in a pleated midi skirt topped off with some fine knitwear. In a world filled with novelty, a recognisable look, a trademark garment or signature silhouette, can work as a calling card. Think of a uniform as a kind of personal branding. However you choose to dress, the clothes you don are a chance to impress a version of yourself upon the world, to say something to those you meet without speaking out loud. To wear the same item, or a variation on a theme, wherever you go, adds another layer of definition to your image. At the same time, having a uniform removes a layer of decision-making from your morning routine. Perhaps that’s partly why for generations, men in positions of power have relied on the same variation of a well-cut, navy or grey suit. There’s something quite precious about having a signature look: it speaks to an intentionality around getting dressed that requires time and attention – two of the ultimate luxuries of the modern world.  

I’ve always aspired to have a uniform, poring over pictures of Diane Keaton as Annie Hall in masculine Ralph Lauren separates and envying peers who built wardrobes around a single designer or trademark piece. Instead, for the majority of my twenties, my own wardrobe was a collection of oddities with no through-line connecting them. In hindsight, I wasn’t ready to pin myself down. My work-life often felt precarious, so I wanted my clothes to act as armour and give me the flexibility I needed to move from one project to the next. That’s one of the powers of clothing, after all – it’s the camouflage an individual needs to gain access to different kinds of context. One morning, I would put on a turtleneck and a smart blazer to meet a new client in a boardroom; another afternoon, I would wear a vintage Laura Ashley dress and trainers to interview an off-duty actor in a neighbourhood café. The single signature style felt like an indulgence that I couldn’t quite afford. 

Over time, though, I started defining a uniform and turning particular colours, fabrics and silhouettes into staples. To get there, you can start by tracking down multiple iterations of your favourite styles and silhouettes, the moment you find them. I like slightly wide-legged trousers, men’s shirts, tweed or corduroy layers, knit turtlenecks, a little blue denim, a little white linen and always a dark woollen coat in winter. It’s also better to aim for coherence over strict concurrence and dress for your lifestyle. Out of practicality and a love of walking, I wear my colourful Hoka trainers almost every day. 

It’s an ever-evolving process, informed by the places we experience and the people we meet along the way. Last year, I moved home to Dublin, fully aware that the cities we inhabit leave traces on us. It’s not that a city comes with its own dress code but it pushes us to adapt to a new set of circumstances. Until recently, I felt myself to be a Londoner and I dressed for the city’s temperamental nature: its rain and morning fog; its influences, from Savile Row and sportswear alike. I was conscious that my neighbours, my colleagues, strangers on the Tube carriage – most of us had not grown up here. We decided to move here of our own volition; like getting dressed in the morning, it was a choice we had made for ourselves, as a way of determining our own lives.

Dublin, by contrast, is a smaller city – you can walk across it in an hour or two – with long winters that are reminiscent of the Nordics. It’s why here wool is mandatory and a big coat trumps everything. Since making the move, I’ve started wearing colourful vintage scarves to keep warm. I reach for one almost every day and tie it loosely at the throat. Then I go about my day, just the smallest bit more certain of who I am, where I find myself and why. This evolution is a reminder that signature style is a way of taking stock of the changes that defined you: places, jobs, people, decisions made and regretted.

Where to begin to figure out your own style signature? Pinpoint the garments you most enjoy wearing – it might be a blazer with particularly sharp shoulders, a fedora in a specific shade of green or the perfect pair of loafers – and double down. Filling your wardrobe with the items that bring pleasure will shape the impression you leave among acquaintances both new and old.

Monocle comment: Rethink your shopping habits by taking a step back from the fast fashion cycle and returning to the atelier, where you get to meet the makers, learn about the production process and invest in fully personalised items.

How Canada keeps immigration simple and strategic

From Rwanda deportation schemes to walls on the Rio Grande, rich countries are flailing on immigration. The exception is Canada, which is ramping up its annual immigrant quota to 500,000 from 2025 in an orderly fashion: no “migrant crisis”, no undocumented population living in the shadows. How did the country arrive at such a different approach to its peers?

In 1971 this vast territory with an ageing workforce and declining birth rate needed labour. Then prime minister Pierre Trudeau made Canada the world’s first country to embrace multiculturalism as a national policy, a decision that evolved into today’s immigration system. “Canada is a global social experiment,” says Chris Friesen, COO of Immigrant Services Society of British Columbia (ISS of BC). Nowhere is that more evident than in ethnically diverse British Columbia, anchored by Vancouver, where 10 per cent of marriages are interracial. BC’s population grew by 3 per cent in 2022, the fastest in 40 years, and a record 40,000 international migrants settled there in the first quarter of 2023, drawn by a temperate climate and strong economy.

So what makes Canadian immigration tick? First, applicants are judged on a points system. Stem degree? Points. French speaker? Points. Under 45? Points. Since immigration is treated as a labour issue, the rubric shifts based on employment needs. Once it prioritised healthcare workers, now tradespeople. The rules are logical, transparent and widely understood. Nobody shows up expecting an open-border policy. Second, linguistic integration is paramount. Publicly funded charities abound teaching English or French, Canada’s two official languages. Canada discourages linguistic isolation and the formation of ethnic enclaves.

In the Vancouver suburb of Richmond, where 60 per cent of residents are foreign born, Monocle sees a Pakistani immigrant facilitate English conversation in a room of Taiwanese, Indians and others. They cheer when a South Korean mum recounts how she conducted her son’s parent-teacher conference in English rather than relying on a translation. Down the road, the senior vice-president of a pan-Asian shopping mall proudly explains how the company’s design guidelines require English prominence over native languages on signage. Third, new arrivals aren’t left to the wolves. Annual expenditure of CA$1.8bn (€1.2bn) in civic infrastructure for settlement services operates coast to coast. Social workers assist immigrants with transferring professional credentials, training for new jobs, enrolling children in school and opening a bank account.

Canada is a humanitarian superpower, accepting more than 100,000 refugees and asylum seekers a year from the likes of Syria and Afghanistan. For extreme cases, facilities such as the Vancouver headquarters of iss of BC offer trauma counselling, childcare and temporary housing. But Canada’s generosity is even keeled. When the UN calls, Ottawa doesn’t accept more people than it can handle.

There are, of course, discontents. Public opinion partly blames high rates of immigration for Canada’s housing crisis. Settlement agencies lament that finding affordable rental housing is the biggest hurdle for new arrivals and images of refugees sleeping on Toronto’s streets have shocked the nation. The squeeze of unobtainable housing might hurt prime minister Justin Trudeau’s Liberal Party during soon-to-be-held elections. But Conservative opposition leader Pierre Poilievre remains broadly pro-immigration. So many new voters went through the Canadian system that keeping an open door is popular politics.

Monocle comment: Be pragmatic and show compassion. If you are in a position of influence, be up front about the benefits of immigration rather than simply playing to the negative crowd. A mix of cultures will enhance any community.

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Cap Karoso, the resort that put Sumba on the map of globetrotters

French chef Antoine Levacon crouches and plucks a sprig from a bright-green shrub in the undergrowth and passes it to Monocle. It’s fragrant yet unfamiliar: a scent that’s somewhere between basil and lemongrass. “Kemangi,” says Levacon. “It’s amazing. Now we have it everywhere on the farm.”

Levacon gestures to another patch and a crop of small watermelons resting on the warm, dark earth. Checking on these crops is part of the daily routine of the executive chef of Cap Karoso, a hotel and resort on the island of Sumba, eastern Indonesia. The soil here is fertile and everything from papaya to edamame and even an olive tree grows on this substantial plot of land, which supplies half of the restaurant’s food.

Entrepreneurs Fabrice and Evguenia Ivara came to Sumba on holiday in 2017 and were so taken by the island that they decided to make good on their long-held dream of opening their own resort. “We had always said, ‘After we retire, we’ll build a hotel,’” says Evguenia as we walk along the sand beside Cap Karoso. “When we came here we fell in love and felt that it had a lot of potential. The island was at the tipping point of becoming known.”

The hotel sits on the western tip of Sumba, with striking views of the Indian Ocean. The water seems to stretch out endlessly; to the west, the closest land is Africa’s distant eastern coast. This sense of remoteness is calming. Getting here requires taking a propeller plane from Bali, then hopping into a car for a drive past cornfields, water buffalo and cliff-fringed beaches.

The property’s entrance is understated. It’s only after you’re greeted at the check-in and turn a corner that the full picture comes into view, including an infinity pool, a bar overlooking a white-sand beach and the vast ocean. “We worked on creating this little unexpected moment,” says Evguenia with glee.

There are 44 rooms and 20 villas, all with private pools. Bali-based GFAB Architects gave the resort a terraced layout in a nod to rice paddies, making it fit in well with the landscape. The warm-toned interiors are trimmed with wooden furniture made by Indonesian craftspeople and almost everything in the rooms is bespoke, including the teacups from Bali’s Gaya Ceramic and the French cushion fabric. The owners picked the novels and nonfiction books on the shelves. “Every night, people stay up late, drinking and talking, then they meet the next morning at breakfast,” says Evguenia. “Friendships and interesting discussions arise. Our guests connect and exchange ideas. We want to have a community here.”
capkaroso.com

Monocle comment: Take some time off. It’s important to decompress at least once a year. And if you can do nothing somewhere spectacular, then do – your health and your work will benefit.

The Florentine art residency and hotel fostering creativity in a Renaissance palazzo

Creativity is the lifeblood of cities but in Florence, where its Renaissance past looms large enough to overwhelm the present, contemporary culture needs some champions. This is why the art residency and hotel Numeroventi is fostering a community of artists, designers and musicians from around the world – the city’s historically creative spirit revived in the 16th-century Palazzo Galli Tassi.

Numeroventi was established by Martino di Napoli Rampolla, who transformed this noble residence into a design destination in 2016. Gradually clearing out the accumulated detritus and remodelling each floor, he filled the centuries-old rooms with icons of modern design and new works by residents, transposing influences of Scandinavian and Japanese interiors to this grand Florentine palazzo.

“Making another Airbnb out of this place would have killed me,” says Rampolla. The time he spent living abroad after university, in Barcelona, Ghent and Tokyo, showed him how vibrant, artistic cities could give a “feeling of participating in something bigger than my own small life”. “I had the need for a sense of belonging and I wanted to create that for others,” he says.

Numeroventi is buzzing with preparations for a new exhibition when Monocle stops by. Recent collaborators have produced a series of works still on display in the ground-floor gallery rooms, with a bullfighting ring and hand-carved wooden spectator seats crafted by South Korean designer Minjae Kim and fantastical paintings by Samuel Guerrero from Mexico City. In the palazzo’s arch-lined courtyard, facing a 1659 marble statue of Hercules and Iole, New York-based artist Gala Prudent has built a twisting ziggurat from local clay bricks. Meanwhile in Numeroventi’s lounge, the young team, which includes a full-time chef, rushes about lighting pillar candles and sticks of palo santo, arranging wine glasses and silverware to prepare for the day’s brunch and inauguration party.

Artist Kasia Fudakowski eyes one of her bulbous glass sculptures as it is wired up to hang mid-air, floating above a long table arrayed with the other works she has produced during her residency. Based in Berlin, Fudakowski has used her time in Florence to imagine these shapes but also to make them with the artisans of a glass-blowing workshop in nearby Colle di Val d’Elsa.

Numeroventi funded and oversaw the production of Fudakowski’s glass pieces. “My relationship with my gallery isn’t like that,” she says. Connecting artists with Tuscan artisan workshops has become increasingly central to the residency’s model. The vicinity abounds in craft for those looking to create in collaboration with artisans, including metal casters, woodworkers, mosaic makers, Carrara’s marble quarries, Volterra’s onyx and alabaster carvers and Impruneta’s ceramics experts. Residencies, with candidates arriving via applications and invitations, are financed by Numeroventi’s hotel operations, with support from the Castello dei Rampolla winery run by Martino’s family in Chianti, which also sponsored the palazzo’s refurbishments.

“The focus here is on experimenting,” says Arianna Iandelli, Numeroventi’s gallery manager, who previously worked in a commercial gallery. “We’re involved from the beginning, getting artists and designers to go beyond what they’ve done in the past. And the space itself helps. It’s not a white-cube exhibition room or a blank, white studio to work in – it’s Numeroventi.”

The galleries offer a platform for the fruits of the residencies and open up the palazzo to the Florentine public which, after the brunch for special guests, crowded into the palazzo to see the latest works on view. “This team guides you to greater depths in your practice,” says Maya Dikstein, a Brazilian artist who in her own previous residency at Numeroventi turned deconstructed pianos into tapestries of colourful threads that were played by dancers. “It’s like travelling. If you have the right local guides, you’re able to go deeper than a tourist who can only scratch the surface.”

Numeroventi is a favourite getaway for international songwriters such as Dev Hynes (aka Blood Orange), Benjamin Clementine, Lewis Ofman and Christophe Chassol, who have also performed intimate concerts for locals. Today the music residency is taking a more constructive form, offering sought-after tools to work on pieces in a new collaboration with the Vintage Audio Institute, which holds one of the world’s premier collections of rare Italian synthesizers from the 1970s and 1980s. 

On the day of the opening, a slew of the machines are set up in the top-floor loft, a soaring room whose 17th-century floral-painted walls were only revealed in a recent renovation. “Each machine has a unique character that you’ll never get from digital instruments,” says Pontus Berghe, a musician and founder of the Vintage Audio Institute.

The residency for artists, designers and musicians was, says Rampolla, “conceived as a space to explore your imagination far from career demands”. He is plotting more ways to grow, with a tract of seaside land in Brazil for a Numeroventi outpost abroad, and plans for a natural wine bar in-house in Florence. “This city caters to what we already have, to tourists – not to the youth and the contemporary scene,” he says. “But can the future be based on the past?” It’s a rhetorical question. With Numeroventi, it no longer has to be.
numeroventi.it

Monocle comment: Find a creative corner. Surrounding yourself with like-minded individuals and a nurturing environment will do wonders for your own imagination.

Step into atelier Luca Avitabile, Naples’ bespoke shirtmaker

Calling on an expert cloth-cutter shouldn’t be reserved for special occasions or formal suiting. Skilled artisans around the world take commissions for everything from made-to-measure shirts to custom-made gloves, ties and footwear designed to last a lifetime. Booking an appointment with a local tailor or visiting a specialist atelier while on the road is a smart investment that will ensure that you feel good and look your best during professional engagements and social gatherings. The process also opens up opportunities to build relationships with the people making your clothes and to follow the process from beginning to end, a refreshing change from fast fashion and next-day deliveries.

Naples is a city that’s teeming with workshops that produce one-of-a-kind items. You’ll find the best ties at Marinella, expertly cut trousers at Marco Cerrato, elegant leather gloves at Omega and the finest-quality shirts at Luca Avitabile. “A made-to-measure shirt offers almost infinite possibilities and a level of comfort that is hard to get any other way,” says Neapolitan shirtmaker Luca Avitabile, who is part of a tight circle of southern-Italian sartorie offering bespoke shirting for discerning shoppers from around the world.

The experience of having a shirt made at Avitabile’s atelier usually starts with a walk along the streets of Naples. Connoisseurs know to steer their way to Via Toledo, a hectic shopping promenade in the city centre. Between the blinking shop signs, they duck through a discreet entryway, walk one flight up an echoing stone stairwell, ring the bell and step into Avitabile’s terrazzo-floored fitting room. After a cup of coffee and the usual pleasantries, Avitabile will pull out a tape and swiftly start taking measurements. It is a seasoned performance. Avitabile was born into the trade – his father was a shirtmaker, as were his grandparents – and also has a degree in shirt-cutting from the Instituto Secoli in Milan.

The model of the shirt follows the Neapolitan custom of having slightly higher armholes than the English standard. “It allows for a snug fit without sacrificing comfort,” he says. Then it’s time to get creative and choose from an array of options: the shape and stiffness of the collar, the type of cuff, the question of front pockets. In Avitabile’s drawers, there are hundreds of fabric swatches, from striped Carlo Riva twill to Alumo’s soft Swiss cotton or even Japanese denim. And don’t forget the buttons: should the mother-of-pearl be Australian or Tahitian? Though Avitabile works with old-school rigour, his version of the tailored look is relaxed. On most days the shirtmaker wears the Friday polo, sewn from a lightweight piqué fabric, paired with a sharp overshirt. The casual models were introduced in 2020 as part of a ready-to-wear line and have proven to be just as popular custom-made. “Clients who come for a classic shirt usually add a [made-to-measure] overshirt or a polo to their order,” says Avitabile.

After the introductory appointment, Avitabile sits down to cut a shirt pattern from plain muslin. He then follows this up with a fitting. “This is the most delicate part of the whole process,” says Avitabile, who is a firm believer that there is nothing that can’t be fixed with a few pins and another turn of the sewing machine. “That is my favourite part.”

After the fitting, the atelier is ready to start cutting into real fabric. Within six weeks the finished shirts land on customers’ doorsteps, wherever they are in the world. The workshop archives every customer’s personal shirt pattern, meaning that after your first order, in-person fittings are no longer essential.

Of course, this decidedly old-fashioned process is far lengthier than heading to a department store and picking out a mass-produced item that’s sitting on a shelf. But it’s also a satisfying one that gives you a chance to invest in valuable craft traditions, experience exceptional service and get creative too.
lucavitabile.it

Monocle comment: Fast fashion is convenient but also limited and bad for the environment. Having clothes tailored puts you at the centre of the process – and the outcome. The result? A wardrobe that you’ll love for a lifetime.