FW25 AVAILABLE NOW
in conversation with Giacomo
Giacomo, a painter and multidisciplinary artist based in Bedford, shares his honest approach to creativity: one shaped by intuition, imperfection, and a refusal to romanticise productivity. Whether sketching from second-hand books or letting instinct guide the brush, Giacomo’s process embraces trial, error, and the rawness of repetition. Through missteps and muscle memory, his work reflects a style that’s not only intentional, but deeply personal.
Giacomo, we’ve never been shy to tell you of your work & how it inspires us. The composition, use of colour - we think this reflects through our new pieces. What inspires you to create?
Giacomo : It’s never just one singular moment. The desire to create is always there—I just have to actively seek out different sources, references, and moments. Sometimes I’m responding to work I’ve already made, other times inspiration finds me when I’m not looking for it at all. It’s when all these fragments come together and fall into place that my brain finally goes, “Ah, let’s paint this".
In our experience the creative pursuit can sometimes ironically be a very selfish pursuit? You have to really focus on what you love & create from that ‘place’ and often enough that resonates with others? Why do you think this is, and how do you ensure you continually create from this ‘place’?
Giacomo : Some days, it’s just about getting paint onto the surface—no intention, no deeper meaning. As creatives, we’re under no obligation to make something that speaks volumes to anyone else. Right now, I love just painting whatever I feel like. When I’m in that space, that’s when my art feels the most honest.
Giacomo, Is there an element of design, or planning or is it more so improvisation? Can you talk us through your creative process?
Giacomo : I like to balance between the two—sometimes it’s systematic, other times it’s entirely intuitive. If I know what I want to paint, I just go for it. Sometimes it’s a battle, sometimes it unfolds effortlessly. When I’m feeling stuck or need a new perspective, I’ll usually pop down to my favourite second-hand bookshop or scroll through my camera roll for a bit of inspiration. I’ll often sketch directly from those references—but sometimes I skip that altogether and go straight to the canvas.
Art often romanticizes perfection, but the reality is usually chaotic. What does “getting it wrong” look like in your studio?
Giacomo : Anytime I feel like I’m forcing something. I’ve learned it’s important to recognise when I shouldn’t be in the studio—when I need to leave, take a step back, and return with fresh eyes. That awareness, for me, has been key in distinguishing between a healthy creative flow and falling into toxic productivity.
Your style feels intentional, but how much of it was discovered through trial and error?
Giacomo : I’d say most of it. A lot of my practice has come from adapting to unfamiliar materials or experimenting with a new way of mark-making. That’s honestly the best part—when something that once felt alien suddenly clicks into place.
What’s a “mistake” in your creative career that in hindsight, was necessary—maybe even beautiful?
Giacomo : Absolutely. One of the biggest lessons has been realising that not all work needs to be content—and that we’re not obligated to constantly produce. Creating at your own pace is a beautiful thing.
What do you think we lose when we only celebrate polished, final results—rather than the process behind them?
Giacomo : Being overly precious has held me back in the past—it’s left little room for mistakes. Sometimes I need to make things over and over, or paint over a piece and start again from scratch. Without that freedom, I think we lose our ability to recognise when something’s truly finished.
Do you feel like your mistakes have become part of your artistic language? Something uniquely yours? Are there any specific techniques, tools, blends of materials etc? Which are now apart of your creative process, which you discovered through error?
Giacomo : When I find myself returning to the same marks, shapes, and colours, I’ve come to see those gestures as inherently mine. They become familiar—recognisable. I remember obsessing over how to make something sparkle, trying so hard to get the perspective right that I’d completely lose it. Eventually I realised it worked better when I stopped overthinking and let repetition and muscle memory take over. That’s when it started to feel real.