Others for the ideas they inspired.

Few places have shaped modern thought as profoundly as Vienna around 1900. It was a city where artists, scientists, architects and philosophers lived not only side by side, but often around the same café tables. The conversations that unfolded there would influence disciplines ranging from psychology and economics to music, architecture, and design.

Niklas Schmidt has developed a distinctive way of revisiting that remarkable period. Through a series of posts shared on LinkedIn, he explores the people, buildings and ideas that made Vienna one of history’s great intellectual crossroads. Interestingly, he does so by combining historical research with artificial intelligence - a tool to help bring stories back into public conversation.

We spoke with him about cities, memory, architecture, AI, and why curiosity remains one of civilisation’s greatest engines.

The Art of Choice: Niklas, some of your posts often begin with the same sentence: “I love my city. Vienna was the intellectual capital of the world around 1900.” What first drew you to this particular chapter of Vienna’s history?

Niklas Schmidt: Actually, I had recently done a visit to the Leopold Museum in Vienna, one of many incredible museums we have in this fabulous city. In one room, there was a wall with 100 or so famous people in Vienna around 1900. I loved going through their stories. Most of them were well-known to me, but a few were not. When I came back home, I thought it would be good to do a kind of series on Vienna around 1900 on LinkedIn – for my LinkedIn readers but also for myself. That was how I started this project.

“History should never become a museum piece.” - Niklas Schmidt

Looking at Vienna around 1900, one is struck not only by the brilliance of individual thinkers, but by the concentration of ideas in a single place. What do you think makes a city a cultural and intellectual incubator?

Vienna benefited from being the capital of a vast empire. It attracted scientists, artists, and entrepreneurs from across Europe. In the cafés, conversations often lasted for hours. Innovation often begins with curiosity, and curiosity flourishes where people meet other people with maybe strange ideas.

Niklas’ stories rarely focus on architecture alone. They are equally about what societies choose to remember - and how places can acquire new meaning over time.

Many of the stories you tell are not only stories of buildings, but stories of transformation: neglected places brought back to life, difficult memories transformed into part of a city’s identity. Why do you think societies need to transform their past rather than simply preserve it?

History should never become a museum piece. Every generation inherits buildings, institutions, and traditions, but also difficult chapters that cannot be ignored.

“Innovation often begins with curiosity, and curiosity flourishes where people meet other people with maybe strange ideas.” - Niklas Schmidt

Many of the buildings you write about are still beautiful today. What can architecture preserve that books and archives sometimes cannot?

Buildings connect us emotionally to history. They remind us that the people who lived hundreds of years ago were real people with ambitions, fears, and dreams.

If cities preserve ideas, technology changes how we rediscover and share them. Niklas has openly embraced artificial intelligence as part of his creative process, while remaining clear about where responsibility ultimately lies.

Image: The Vienna Giant Ferris Wheel, represented through AI in one of the suggestive LinkedIn posts of Niklas. Courtesy of Niklas Schmidt.

Interestingly, your stories about Vienna are researched and written with the support of artificial intelligence, and the accompanying images are AI-generated in a distinctive visual style. Do you see AI primarily as a productivity tool, or as a new way of engaging with cultural memory? And where, in your view, does human responsibility ultimately lie?

AI is an extraordinary productivity tool. But it is always my responsibility. Nothing is posted by me on LinkedIn that I would not defend.

Vienna around 1900 helped shape many ideas that still influence us today. Looking ahead, what ideas being developed today do you believe future generations may look back on as transformative?

I believe AI will define this era in much the same way electricity defined the nineteenth century or the internet defined the late twentieth. What excites me most is not simply automation. It is augmentation.

To know more about Niklas’ work, visit:

Niklas Profile on LinkedIn

After reflecting on history, technology and the future, we asked Niklas one final question: if a visitor had time for only one place in Vienna, where should they begin?

If you had to recommend a busy visitor only one must-see building in Vienna, which one would it be and why would you recommend it?

Without hesitation, St. Stephen’s Cathedral. It has stood at the heart of Vienna for centuries and has witnessed almost every defining moment in the city’s history: Romanesque foundations, Gothic architecture, Ottoman sieges, imperial ceremonies, wartime destruction, and post-war reconstruction.

And finally: what does it mean, for you, to choose well?

Making a decision which I will not regret 10 years from now.

History is often described as something we inherit. This conversation reminds us that we also inherit the responsibility to interpret it, question it, and pass it on.

Whether through architecture, conversation, or new technologies, cultural memory survives because each generation chooses to engage with it rather than simply preserve it.

Every city has its landmarks.

But its greatest legacy is often the curiosity it continues to inspire.

Technology may help us find information. Principles help us keep our compass. Curiosity helps us discover meaning.

What has curiosity led you to discover lately?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

A wallet.

A photograph.

A handbag.

Sometimes what we lose is not merely the object itself.

It is the feeling attached to it.

Many years ago, Carla Braccialini, co-founder of the eponymous brand now celebrated for its whimsical creations, was walking through the streets of Florence when her handbag was stolen.

Later, recalling the experience, she said something remarkable.

“I felt lost, as though they had taken away my home.”

Not her bag. Her home.

Her words reveal something profoundly human.

We attach ourselves not only to objects, but to what they come to represent.

Security. Memory. A familiar routine.

A piece of ourselves carried into the world.

“I felt lost, as though they had taken away my home.”

Instead of remaining with the loss, Carla Braccialini transformed that feeling into an idea.

She designed a handbag shaped like a small house.

The Casina.

Originally, it was displayed at a trade fair almost as an ornament. Yet, visitors were captivated.

The little house attracted extraordinary attention and would go on to become one of the symbols that helped establish Braccialini as one of Italy’s most original leather goods houses.

Image: Braccialini’s Casina bag.

What makes this story so memorable is not the handbag itself. It is where it came from.

The event that inspired it was painful.

But the response to it became just extraordinary.

Perhaps resilience is often misunderstood.

We tend to imagine resilience as resistance, endurance, or the ability to withstand difficulty.

Sometimes, though, it is something much gentler.

The willingness to imagine something new from what has been broken.

To transform fear into curiosity.

Loss into creation.

This may be why inspiration does not belong only to history books.

We admire figures like Mahatma Gandhi or Mother Teresa because they remind us what human beings are capable of becoming.

But extraordinary forms of resilience also exist much closer to home.

The friend rebuilding life after illness.

The neighbour quietly caring for a family member.

The colleague who continues to smile while carrying burdens we know nothing about.

The artist transforming grief into beauty.

The designer turning loss into an object that makes millions of people smile.

Image: A variation on the Casina - the Braccialini’s Madagascar bag from the personal collection of Roberta Tondini.

Perhaps this is why one of yoga’s best-known postures is called Peaceful Warrior.

Perhaps it has little to do with fighting and, rather, it means remaining faithful to one’s values, even when life unexpectedly asks for courage.

Choosing creation over resignation.

Again and again.

What experience in your life unexpectedly became the beginning of something better?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

A shoemaker’s mark.

A watchmaker’s signature.

A family name engraved on a storefront.

The promise was simple: “I made this. I stand behind it.”

A brand reduced uncertainty. It gave people confidence that an object would perform as expected and that its maker cared about its reputation.

In many ways, brands emerged because trust could not travel in person.

The brand travelled instead. In doing so, it became trust made visible.

Today, brands are everywhere.

We encounter hundreds of them each day.

They speak to us through our phones, our computers, our cities, our social media feeds.

They have become extraordinarily sophisticated storytellers.

And perhaps this is where an interesting question begins to emerge: Is a promise still a promise?

Modern consumers live in an age of unprecedented information.

Yet many of us have never felt less certain about what we are buying.

A cosmetic product may contain ingredients whose names we cannot pronounce.

A food item may display health claims we struggle to evaluate.

A garment may tell us a compelling story while revealing little about its actual making.

A product may be expensive without necessarily being valuable.

A name may be omnipresent without necessarily being trustworthy.

Visibility and value have become increasingly difficult to distinguish.

Image: An ancient object and modern products. Different eras, the same human desire: to know what - and whom - we can trust. Image generated through AI.

Perhaps this explains the success of platforms such as Yuka and other tools that seek to decode products for consumers.

Whether one agrees with every methodology these platforms employ is almost beside the point.

What they reveal is something fascinating: millions of people increasingly feel the need for interpreters, intermediaries, translators. People and technologies capable of helping them understand what lies behind complex labels, technical language, and carefully crafted narratives.

This is a remarkable inversion.

Historically, brands existed to simplify trust. Today, consumers often seek additional tools to verify it.

Of course, none of this means that branding is inherently misleading.

Many extraordinary brands continue to invest deeply in quality, knowledge, craftsmanship, innovation, and service.

Nor does it suggest that marketing is somehow opposed to substance.

The two can coexist beautifully.

The challenge is that modern systems have become exceptionally effective at manufacturing appearances.

The symbols of value are often easier to produce than value itself.

Beautiful packaging, compelling storytelling, omni-channel visibility, sophisticated messaging, cultural relevance.

All of these things can accompany exceptional products.

They can also exist independently from them.

Historically, brands existed to simplify trust. Today, consumers often seek additional tools to verify it.

This phenomenon extends far beyond fashion.

It touches food, beauty, consumer goods, hospitality, technology, and even health.

In many industries, consumers increasingly find themselves asking difficult questions:

Am I paying for quality? For advertising? For convenience? For aspiration? For an algorithm that succeeded in placing this object in front of me at precisely the right moment?

Perhaps this is why the notion of a brand as a promise still matters.

Not because promises have disappeared. Every brand still makes one.

The question is whether there remains a meaningful relationship between the promise and the product, service, or experience itself.

Because trust has always required alignment between words and actions.

Perhaps the modern consumer’s task is no longer simply choosing what to buy.

Perhaps it is learning how to recognise coherence and to ask what sits behind the narrative.

To ask whether the object, service, or the experience still carries traces of the care it promises.

Because a promise becomes meaningful only when someone intends to keep it.

When you encounter a brand today, what makes you trust it?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

Or chosen a certain sweater on a difficult day.

Or returned, almost instinctively, to a familiar shade when seeking confidence, comfort, or energy.

We often assume we choose colours because we like them.

But perhaps the relationship runs deeper than preference alone.

Perhaps colours become part of the way we navigate ourselves.

Choosing a colour may be less about appearance than about intention.

For centuries, artists, philosophers, designers, and psychologists have wondered whether colour influences the way we think and feel.

The answer, according to contemporary research, is both yes and no.

Colours appear to affect perception, attention, and emotion. Yet their meaning is rarely universal. Context matters. Culture matters. Personal experience matters.

A colour that signals celebration in one culture may evoke mourning in another. A colour associated with confidence for one individual may carry entirely different associations for someone else.

As researcher Andrew J. Elliot notes, colour psychology is not a simple catalogue of fixed meanings, but a complex interaction between perception, experience, and context.

Read more - Andrew J. Elliot's research

This may explain why our relationship with colour often feels deeply personal.

The colours we choose are rarely only colours.

They are memories.

Associations.

Stories.

A navy coat that recalls a parent.

A bright yellow dress worn during a particularly happy summer.

A shade of green that feels reassuring without us fully understanding why.

Over time, colours accumulate meaning in much the same way places, objects, and songs do.

Image: A woman choosing a bright green dress from her wardrobe. Image generated through AI.

There is another fascinating concept explored by researchers Hajo Adam and Adam D. Galinsky: enclothed cognition.

Their work suggests that clothing may influence not only how others perceive us, but how we perceive ourselves.

One possible explanation is that we attach symbolic meaning to what we wear.

In other words, what may matter is not only the garment itself, but what that garment represents in our mind.

Perhaps colours function similarly.

A colour may become a reminder of a version of ourselves we value…

…capable.

…creative.

…optimistic.

Read more - Adam-Galinsky's research

The colours we choose are rarely only colours.

They are memories.

Associations.

Stories.

This does not mean that wearing blue will automatically make us calm, or that yellow guarantees happiness.

Yet it may explain why certain colours feel surprisingly difficult to replace.

They have become part of our internal landscape.

In this sense, choosing a colour may be less about appearance than about intention.

A small, often unconscious act of self-definition.

Just like choosing a book, a city, a piece of music, or an object we wish to keep close.

What may be true for many of us is that certain colours become linked to experiences we wish to revisit, or experiences we hope to create.

A familiar colour may bring us back to a meaningful chapter of our lives.

An unfamiliar one may accompany a new chapter we are about to begin.

Perhaps, therefore, the right question is: “What does this colour mean to me?”

Because the colours we return to, again and again, may reveal something about the person we have been, the person we are, or the person we hope to become.

Which colour has accompanied the most important chapters of your life?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

Made in Italy, everybody knows the expression.

It appears on labels, magazines, export reports, airport advertisements.

It is recognised in Tokyo.

Desired in New York.

Celebrated in Dubai.

And yet, despite being something so universally known, it is surprisingly difficult to define.

What exactly is Made in Italy?

In recalling the TV show “Caro Marziano” (“Dear Martian”), created by journalist Pierfrancesco Diliberto (aka Pif), Roberta imagined a scene.

An alien lands in Rome.

He steps out of his spacecraft, looks at the Trevi Fountain, looks at Palazzo Poli, looks at the people passing by and asks a simple question:

“Excuse me. This Made in Italy you keep talking about... what is it, exactly?”

It is a more difficult question than it first appears.

Because Made in Italy is not a product category.

It is not fashion.

It is not food.

It is not furniture.

It is not automotive engineering.

Or rather: it is all of these things, but none of them fully explain it.

Image: An imaginary Alien at Trevi Fountain in Rome. Image generated through AI.

Perhaps the simplest answer is this:

Made in Italy - the real Made in Italy - is a way of approaching life.

A particular relationship with work, beauty, and care.

It is the tendency to fall deeply in love with what one does.

And then to do it again the next day with the same care.

Regardless of whether one is making food, making fashion, building a company, or welcoming a guest.

It is choosing the better ingredient, even when it costs more.

It is remaking a detail ten times.

It is refusing to cut corners and refusing to give less than one’s best.

It is putting generosity into things.

Made in Italy - the real Made in Italy - is a way of approaching life.

The most interesting aspect of Made in Italy is perhaps that it rarely begins with industry.

Rather, it begins with people.

With individuals who place part of their identity into what they make.

A cheesemaker.

A tailor.

A cook.

A designer.

A craftsperson.

An entrepreneur.

Different professions, yet often driven by the same impulse: to leave behind something greater than what was expected.

It is refusing to cut corners and refusing to give less than one’s best.

This may explain why authentic Made in Italy often feels recognisable even when the observer cannot immediately explain why.

The object may be beautiful.

But beauty alone is rarely enough.

What people perceive is something less visible: an unparalleled degree of care.

Care in the material.

Care in the detail.

Care in the gesture.

Made in Italy begins with people. With individuals who place part of their identity into what they make.

Of course, Italy did not invent excellence.

Every culture possesses its own forms of mastery.

But Italians developed a particular habit of seeking beauty.

The true Made in Italy has been built on time.

And today, Made in Italy faces the same pressures affecting much of modern life:

speed,

uniformity,

standardisation,

the temptation to optimise everything.

Yet its greatest strength has never been speed.

Its strength has always been sensitivity: the ability to notice, to refine, to care, and to recognise that some things become valuable precisely because they take time.

Perhaps this is why Made in Italy continues to resonate far beyond Italy itself.

Because people are responding to a philosophy.

A belief that how something is made matters.

A belief that work can be an act of respect.

A belief that care leaves traces.

Today, speaking about Made in Italy also means speaking about stewardship.

About protecting knowledge.

About transmitting skills.

About ensuring that what has been inherited is not lost.

Because the strength the world admires is not permanent by nature.

It must be preserved, taught, and defended.

And if our alien had one final question:

“What is the true superpower of Italians?”

Perhaps the answer would be simple.

To transform care into wonder.

And wonder into something that lasts.

What does Made in Italy mean to you?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

Before Studio Tondini existed, before bags became objects to study and design, there was an image fixed in Roberta Tondini’s memory: her older sister Daniela picking her up at elementary school after getting her driving licence.

One hand carrying her favourite Moschino bag.
The other, the car radio she had just removed from the dashboard.

To a child, this looked like absolute freedom.

“As children, we often observe adulthood through objects before we understand it through words.”

The bag belonged to Moschino’s I Believe in Punk-Chic collection: tartan cotton, bold proportions, unexpected metallic details, a deliberately irreverent spirit typical of the fashion language of Franco Moschino.

In the 1980s and 1990s especially, tartan became associated with rebellion, individuality, and self-expression - qualities that Moschino translated into fashion with irony and confidence.

And Daniela wore it effortlessly.

Image: Moschino I Believe in Punk-Chic Bag from the personal collection of Roberta Tondini.

The Art of Choice: What do you remember most vividly about Daniela carrying that bag?

Roberta Tondini: “The sense of movement around her. She was always going somewhere. Her life revolved around university, friends, music. To me, that bag became associated with independence before I even fully understood what independence meant.

I also remember how naturally she wore it. Nothing looked studied. It simply belonged to her way of being.”

Do you remember what she would wear with it?

“Very effortless combinations. Denim, oversized sweaters, sharp coats, sometimes very simple pieces balanced by stronger details. That bag somehow worked with everything she touched.

Looking back, I think what impressed me most was not the bag itself, but the confidence behind it.”

And what did that object represent to you as a child?

“Freedom. Strength.

But also womanhood, certainly. To me, my sister became a woman carrying that bag.

As children, we often observe adulthood through objects before we understand it through words. That bag became one of those symbols for me.”

“To me, my sister became a woman carrying that bag.”

Looking back today, it is perhaps unsurprising that certain ideas later found their way into Studio Tondini’s philosophy.

The belief that objects accompany identity.
That strong style does not need to overpower individuality.

That craftsmanship belongs most meaningfully to everyday life.

Even today, the idea of effortless modern craft for the everyday remains deeply connected to that early fascination: objects with personality, designed not to overpower the individual, but to move naturally with them.

Perhaps this is also why some bags remain with us long after trends disappear.

Because what we remember is rarely only the object itself.

It is who we became while looking at it.

What is the first bag - or object - that shaped your idea of adulthood, style, or freedom?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

Never before have we had access to so much information about health, nutrition, and longevity.

And yet, never before have modern societies seemed so disconnected from many of the principles that once allowed human beings to live longer, stronger, and more balanced lives.

Somewhere along the way, abundance replaced discernment.
Convenience replaced rhythm.
And nourishment became increasingly confused with consumption.

For centuries, food cultures evolved through observation, repetition, and trial-and-error across generations.

Long before scientific journals or nutritional labels existed, populations slowly discovered what sustained the body best: seasonal ingredients, moderation, fasting periods, legumes, grains, vegetables, fermentation, slow preparation.

These traditions were built around continuity between human beings and nature.

“Somewhere along the way, nourishment became increasingly confused with consumption.”

It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that many contemporary researchers looking toward the future of health have found themselves studying the past.

Among them is Professor Valter Longo, researcher and author of The Longevity Diet, whose work bridges biology, ageing, and nutrition. Through decades of scientific research, Prof. Longo has explored how certain nutritional patterns - many of them deeply rooted in traditional Mediterranean and ancestral dietary habits - may help support long-term health and reduce the risk of modern chronic diseases.

Beyond research itself, Prof. Longo’s work also carries a broader mission: making the science of longevity accessible beyond laboratories and academic circles. Through his studies, public initiatives, and educational efforts, he has consistently argued that living longer should not simply mean extending lifespan, but extending healthy lifespan - what researchers often define as “healthspan”.

In this sense, his work is not only about nutrition. It is about responsibility toward the future self.

Those interested in exploring Longo’s research further can find more through his books, scientific publications, and public initiatives:

valterlongo.com

What makes Prof. Longo’s work particularly interesting is not only the science itself, but the rediscovery embedded within it: the idea that longevity may depend less on constant optimisation, and more on returning to rhythms the human body has long understood.

“Prof. Longo’s work is about responsibility toward the future self.”

To nourish oneself well requires something increasingly rare: attention.

Time to select ingredients carefully.
Time to cook.
Time to sit down without distraction.
Time to understand what the body responds to, and what it rejects.

In this sense, nourishment becomes more than health.
It becomes a relationship with oneself.

And perhaps this is where the conversation connects back to choice.

Because every form of care ultimately demands selection:
what we consume, what we repeat, what we normalize, what we refuse.

Image: A conscious woman selecting greens for her nourishment. Image generated through AI.

Today, speed shapes much of our relationship with food.

Ultra-processed meals. Constant availability. Eating while scrolling, moving, replying.

And yet, the human body remains remarkably ancient.

It still responds to rest, to balance, to quality over quantity, to consistency over excess.

Perhaps living well begins there.

We also live in an era increasingly shaped by the search for acceleration.

Faster results. Faster transformations. Faster solutions.

And while scientific progress has brought extraordinary advances, modern culture often seems less interested in building health slowly than in finding shortcuts to it.

Perhaps this is where nourishment offers a different lesson.

Longevity is rarely built through sudden correction. More often, it resembles a form of accumulation: habits, rhythms, choices repeated consistently over time.

Not unlike investing.

The body, too, appears to remember what it has been given - slowly, attentively, over years.

“Modern culture often seems less interested in building health slowly than in finding shortcuts to it.”

This is not an argument for perfection, nor a substitute for medical guidance.

Every body is different, and health decisions should always be discussed with qualified medical professionals. This reflection is not intended as medical advice, but as an invitation to think more consciously about the role that nourishment, rhythm, and care may play in how we live.

To choose well is also to nourish well.

And to nourish well often requires reclaiming something modern life continuously pressures us to abandon: time.

What rituals of nourishment help you feel most connected to yourself?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

And others that unfold along parallel lines - in a fine balance.

Ayed Tadros belongs to the latter.

A lawyer by profession and a photographer by practice, his path does not fit into a conventional narrative. And yet, it is precisely in this apparent duality that something more deliberate emerges: a way of living shaped not by a single identity, but by the conscious decision to cultivate more than one.

In a world that often rewards linearity, choosing to dedicate time and attention to something that does not “need” to exist may appear secondary. And yet, it is often exactly there - in that voluntary space, ungoverned by obligation - that meaning begins to take form.

Ayed moves between legal structures and photographic frames with the same underlying discipline: the capacity to observe, to select, to commit. His images carry the quality of considered decisions. Nothing forced. Nothing incidental.

What follows is a reflection on time, attention, discipline, and the quiet architecture of a life shaped with intention.

Image: Ayed Tadros captured behind the camera. Courtesy of Ayed Tadros Photography.

The Art of Choice: Ayed, you are both a lawyer and a photographer - a path that may not appear linear to most. At what point did photography become more than an interest, and turn into a deliberate life choice?

Ayed Tadros: Photography was always present, but for a long time it lived quietly in the background. Something instinctive rather than intentional. The shift happened gradually, not as a single decision, but as a realization.

There comes a point where you notice that what you return to, consistently, is not accidental. Despite a demanding legal career, I kept finding myself behind the camera - early mornings, late evenings, across different countries, in wild moments where most people would choose rest. That repetition revealed something deeper: photography was not an escape from my profession, as I once believed; it was a necessary counterpart to it.

Photography became a deliberate choice when I stopped treating it as something secondary. Not in the sense of replacing my career, but in giving it equal seriousness. Investing in it, refining it, building a body of work. At that point, it was no longer a hobby. It became part of how I as a person is defined, and how I define a meaningful life.

In a life already shaped by a demanding profession, how do you think about time - and what it means to invest it in something that does not “need” to exist?

I think the things that “do not need to exist” are often the only things that truly matter.

My profession is structured around necessity: transactions, regulations, outcomes. Photography exists outside of that framework. It has no obligation to solve anything, and precisely for that reason, it creates space for something else: reflection, emotion, perspective.

Time, for me, is not only about productivity. It is about allocation of attention. And attention is finite. Where you choose to place it ultimately defines the texture of your life.

So I don’t see photography as time taken away from something more important. I see it as what prevents life from becoming purely functional. Without it, everything risks becoming efficient, but empty.

Do you believe that a life can be consciously designed?

To a certain extent, yes - but not in a rigid or overly controlled way.

You cannot design outcomes, but you can design direction. You can decide what you value, what you return to, and what you are willing to invest in consistently over time.

For me, photography is one of those anchors. It introduces a different rhythm into a life that would otherwise be dominated by urgency and structure. It forces me to slow down, to observe, to be present in places and moments I might otherwise pass through without noticing.

In that sense, it is not separate from how I shape my life. It is one of the tools through which I do it. It keeps the balance. It keeps things human.

“The things that do not need to exist are often the only things that truly matter.” - Ayed Tadros

Every art and craft requires repetition - often invisible, often solitary. What has the practice of photography taught you about patience, attention, or even restraint?

More than anything, it has taught me that not everything needs to be taken.

In the beginning, like many people, you feel the urge to capture everything, to respond immediately to what is in front of you. Over time, you realize that the discipline is not in taking more images, but in taking fewer, better ones.

Patience becomes less about waiting, and more about understanding timing. When to press the shutter and when not to. Attention becomes more selective. You start seeing layers: light, movement, emotion, context.

Also, restraint becomes essential. The strongest images are often the result of what you chose to leave out, not what you included.

Photography, in that sense, is a continuous exercise in editing. Not just of images, but of perception and how you view the world around you.

Image: Namib-Naukluft Park, Deadvlei, Namibia. Courtesy of Ayed Tadros Photography.

Photography is, in essence, an act of selection. What guides your eye when you choose what is worth capturing - and what is not?

It’s rarely a rational process. There is usually a moment, a very brief one, where something aligns. Light, subject, emotion, composition. You feel it before you fully understand it.

Over time, you learn to trust that instinct. But it is not purely intuitive. It is informed by experience. By thousands of frames that did not work. By being in different environments, cultures, and situations.

What I tend to respond to most is honesty. Whether it is a landscape, a city, or a person, there has to be something real in it. Not staged, not forced. Something I felt.

If an image feels like it is trying too hard, I usually step away from it. If it feels quiet but genuine, that is often where I stay.

To know more about Ayed’s art, visit:

Ayed Tadros Photography

Instagram Profile

If you had to define it simply: what does it mean, for you, to choose well?

I have to say I am not sure I have fully arrived at that yet.

I tend to be a perfectionist. I revisit decisions, question them, and sometimes look at what I didn’t choose. So, for me, choosing well is less a fixed state and more something I am learning.

What I have come to understand is that choosing well requires a certain level of acceptance. Not every decision will be perfect, and clarity often comes after, not before.

In photography, that might mean staying with one frame and letting go of the others. In life, it means committing to a direction without needing to constantly validate it against alternatives. It can also mean trying to build something meaningful and with depth rather than spreading yourself too thin.

I am still working on that balance between being thoughtful and being at peace with a decision. But perhaps choosing well is exactly that: knowing when to stop searching and start standing behind what you have chosen.

There is a clear honesty in not claiming certainty.

In a world that often equates decisiveness with clarity, this perspective suggests something else: that choosing well may not be about eliminating doubt, but about learning to live with it.

As in photography, it is not the number of possibilities that defines the outcome, but the ability to stay with one frame long enough for it to reveal its depth.

“Perhaps choosing well is knowing when to stop searching and start standing behind what you have chosen.” - Ayed Tadros

What does it mean, for you, to choose well?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

Image: A gesture of care for nature. Image generated through AI.

Why did we need ESG?

It is a question that belongs to the present.

But perhaps the answer belongs to the past.

Our work is deeply connected to Italy - and with it, to stories.

Stories of entrepreneurs who built businesses in the years following the Second World War. Through proximity, through relationship.

They worked with nature, and understood that to use it meant also to preserve it.

They collected what others discarded - scraps, remnants, overlooked materials - and transformed them into objects of unexpected beauty.

They did not speak of sustainability.

They practiced it.

There were also stories of people.

Of employers who discovered that an employee had stolen - not out of greed, but because there was not enough food at home.

And instead of punishment, they offered a second chance. Sometimes even a raise, without ever exposing the dignity of the person involved.

Of businesses working with perishable goods, who quietly told their most vulnerable clients that certain items were “about to expire” - even when they were still perfectly good - so they could offer them for free without making anyone feel like they were receiving charity.

Not generosity as performance.

But as protection.

And there were those who grew.

Entrepreneurs who built larger ventures and chose - long before any regulation required it - to offer what today we would call “benefits”:

nurseries, books, training, places to rest, even moments of leisure.

Not as an incentive.

But as a way of sharing profit while recognising the human life behind the work.

They did more than the right thing.

They did the most human thing.

Even when nothing could be given back in return.

And then, over time, something began to shift.

A different model of entrepreneurship emerged - not everywhere, not always - but enough to reshape a part of the landscape.

One less rooted in proximity.

More distant, more fragmented.

A way of operating that, at times, began to exploit rather than to care.

Nature, people, attention.

Sometimes invisibly.

Sometimes in plain sight.

Doing the wrong thing - and trusting that time, scale, or resources would eventually dilute its consequences.

We now live in a world where information moves fast - and fades just as quickly.

Where perception can be managed.

Where reputation can, at times, be restored.

And perhaps, in this context, something that was once instinctive needed to be formalised.

This is where ESG enters the conversation.

A framework developed to guide environmental, social, and governance practices.

A language that seeks to define responsibility at scale.

Learn more about the UN Sustainable Development Goals:

Learn more

And in many ways, it is necessary.

Because when responsibility is no longer embedded in proximity, it must be structured elsewhere.

But a question remains.

Can ethical behaviour be enforced?

Perhaps - to a certain extent.

If rules are shared, applied, and upheld consistently.

But regulation alone cannot replace intention.

What may be missing is not another framework, but a shift in how we define value.

Not only corporate profit.

But what might be called ESG profit: a measure that considers what a business gives back, protects, and sustains.

To look back is not to idealise.

But it may help us remember that responsibility was once not a strategy.

It was a way of being.

What would change if doing the right thing no longer required a framework?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

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Image: Hands of a craftswoman working on a Studio Tondini item.

There was a time when making something required waiting.

Today, we live in an era in which speed has become our default language.

And in many ways, it is extraordinary. It allows us to connect across continents, to access knowledge instantly, to compress distances that once defined our lives.

But something else has quietly shifted.

When everything becomes immediate, our relationship with time begins to flatten.

And with it, our relationship with effort, with patience, and perhaps even with meaning.

There is a word that carries a different rhythm: craft.

It is almost onomatopoeic.

You can hear it.

The friction of materials.

The measured repetition of a gesture.

The sound of something taking shape, slowly.

Craft, crafting, craftsmanship: they all point to a way of doing that resists urgency.

In craftsmanship, time is not something to optimise.

It is something to honour.

Think, for a moment, of the last time you made something with your hands.

Perhaps as a child: assembling, drawing, building without knowing the outcome.

Or later, trying to translate an idea into something real.

There is always a moment in that process where things do not work.

Where the material resists.

Where the idea feels slightly out of reach.

And yet, that is precisely where something happens.

A form of attention that cannot be rushed.

A quiet satisfaction that does not come from completion alone, but from engagement.

Objects created slowly carry this memory within them - perceptibly so.

You feel it in the balance of proportions.

In the way something ages without losing its integrity.

In the absence of excess.

These are objects that teach us how to remain still.

The tradition of craftsmanship - particularly within the heritage of Made in Italy, a tradition we feel deeply connected to - is built on this relationship with time.

Skills passed through generations.

Gestures refined, rarely reinvented.

An understanding that excellence is not an outcome, but a practice.

This kind of knowledge cannot be accelerated.

It can only be transmitted, observed, repeated.

And perhaps that is why it feels increasingly rare, and increasingly necessary.

To return to slow objects is not to reject modern life.

It is to rebalance it.

To allow certain things to take the time they require.

To recognise that not everything meaningful can - or should - be immediate.

Perhaps, in the coming days, there is a small gesture worth revisiting.

An object you once made.

A tool you once used.

A material you once shaped.

To pick it up again. To craft.

What have your hands learned that speed has made you forget?

We would be glad to read your thoughts.

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A detail on a clasp.

A color combination that feels strangely confident.

Or simply a letter - repeated often enough to remain in memory.

For Roberta Tondini, founder of Studio Tondini, one of those early encounters came through a handbag her mother carried with particular affection.

The letter R.

Not just any R - but the one belonging to Roberta di Camerino, the Venetian fashion house founded by Giuliana Coen in the late 1940s.

Today, Roberta di Camerino is often remembered by collectors and historians rather than by the broader fashion public. Yet, Giuliana Coen revolutionised the language of the handbag long before the modern era of luxury branding.

Her designs were bold, theatrical, unmistakably Venetian. Velvet - a fabric rarely used in leather goods at the time - became one of her signatures. Her bags played with geometry and color in ways that felt closer to stage design than traditional accessory making.

And women noticed.

Among her admirers was Grace Kelly, who famously carried the sculptural Bagonghi bag, one of Roberta di Camerino’s most iconic creations.

We asked Roberta Tondini about the first time she remembers seeing those bags.

The Art of Choice: Do you remember when Roberta di Camerino first entered your world?

Roberta Tondini: “Yes - through my Mother, I was a small child. She had some of her bags, and she carried them with such pleasure. As a child, I was fascinated by the letter R in the hardware of one of them. It felt unusual. In fashion, you rarely saw that name or that initial.”

The attraction was almost instinctive.

The bags themselves felt confident, expressive, unmistakably personal.

Years later, Roberta would learn more about the woman behind them.

Giuliana Coen was not only a designer but also an entrepreneur navigating a fashion world that was rapidly changing in post-war Italy. She was known to be acquainted with Gabrielle Chanel, who reportedly reassured her when imitation inevitably followed success.

The advice was simple: if your designs are copied, it means you have created something worth copying.

Looking back today, that early fascination feels like a soft prelude.

Roberta Tondini herself has become an avid collector of handbags - more than 100 pieces spanning some of the most influential maisons in fashion. Among them sits a Bagonghi bag by Roberta di Camerino, part of her personal archive.

When asked whether that childhood encounter shaped Studio Tondini, Roberta pauses.

“I would never say it consciously inspired the brand. But certain things stay with you. Color, proportion, the courage to experiment with materials.”

The parallels are subtle but visible.

Roberta di Camerino was known for bold color combinations - often structured around four dominant tones.

Studio Tondini’s first line, the Livia Collection, also works through a dialogue of four leather colours, carefully balanced in composition.

Material exploration is another shared thread.

Where Giuliana Coen famously introduced Venetian velvet into handbag design, Studio Tondini explores contemporary alternatives - including innovative vegan materials - always searching for new expressions of craftsmanship.

And then there is Venice itself.

The city that shaped Roberta di Camerino also left its mark on Studio Tondini: the brand’s logo is inspired by an architectural detail found in the historic fabric of La Serenissima.

A quiet lineage, perhaps.

Sometimes, the beginning of a story is not a business plan.

Sometimes it is simply a letter.

Or a bag carried by someone you love.

Image:

Roberta di Camerino Bagonghi bag from the personal collection of Roberta Tondini.

What object first shaped the way you choose?

We welcome your thoughts.

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Luxury was something one felt, not something one performed.

In recent years, the fashion conversation has been dominated by the rise of Quiet Luxury: a return to muted tones, impeccable tailoring, and the absence of logos. It emerged almost as a cultural antidote to the saturation of streetwear and visible branding.

For a moment, it felt like a collective exhale.

And yet, as with every aesthetic movement, the risk lies in reduction.

When “quiet” becomes merely another marketing device, it can drift into what might be called plain luxury: visually restrained, yes, but still engineered for margin rather than meaning.

The problem is not the absence of logos, rather, the absence of intention.

In parts of the Middle East, the idea of modest luxury has quietly shaped contemporary fashion conversations. Here, modesty does not mean austerity. It means garments and objects that honor cultural codes while embracing exquisite craftsmanship and material richness.

Luxury, in this context, becomes an inward satisfaction rather than an outward declaration. It respects the social fabric as much as the physical one.

And perhaps this is what feels increasingly relevant.

Because the opposite of ostentation is not minimalism.

It is consideration.

Reasonable luxury asks a simple, almost disarming question:

Who is this for?

If the answer is “for others to see,” something essential may already be missing.

If the answer is “for the personal pleasure of living well,” the gesture changes entirely.

Historically, what made Made in Italy revered was not excess. It was craft that privileged material integrity over spectacle. Objects designed to age beautifully, not to dominate a room.

That was luxury as social intelligence.

To enter a space without overwhelming it.

To choose quality without turning it into a performance.

In an era of awareness, the most radical choice may be respect.

Respect for the artisans behind the object.

Respect for oneself - choosing durability over impulse.

Respect for others - refusing to reduce value to visibility.

Reasonable luxury does not reject success. It refines its expression.

It asks us to consider whether elegance might once again be measured not by what we display, but by what we quietly sustain.

Perhaps the real return is not to “quiet luxury,” but to considered luxury.

The kind that simply endures, for the pleasure of it.

What does luxury mean when no one is watching?

We welcome your thoughts.

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Image: An elegant woman in a fine museum. Image generated with AI.

Our call is not to resist modernity, but to refine our relationship with it.

To choose with clarity, rather than compulsion.

Perhaps that is why choosing well feels increasingly so rare - and precious.

Because it asks us not only to determine what we want, but what that choice will make of us.

Will it undermine our values? What will it say about us? Can we live with it?

We often associate choice with freedom. A personal declaration.

And yet, as the world accelerates - offering too much choice or endlessly recycling the same choice options -, that freedom sometimes begins to feel like fatigue. Or even paralysis.

In her influential TED Talk, Sheena Iyengar, Professor at Columbia Business School, distills years of research into the hidden architecture of choice. Her work reveals that choice is, in fact, not a fixed paradigm: it is a lens shaped by context, culture, and expectation.

Watch the TED Talk

She shares a personal anecdote: requesting sugar for green tea in Japan - a gesture acceptable in one culture, dissonant in another - triggered not just surprise, but a cultural negotiation.

Her insight, beyond a layer of light irony, is clear: choice is not universal. And the same may be true across eras. What once felt liberating may, over time, begin to feel empty. Or irrelevant.

Moreover, a study co-authored by the same Iyengar, published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, shows that when we are faced with too many similar options, our ability to choose declines - and so does our satisfaction.

This phenomenon, known as choice overload, suggests that more is not always better.

Beyond the Surface

To choose well, then, is not about maximizing possibilities.

It is about aligning decisions with what holds meaning.

And meaning is rarely immediate.

It reveals itself through:

• Attention - the ability to investigate nuance;

• Care - the strength to resist the automatic;

• Durability - the instinct to choose what endures: in quality, form, or feeling.

A well-chosen object, path, or relationship does not unravel immediate applause. Rather, it unfolds itself over time - through a resonance echoing in the long run.

Ultimately, choosing well shall not be made of checklist, or borrowed tastes.

It shall be a way of living.

And it is the Studio Tondini way of living.

What if every choice you made today was the one you would carry with you for life?

What would you let go of?

What would you choose differently?

Leave a comment

We welcome your thoughts.

They move through it with elegance, but without noise.

They speak many languages - even when they stay silent.

They love art and architecture, train journeys and slow breakfasts;

the freedom of cities that never sleep, and the stillness of early mornings.

Studio Tondini is for them.

For those who know how to choose with grace, with courage, with intention.

For those who don’t need to be recognised by a logo, but by a glance.

For those who see savoir vivre not as a pose, but as a responsibility.

For those who know that true luxury means never compromising -

not on beauty, not on ethics.

This is the spirit behind The Art of Choice.

We live in a hyperconnected age, and yet we feel increasingly disconnected:

from real relationships, from tangible beauty, from the experience of truly living.

This journal exists to bring attention back to what matters -

to what it means to truly live.

Through the art of making - material, craft, and the inherent slowness of creation -

we rediscover the value of time, the quality of gesture, the depth of beauty.

And finally, the art of choosing:

because to choose well is not just an aesthetic act,

but a principle that leads to lasting satisfaction.

A fulfilling choice makes life more fulfilled.

We don’t belong to any one city - we inhabit them all.

We walk through them, in their details, their objects, their gestures that speak louder than words.

Milan, Paris, Tokyo, New York, London, Zurich, Madrid, Los Angeles, Riyadh, Seoul...

every place is inspiration, every encounter a point of departure.

Studio Tondini is not a trend - it is a place of soul.

A multifaceted, refined, thinking community.

An invitation to live with intensity and discretion.

To choose with attention, to dwell with style.

To cultivate rare relationships, authentic beauty, and independent thought.

Yes, we are made of craftsmanship -

but above all, we are urban.

And we believe that those who see the world with new eyes

have both the duty - and the pleasure - to choose what truly speaks of them.

Welcome to the world of Studio Tondini.

A world for connoisseurs of luxury,

in the quest for excellence.

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