Elena Salmistraro - Bridging the Gap Between Design and Dreams

Based in Milan, the practice moves easily between product design, art, fashion, and illustration, refusing to prioritise one discipline over another. Salmistraro’s work is driven by an architectural understanding of form and a deeply emotional approach to objects, where colour, texture, and narrative are not applied as surface treatments but embedded into the design process itself. Her objects often feel animated, expressive, and intentionally imperfect, shaped by cultural references that range from mythology and ritual to street art and contemporary illustration. Over the years, this distinctive visual language has allowed her to collaborate with global brands and galleries while maintaining a clear authorial voice, one that treats emotion not as an afterthought, but as a functional component of design.

In this conversation with Alisha of Design Diary International, Elena Salmistraro speaks about how her studio navigates scale and authorship, why emotion remains central to her work, and how contemporary design can remain expressive without losing rigour.

You have often said that creativity surrounded you long before you chose design. When you look back, what were the first memories or objects that made you fall in love with making things?

One of the first objects that truly struck me was Aldo Rossi’s La Cupola for Alessi. As a child, I used to look at it in the kitchen, and it seemed like a tiny, fantastic building, a miniature castle. I didn’t yet understand what design was, but I felt that the object had something special, as if it were alive. It was a different way of seeing things: an everyday object that could also be architecture, play, and sculpture.

Then came ceramics, and through that I discovered that I could be the one building worlds, giving tangible form to my ideas. It was like discovering that imagination could live inside matter.

Growing up in Italy, where art and craft are woven into everyday life, how did your early environment influence your idea of beauty and proportion?

I believe growing up in Italy means absorbing a certain visual sensitivity without even realizing it. Everywhere you turn, you find beauty: in buildings, in the details of doorways, in the light of the squares. All this teaches you harmony, which is essential, because even the way you work with a material or design something follows a logic of proportions.

I’ve always had a kind of obsession with proportions, and it’s not just an aesthetic matter but also an emotional one. When something is well proportioned, you feel it; it gives you peace. It’s like listening to a melody perfectly in tune.

When you joined Politecnico di Milano, did design feel more like freedom or discipline?

At first, pure discipline. I came from an art institute where expressive freedom was total: drawing, colour, creativity. At the Politecnico, I learned that behind every idea there must be structure, logic, and technical awareness. In the beginning, it felt like a cage, but later I realized it could be a greater form of freedom. Once you learn the rules, you can choose how and when to break them.

You move easily between art and product design. When did you first realize that emotion could live inside an object?

I think that moment goes back to my childhood. Looking at that famous coffee maker, I felt an emotion that went beyond its function. It was something simple, but it made me dream. Later, through my studies, I understood that design can and should have that power: to make us feel something. When an object can make you smile, evoke a memory, or create a sense of connection, it has gone beyond function. It has become something alive.

Your work has a rare mix of playfulness and empathy. Where does this emotional language come from in your creative world?

I think it comes from my need to be sincere. Every project reflects my way of seeing the world, my enthusiasms, and my vulnerabilities.

Some says a designer should disappear behind the project, but I don’t believe that. Every mark, every choice inevitably carries a part of you. Maybe it comes from my artistic background, but for me, drawing and color are ways of communicating emotions, not just building forms. Empathy is born there, in the moment when someone recognizes a part of themselves in what you’ve created.

Many of your designs feature characters that seem alive and almost mythological. Do they emerge from your imagination, or do they carry personal meaning?

A bit of both. Some emerge spontaneously, as figures that appear almost on their own while I draw. Others come from my love of mythology, which I consider one of the greatest sources of inspiration ever. It’s an ancient but still powerful language, full of symbols that speak about the human condition in all its shades.

You often revisit materials like ceramic, metal, and glass. How do you keep your sense of discovery alive while working with familiar mediums?

Every material has a voice, and the more you know it, the better you learn to listen. Ceramics, for instance, is a living material: it deforms, reacts, and changes. It forces you into an ongoing dialogue. Over time, I’ve realized that knowledge doesn’t extinguish curiosity; it amplifies it. When you know what a material can do, you start wondering what it’s never done, and how to take it there without distorting its nature.

You collaborate with leading brands such as Alessi, Moooi, and Bosa, yet your signature remains unmistakable. How do you preserve your identity while designing within another brand’s world?

For me, the secret lies in dialogue. I don’t work for a company, but with one. Collaboration must be an exchange, not a delegation. Every brand has its own identity and history, and my task is to enter that world bringing my vision, but without imposing it. When the dialogue is sincere, projects emerge where both sides are recognizable. That’s when magic happens: the company becomes the context, but my voice remains.

You have described design as emotional and even spiritual. How do you hold on to that philosophy while working with commercial constraints and timelines?

It’s one of the biggest challenges. The design world runs on tight schedules, budgets, and constraints, but creativity needs space and silence. I try to keep the emotional part alive despite everything by reminding myself why I’m doing that project. When you manage to hold onto that thread, even an object made for the market can have a soul.

It’s not about ignoring limits, but using them as stimuli; sometimes that’s exactly where the most poetic solutions are born.

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