LORENZO SERAFINI

Vogue Greece’s editor at large, Filep Motwary, meets Lorenzo Serafini, Alberta Ferretti’s successor, for a conversation on a contemporary vision of Italian elegance—a fashion that is discreet yet essential, that doesn’t shout, yet is heard.

I first met Lorenzo Serafini more than twenty-five years ago in Cyprus, through his close friend and, to this day, his most trusted collaborator, Costi Constantinou, whom I had known since my teenage years. Picture the island of Aphrodite at the end of summer, salt still clinging to the skin and youth suspended somewhere between swimming and endless conversations. He was very young, with an innate and effortless grace. We crossed paths again years later in Paris, a fleeting moment on the street, no words exchanged—only mutual recognition. But when he invited me this past October to Limassol for a private presentation of his work at Cara—one of the island’s most discerning fashion destinations—that old familiarity returned instantly, untouched by time. I received his message just as I had come back to Cyprus, after the Fashion Weeks in New York, London, Milan, and Paris had wrapped up—an uninterrupted sequence of images and impressions. The timing felt precise. Serafini, in truth, has always operated outside fashion’s hysteria, even when shaping it from within.
When we met, there was no theatrical reunion between us, only continuity. The same calm gaze. The same understated demeanor. We arranged to meet again the following morning, just before I left for Lisbon and he returned to Milan. Our conversation revolved around life, his work, and Alberta Ferretti’s summer collection, which, as he told me, was inspired by the notion of privacy. I laughed and suggested that perhaps this had to do with a nostalgia for everything we lost when technology and social media began to dominate us. He nodded, laughing too, as if he had been waiting for that thought to finally take shape.
At first glance, Serafini’s trajectory in Italian fashion reads like a masterclass in artistic formation. At nineteen, while studying Fashion Design in Milan, he interned at Moschino in the small town of Cattolica, absorbing the unfiltered energy of an atelier frequented by figures such as Jean Paul Gaultier and Rifat Ozbek. After graduating in 1996, he worked at Blumarine until 2000, before being hired by Roberto Cavalli—a world he recalls as filled with excess, ambition, and unapologetic freedom. Nearly a decade later, he joined Dolce & Gabbana, where the scale of the women’s studio introduced him to a more rigorous, almost architectural approach to creation.
In 2014, the Aeffe Group chose him to lead Philosophy, Alberta Ferretti’s diffusion line, bringing him back to Cattolica—where the designer had opened her first boutique, Jolly, just a few miles from Serafini’s birthplace—while also placing his name within the brand itself: Philosophy di Lorenzo Serafini. His ten years there marked not only a personal milestone but also the closing of a significant chapter in Italian fashion. Philosophy, founded in 1984, was inseparable from Ferretti’s vision. So when she decided in 2024 to step down from the creative direction of her namesake label—one of Milan fashion’s cornerstones since 1981— Serafini was announced as her successor.
“I swear to God,” he tells me, leaning slightly forward, “I never thought she would allow anyone else to do her job. Never.” When the proposal came, his answer was immediately yes—not out of dry ambition, but deep gratitude. “It’s a brand very close to my emotions, to my sensitivity. The roots of my vision are the same: femininity, romance, the sense of responsibility to make a woman look beautiful.”
If there is something essential he shares with Ferretti, it is the belief that beauty is neither nostalgic nor decorative; it is structural. After saying yes, his first fear was whether he could satisfy everyone: the founder, the market, the audience. “I’m a Capricorn,” he tells me. “I always think of the worst.” Then came focus—and the major decision to move the Alberta Ferretti show back to Palazzo Donizetti, where it used to be held. “I felt very certain about the woman behind what I propose—to be fragile and, at the same time, strong; tough and romantic all at once,” he confides. This duality has become the central theme of his work.
Even his choice of models reflects that intention. “We don’t look for models, but for characters. The body becomes the narration of the story I want to tell, not a spectacle.” In an era obsessed with immediate impact, his attention to detail feels almost subversive. Earrings, shoes, proportions, posture—nothing is accidental. “Thankfully there are still people like you who look at the whole,” he says, half joking, half relieved. “Today we are bombarded with images. The role of the journalist has changed.” What he means is that fashion has shifted toward effect rather than essence—images without context. At Ferretti, he resists that distortion. “A collection is a long process filled, above all, with love, faith, and persistence. Many sleepless nights, doubts about yourself…”
When I ask him which aspects of Ferretti’s identity he felt obliged to preserve and which to leave behind, he surprises me by revealing that he never studied the archive, nor devised any kind of guideline. “I didn’t want to design with rules. I wanted to embrace everything that has defined the house for four decades—femininity, romance, fluidity—words that may sound commonplace now.” Yet in his vocabulary, they remain central.
Inevitably, the question of perspective arises. Serafini is a man designing for a house founded by a woman. “A man’s perspective on femininity is very different,” he admits. “Sometimes harsher, other times softer.” He avoids speaking of sexuality, emphasizing instead: “I prefer sensuality, intimacy—anything that feels more personal.” Intimacy, privacy, trust without exposure—words that return again and again in our conversation.
His vision, however, is grounded in reality. “Fashion for fashion’s sake is an outdated idea. What matters is to serve a woman’s life in the right way—with clothes that live beyond the runway and endure over time—not trophies, but possessions filled with emotion. We must buy less and better,” he says, underlining the importance of sustainability. A garment, in his view, should carry memory. This emotional dimension reflects his deeper understanding of beauty: elegance should not be momentary, but a lasting value.
Ten years after taking over Philosophy and now several seasons into Alberta Ferretti, Lorenzo’s instinct remains his compass. “If you listen to too many voices, you lose the meaning,” he says. Sales figures are not his concern; his responsibility lies in emotion, desire, and reassurance. “I want women to feel protected in my clothes,” he emphasizes, adding that his greatest challenge is not the house itself, but the world around us—instability, noise, constant change. Designing in an age of uncertainty requires resilience. The risk lies not in experimentation, but in inconsistency. “If you are known for certain values, you must stand by them until the end,” he notes. Because fashion, like relationships, demands trust, stability, and no unpleasant surprises.
This brings us to the Alberta Ferretti In Confidence collection for Spring/Summer ’26—a hymn to discretion in an era of uncontrolled visibility, a collection that pays tribute to the woman-host who throws parties for the joy of it, not for Instagram likes. With imagination and delicacy, he presented airy capes, relaxed kaftans, and finishes that float with grace, each piece cut in loose, fluid variations. The color palette unfolded in soft tones, deepening for contrast before culminating in bold leopard prints. Standouts included long, flowing dresses in gentle shades, pleats à la Fortuny inspired by Tina Chow—the eternal muse of elegant, composed seriousness and one of his enduring influences. Here, her spirit was translated into pieces not merely decorative, but comfortable and refined.
“Does true freedom mean being seen less?” I ask him. He pauses for a moment before replying: “I prefer to speak to a few people—those who truly want to listen—rather than to everyone, who will disregard the essence. Discretion is not a limitation, but a luxury.”
His work does not shout—it is heard. And the collection reflects that philosophy. Jackets that retain their strength without rigidity. Movement without loss of presence. Even the bold elements—leopard, metallic details—are not aggressive but deeply familiar, almost remembered. “I want clothes that feel as if they’ve already lived, like something your mother once wore and later passed on to you,” he explains.
Confidence, he believes, is cultivated through introspection. He tells me he pushes himself to read instead of scrolling, speaks of walking among trees, of returning to the sea of his hometown in winter. Nature restores him. Through his words, romanticism is redefined—not with nostalgia, but with courage. “To show your true feelings today requires strength. Confidence is our most attractive trait—and the sexiest.”
As we close our conversation, I ask whether success has affected his privacy. He smiles. Fame, he says, never interested him. People recognize his work, not his face—and that suits him perfectly. Nearly thirty years in fashion have taught him never to take anything for granted.
Watching him depart for Milan, I think of Cyprus, of summers past, and I wonder what ultimately remains when the noise fades. Without a second thought, I would say: intimacy.