I live in a small town near Treviso, in northern Italy, but my roots are in Vicenza—a city where beauty is impossible to ignore. I am married, I have three children, and I share my life with two dogs, Sasso and Donna, and a cat named Agatta. For many years, my professional life revolved around IT. Knife making came later, but once it arrived, it never left.

Everything truly began many years ago at a friend’s house. When it was time to slice some salami, he pulled out a large knife made from an old industrial saw blade, with a handle carved from scrap wood taken from a coffin. It made no sense, and yet to this day it remains one of the most beautiful objects I’ve ever seen. That moment stayed with me. Soon after, I started making knives myself—first by watching videos, then by studying more seriously, and eventually by learning under the guidance of a mentor.

I usually say that I started this journey twice. The first time, about fifteen years ago, completely on my own, I made things that looked like knives but were little more than shapes. Only later did I understand that making a proper knife is an entirely different discipline. In 2014, through an online forum, I met Denis Mura—who became my mentor and one of my closest friends. From that point on, everything changed.

From there, my path became increasingly defined by people.

I often say that my journey is made of extraordinary individuals—and of others who, through their smallness, have helped me understand even more clearly how essential the first group is. Among the most important are the people we jokingly call the Residents: knifemakers who regularly share my workshop and with whom I have built a bond of friendship that goes far beyond craft.

The name comes from my wife, Debora. She calls them the Residents, and if too much time passes without seeing them in the workshop, she genuinely starts to worry.

The Residents are Francesco Piccinin, Denis Favaro, and Maurizio Massarenti. They are all part of my journey. But I want to be very clear about one thing: what they have given me is immeasurably greater than anything I could ever have given them. I would never want it to sound the other way around.

Then there is Stefano Biasion—practically my brother from another mother. When people see us together, they often mistake us for one another; we even look remarkably alike. He is a grumpy, loud bear. In other words, my photocopy.

My first knife was made exactly the way my friend’s had been: a reclaimed saw blade and scraps of cherry wood. It was terrible. I still have it. I keep it as a reminder of where everything started.

Over time, my focus became very clear: kitchen knives. From the beginning, many told me it was a mistake. That “serious” knifemakers didn’t do kitchen knives. That there would never be a market for them, especially in Italy. Even today, Italian guild rules reflect that outdated mindset. So every day, I carry a small part of my motivation from proving that belief wrong.

At first, I was obsessed with heat treatment. I am, unapologetically, a steel nerd. Today, I see things differently. A great knife, for me, is the balance of three essential elements: heat treatment, geometry, and ergonomics. Finishing and fit matter just as much, because at a high level, quality reveals itself in the details. That was something my mentor insisted on—and something I deeply believe in.

Although I began as a forger, today I work primarily with stock removal. My blades often draw inspiration from Japanese knife shapes, but there is always something unmistakably Italian in them. My background is technical, so my approach is always the same: study, understand, apply. Aesthetics come later. Without solid geometry and ergonomics, beauty is meaningless.

Over the years, I’ve developed a personal design language—one that many people say is immediately recognizable. That is one of the greatest compliments I could receive. Japan influences my work deeply, but every knife also carries something of myself and my country. Some pieces are inspired by Venice, others by a Vespa scooter, a grand piano, or even a car. One knife I’m particularly attached to is a Magnacut blade I made in 2021—the first in Italy to use that steel—designed and built together with my son. Teaching him something through my craft made that knife special in a way no material ever could.

I don’t believe in extremism. Carbon versus stainless, forged versus stock removal—none of that matters. Every steel has its place. If I had to recommend one, RWL34 would be among them. It became a milestone for me: at one time, I was told I wasn’t “ready” to use it. Years later, Damasteel asked me to show others how to work with it. That’s how experience comes full circle.

I design constantly—on scraps of paper, food wrappers, post-its. Lines are stretched, shortened, bent, or discarded. If something works, it stays. If not, it goes into what I jokingly call my “big bin of failures.” Testing is both scientific and practical: lab analyses where possible, real use where numbers can’t tell the whole story. Feedback matters, and designs evolve because of it.

Time is my greatest challenge. At this stage of my life, every move has to count. Still, what keeps me going is curiosity: being part of an international community, learning from others, experimenting, and trying—quietly—to become better every day.

The perfect knife?
It’s always the one I haven’t made yet.