A Mediterranean kitchen above Milan

Paolo, for any designer, confronting a building designed by Gio Ponti is an enormous responsibility. What was your vision of Ponti's architecture prior to this work, and what prompted you to purchase this specific home?

Today, we are riding a mainstream wave regarding Gio Ponti, but beyond trends, his approach to architecture, design, and interiors has left indelible marks on the path of every designer. These are traces that I have studied in order to follow and bring coherence to my recovery project for this home. My vision was shaped through a specific academic and professional path: after graduating from the Politecnico, I completed a master's degree in the United States focused on the deep study of Mies van der Rohe's residential architecture. This training instilled in me a rigorous and analytical approach to 1950s master architecture. Ponti had the great merit of being an eclectic and shrewd figure, capable of coordinating the entire Milanese scene and conceiving modern living. However, when I decided to purchase this space in Via Dezza, I did so with the intention of confronting not an untouchable myth, but a real piece of architecture, analyzing its specific details in relation to my project.

The history of the seventh-floor apartment on Via Dezza is quite unique. When you walked in for the first time, what kind of situation did you find? Was it truly a "Pontian" house?

No, it wasn't at all in terms of its interior layout. To understand the situation, we need to take a step back: Gio Ponti designed the Via Dezza building in 1957 and, as was customary at the time, the apartments were sold off-plan. The seventh floor (the penthouse) and the eighth floor (the super-penthouse, where Ponti lived and eventually passed away in 1979) shared twin floor plans, originally conceived as large, flexible open spaces.

However, the original buyer of the seventh floor was a couple of architects with three daughters. Not sharing the idea of the Pontian open space, they decided to completely overturn the layout to adapt it to the needs of a large family and an internal professional studio. They created a traditional compartmentalization with a hallway and enclosed rooms. The space Ponti had originally drawn as a kitchen, facing the terrace, was turned into a paper archive. When I took over, the apartment had remained frozen exactly in that 1957 modification. What was left of "Ponti" were only the external structural elements and the original builder's specifications.

So your intervention wasn't a traditional conservative restoration, but rather a recovery of a design intention that was never realized. How did you work to bring the soul of the building back to the surface?

Exactly. It wasn't a material restoration, because Ponti's internal "matter" had never actually existed there. Instead, it was the recovery of an idea of living. We relied on the original floor plan that Ponti used to sell the units, and we decided to bypass the 1957 alterations to reinstate the original spatial logic.

On the other hand, we did carry out a philological and total restoration of the entire perimeter wall facing Via Dezza. There, we recovered the original colors by scraping through various layers of paint, matching the fixtures of the era, the handles, and the original integrated furniture details, such as the famous "furnished window" equipped with neon lights and internal Venetian blinds, along with the system of external roller shutters.

The core of the project was reconnecting with the optimism of the post-WWII era, a period when Ponti theorized the "cult of the Mediterranean." In his writings on Via Dezza, he described the building as a curtain of Genoese houses facing the sea, imagining that from there, the view could ideally stretch all the way to Genoa. He designed spaces flooded with a healthy, metaphysical light—a extraordinary contrast to the gray, industrial Milan of the 1950s and 60s. Anyone entering this home today is instantly struck by this incredible brightness.

Let's talk specifically about the kitchen space. How does the concept of a "Mediterranean kitchen" translate into a Milanese apartment, and how did you manage to reconcile a 1950s layout with contemporary technological needs?

The Mediterranean kitchen is rooted in a visual and physical connection to the outdoors. By returning the kitchen to its original position, we enhanced the French window that leads directly out to the terrace. The kitchen thus becomes a fluid filter between the indoor dining area and the alfresco dining space—a concept typical of Mediterranean homes where the cooking area opens out toward the orchard or garden.

The main challenge was dimensional: at the time, the kitchen was conceived merely as a service room, connected to a tiny maid's room and equipped with a second independent service entrance. We had no room to expand the walls without compromising the symmetry of the original windows. To optimize the space, we closed off the second service entrance, gaining a continuous wall.

For aesthetics and technology, we relied on fully integrated V-ZUG appliances. Having a small space, the goal was to eliminate visual clutter to preserve the clean lines of the design and the fluidity of light. We opted for a monolithic approach: when the kitchen is not in use, it is perceived simply as a minimalist block of satin-finish steel paired with lacquered ivory columns, which act as actual full-height wood paneling (boiserie). To maintain a consistent aesthetic, I’ve chosen V-ZUG’s CombairSteamer in Platinum finish. The refrigerator, pantry, and storage are completely hidden behind these panels.

Are there specific solutions related to ergonomics or the reclamation of interior features that helped manage the tight space and maintain visual continuity?

From an ergonomic standpoint, given the shallow clearance for movement, we avoided classic hinged doors with 90° openings, which would have obstructed the pathway. Instead, we designed large, full-height pull-out drawers: the front panel extends linearly toward the user, bringing internal baskets and pull-out drawers with it. The cook only needs to take a small step back to easily access the entire contents of the unit. Additionally, to maximize storage, we pushed the wall units all the way to the ceiling.

Another essential element we decided to keep is the internal window that visually connects the kitchen with the living room. During our surveys, we discovered that an original fixed glass pane was already present in that wall. Looking at the research by Professor Simona Pierini from the Politecnico di Milano—author of a monumental study on Milanese interiors published by Hoepli—it is clear that the internal window is one of Ponti's great compositional themes. It serves to dissolve boundaries and allow a positive visual "intermingling" between rooms: someone working in the kitchen can look out into the living room, and vice versa, amplifying the perception of space and light through continuous plays of field and counter-field.