Hi Astrid, how have you been?
Hi Liam! I’m great, thanks — how shall we start?
Could you introduce yourself and tell me about your background?
Sure. I was born in Trieste, a port city in northern Italy. My father was a printer and publisher, and his workshop was a wonderland of mechanical presses, wood and metal type, and paper. My sister and I basically grew up in that space. When I was five, we moved to Spain to live with my mother. From there, we moved countries a lot. I pursued studies in literature and philosophy, which ultimately led me to the UK, where I furthered my education in design.
What prompted you to switch to the dark side?
I didn’t even know graphic design existed. Then one day, I picked up a copy of Interview Magazine and it hit me like lightning. The layouts, the visual rhythm — it was pure magic. It instantly brought me back to the tactile world of my father’s press, and to the illustrators whose books he published. I remember watching Étienne Delessert draw Yok Yok — my favourite book as a child — right in front of me. Who else gets to experience that? Holding that magazine transported me. It tapped into something deep and familiar. It was one of the most transformative moments of my life — I knew, instantly, that this was what I wanted to do. It connected all the dots: philosophy, literature, storytelling, printing, letters and images. It was all there, beautifully laid out. From that moment, I went on to study at Central Saint Martins and then the Royal College of Art.
How did you find the transition from academia to art school?
It was jarring. In literature, you’re guided. At art school, you’re expected to self-direct, explore, fail, and learn. It took me a while to find my rhythm. I learned as much from my classmates as from my tutors — if not more.
Did you get much technical training?
Not really — most of that was trial and error. That’s why I tell students to hone their technical skills. Concepts are essential, but execution is critical. Especially typography. It’s the backbone of communication design. If you can master the fundamentals of typography, it will make all your work so much better.
Have you ever had a mentor?
No, and I often wished I had. In many ways, books became my mentors. But I built my own education by actively seeking out the people I admired. That’s part of why I’ve always loved writing about design — especially interviewing other designers (as you’re doing now!). I remember once driving across Spain to meet Isidro Ferrer, a brilliant designer who lives in Huesca and had no mobile phone — just to spend a few hours in conversation. From a young age, whenever I admired someone — whether a writer, artist, philosopher, or designer — I found ways to meet them. Those encounters often turned into informal mentorships, shaped through dialogue and curiosity.
Can you tell me about Atlas?
Sure, that’s quite a funny story. After arriving in Barcelona, I was told by a few studios that I would probably find working for them too dull and unchallenging — that I should work with a guy called “Pablo Martin,” who happened to be my boyfriend at the time!
That’s amazing. How did you handle that?
It was bittersweet. Working with Pablo was out of the question. At the same time, I couldn’t start a studio without clients and needed to pay my bills.
A few years after moving from Barcelona to Mallorca, we started to informally share a studio space. Over time, that collaboration evolved into what became Atlas. It all came together quite organically — spontaneous, and perhaps a little naïve. Had we overthought it, we might never have done it! It led to some exciting work that I’m still proud of.
We were a small team, each bringing our own designers into the fold, and we worked with clients across the globe. What made it unusual — and, in hindsight, quite unique — was our location. We weren’t based in London, Barcelona or New York, but in Mallorca. Somehow, that remoteness became part of our identity. People enjoyed visiting, and we travelled when needed. But in the early days, plenty of people thought we were out of our minds!
What was it like running a global studio from a small island?
It was intense. It didn’t matter that we were in Mallorca, as we worked most of the time. At our peak, we had nearly 20 people. We weren’t part of a “scene,” which I guess worked in our favour.
When did you move to Pentagram?
Just as we were thinking of expanding to New York, Pentagram called, so we moved to London instead! Jake Gilbert, a designer who approached me as part of Atlas, became the first designer to join my team at Pentagram.
What does your current setup look like?
It’s lean. I work with a network of freelance designers I trust — all over the world. It’s remote, but deeply collaborative. I worked with many of them before, so I know how they think and work.
What brings you joy?
My son brings me the most joy — and the most frustration!
What principles underpin your work?
I don’t have a fixed set of rules, but I do lean into simplicity — not as a stylistic choice, but as a discipline. I’ve always admired what Bruno Munari quote: “To complicate is easy; to simplify is difficult.” has stayed with me for years. Simplicity is not about minimalism for its own sake — it’s about stripping away what’s unnecessary while preserving the essence. That’s much harder to do than it sounds.
Someone once pointed out something in my work that I hadn’t consciously noticed: I rarely mix typefaces, and I almost never overlay text on images. I instinctively tend to separate type and image. It might be a kind of silent principle in my work, my own way of seeking clarity.
But simplicity alone isn’t enough. There must be an idea. Good design has a conceptual core. It must have thought, intention, craft, and an element of surprise. That’s always been my approach. A client once said to me, “We love working with you because you’re a traditional designer… but there’s always a twist.” I took that as a compliment. That element of surprise — the smile in the mind — is something I always aim for. It’s timeless.
Who’s doing inspiring work at the moment?
Rejane Dal Bello, Shaz Madani, Yah-Leng Yu, Sonya Dyakova and Anna Kulachek.
What advice would you give to someone entering the industry?
Learn from those ahead of you — and understand why their experience matters. Our industry needs both fresh ideas and deep experience. There’s value in acknowledging the effort and time that goes into getting good at what we do.
Do your research. Learn about the designers who came before you — not to mimic them, but to understand how things have been done, and why. That kind of knowledge gives you a language — with clients, with collaborators, with the work itself. If you know what you’re talking about, you can participate in deeper conversations. Look into people like Alan Fletcher, Josef Muller-Brockmann, Jan Tschichold, Wim Crouwel, Derek Birdsall. You’ll start to see how ideas evolve, and where your own might fit in.
And work hard. This is not an easy industry, and if you want to be good — truly good — you have to put in the hours. Keep humble, and keep learning. That’s a quality I really admire in people. I’ve always been more drawn to designers who quietly get on with the work than those who chase the spotlight. That kind of humility says a lot about a person’s relationship to craft.
I often say, “The day I stop learning is the day I should stop designing.” I’m a perennial student — there’s always more to discover — new tools, new ways of thinking, new people to learn from. If you’re serious about design, your education is just beginning when you leave school.
And finally, don’t be afraid to feel uncomfortable. Discomfort often leads to better outcomes — it forces you to move, adapt, rethink. That tension, if you let it, can make your work more thoughtful, more original, more alive.
What advice do you wish you’d been given?
Ha! Probably something about time management. I’m obsessive which means I’m not fast. I can lose hours to kerning. But would I change that? I don’t think so. It’s part of the work. Part of me.
On the topic of obsessing over kerning, how important are organisations like ISTD to our industry?
They’re vital. Especially today, when there’s so much visual noise and such an overwhelming volume of work being produced. For students in particular, it can be difficult to discern what’s genuinely good, what’s well-crafted, and what simply looks trendy or polished on the surface.
To learn meaningfully, you need context. You need to know who’s setting the bar, who’s moving things forward, and why that matters. I was teaching at a college recently and was surprised by how few students recognised even the most prominent names in design. Not niche practitioners, but the giants whose work has defined our discipline. This is where organisations like ISTD play an essential role: they help embed this knowledge in the next generation. They promote design with structure, intelligence and longevity — not just style.
As I mentioned earlier, understanding the history of design isn’t optional. If you want to make work that matters — that lasts — you need to know what came before you. The past doesn’t just inform the present; it gives you tools, references and a sense of responsibility. ISTD, with its deep focus on typography, provides that grounding. It teaches designers to work with systems, with clarity, with rigour. And it brings visibility not only to the ‘big names’ but also to the quieter, often unsung talents whose work is just as valuable. It’s a level playing field, and that’s quite rare.
Typography is one of the most foundational tools in any designer’s skillset. Whether you’re working in editorial, branding, digital, in-house, or at an agency — it doesn’t matter. Typography is the language beneath the language. If you can handle type, you can handle anything. It teaches you hierarchy, rhythm, spacing, logic, emotion — all at once.
That’s also why I believe institutions like ISTD are becoming more important, not less. Today, very few students get to work with physical type or experience the process of setting type by hand. Most colleges no longer have letterpress workshops. When I was studying, learning how to set type manually gave me a deep respect for detail and process. Now, students often have to fill that gap in other ways, and ISTD helps provide a framework for doing that.
On a personal level, ISTD has always been a kind of beacon for me. It’s not easy to become a member — nor should it be. It’s a rigorous benchmark, and one I would encourage all young designers to aspire to. Not because of the title, but because of what the process teaches you. It will make your work better. It will make you better.
Thanks for your time, Astrid, that was brilliant fun.
Any time! Nice to talk.
