#01 Craftsmanship or the Art of Making?
A First Approach to the World of Making: Understanding a Definition to Regain the Freedom Not to Define Yourself.
Who is this series for? It is for the hobbyist, the artisan, the person just starting out, and the one who has already found their way. It is for anyone who feels the need to study or revisit the fundamentals, to examine the choices others have made, and, when appropriate, to offer advice in return.
The world of craftsmanship is made up of small, fragmented realities. Unlike large industries, opportunities for collaboration are limited, start-up costs are often manageable, and before finding a clear direction, years can pass in research, reflection, experimentation, and learning to understand both yourself and what you create.
It is also about deciding what you want your work to say to others.
Today, these challenges have made the growing restrictions surrounding the use of the terms artisan and craftsmanship in Italy even more visible. For many small creative projects eager to take their first steps, this has sparked a genuine identity crisis. The tightening of the terminology primarily affects communication and commercial use—where, when, and how you choose to describe yourself and your work.
In practice, in Italy you can generally present yourself as an artisan only if you are officially registered in the relevant register. Using the term incorrectly in a commercial context may expose you to legal penalties. The purpose of these rules is to distinguish those who genuinely produce through their own skilled manual work from businesses that rely on semi-industrial production while using the word handmade or artisan primarily as a marketing tool.
Perhaps a more accurate way to describe the distinction is this: an artisan is someone whose work is based on an independent, limited-scale production process rather than on a system where others assemble standardized components on their behalf.
Even so, many situations remain open to debate. The boundary between craftsmanship, design, artistic practice, and small-scale manufacturing is not always as clear as the legal definitions suggest, leaving room for legitimate discussion about where one category ends and another begins.
The uncertainty has been felt most strongly by what I like to call the "little leagues"—and I count myself among them. These are the small projects still searching for solid ground, trying to grow in a steady, sustainable way. They exist in the space between hobby and profession, working toward the day they can establish themselves and, eventually, qualify for official artisan status.
But if we are no longer allowed to identify with craftsmanship, what are those of us who work with our hands supposed to call ourselves?
For a long time, craftsmanship was a broad and inclusive idea. It embraced makers, artists, designers, and skilled professionals alike. It included the dressmaker and the woodworker, but also anyone who builds, experiments, and creates through their own hands.
If I reduce the definition to its essentials—manual work, objects that can be sold and reproduced, and a production process that is not industrial—I am simply describing a function. I am defining where a profession belongs within a category, nothing more.
This change in the law, which has brought renewed attention to the meaning and use of the word artisan, does not have to be seen as bad news. In many ways, it offers those who are just beginning a clearer path to follow from the very start—one that is more precise than the broad label of artisan itself.
Personally, I have always understood that word differently.
To me, an artisan is a master.
It is not simply someone who works with their hands, but someone who has become a point of reference. Someone whose work has reached a level of excellence, and whose knowledge has grown so deep that every aspect of the craft—the techniques, the materials, the process, and the wider vision behind it—forms a complete whole.
That is the image the word artisan has always carried in my mind: not merely a profession, but a destination. A recognition earned through years of practice, curiosity, mistakes, and refinement.
The true embodiment of craftsmanship—what Italy itself calls Master Artisan Excellence—has become part of my own cultural understanding of what that word should represent.
In the end, the legal definition of the word becomes a matter of bureaucracy: either you are officially registered, or you are not. Beyond that, it is up to each of us to give the word the meaning that resonates most deeply with our own experience.
So why does any of this matter?
Because whenever a creative project begins to take shape—whenever an idea becomes a real object, whether as a weekend hobby or the first step toward a sustainable business—we almost instinctively feel the need to define who we are before we define what we make.
Over the past month, I have seen hundreds of social media posts from people changing the way they describe themselves and their projects. They were not simply rewriting a biography or updating a profile. They were reconsidering their own identity.
The change in the law confronted many makers with a fundamental question:
What am I actually doing? Where do I belong?
These are not merely legal questions. They are questions of identity. Long before they shape how others see us, they shape how we see ourselves.
Some responded with frustration, focusing on what they saw as the logical inconsistencies between the legal restrictions and the broader meaning of the word. Others took the opportunity to look inward and confront a question they had quietly avoided for years, having naturally settled into the comfort of calling themselves artisans.
The first instinct is often to define yourself by your trade. Someone who works with needle and thread is a dressmaker. Someone who shapes iron is a blacksmith. The profession itself provides the identity.
But what about those who move across several disciplines? Those whose work combines different materials, techniques, and fields, and for whom no established profession seems to fit?
Finding a place within the traditional catalogue of trades becomes far more difficult. It is a kind of no man's land, one that has naturally been absorbed under the broad umbrella of artisan because no more precise definition has ever really existed.
This is where I would like to make my own proposal.
In Italy, a new label has recently been introduced for people who take part in hobby markets, distinguishing collectors from what I will jokingly call little artisans: OPI — Operators of Their Own Ingenuity.
The more I think about it, the more I like this definition.
At first, it can sound almost dismissive—a catch-all term that seems to flatten every creative practice into the same category. You draw? You're not an illustrator; you're an Operator of Your Own Ingenuity. You work with paper? Operator of Your Own Ingenuity. You build incredible robots or lamps from reclaimed materials? Operator of Your Own Ingenuity.
And yet, that is precisely its strength.
Although it appears to reduce everything to a single definition, it actually embraces every discipline without forcing it into a predefined trade. It is broad enough to include countless forms of making while remaining open-ended, leaving space for each person to develop their own identity rather than inherit one.
In that sense, I find it far more liberating than it first appears. It defines a way of thinking before it defines a profession.
Each of us carries more than one identity, shaped by the sum of our experiences and constantly evolving.
I began as a set designer. I worked as a theatre props maker, developed a passion for mask making, explored the world of art, became a teacher, and today I create paper jewellery. At my core, I come from the theatre—not as a performer, but as a technician.
All of these experiences come together whenever I make something.
My hands follow ideas that begin in my mind, creating what many would simply call ingenuity. Over time, I have developed my own visual language, expressed through a decorative technique that is uniquely mine. I designed a handcart that transforms into a market stall. I found unconventional ways to explore craft markets and connect with people.
Step by step, I have tried to grow by relying on a single resource above all others:
my own ingenuity.
How many makers furnish their market stalls or workshops with that same irrepressible spark of ingenuity? That subtle quality which may seem like nothing more than a play on words, yet is capable of carving deep paths through the way we think, inspiring our creativity and revealing entirely new directions to follow.
To me, it feels like the right place to begin.
Someone had already imagined those four words before I did, and I believe they chose them well. They recognised the potential hidden within them.
Not as a new label.
Not as an Artisan 2.0.
Instead, as a way of understanding ourselves while we are still becoming.
A way of moving through unfamiliar territory with confidence in our own abilities, while leaving enough room to earn the name by which we may eventually wish to be known.
The word artisan carries with it the idea of mastery—the art of making, the ability to make well. If that represents the highest point of the journey, then perhaps it does not describe us yet. And if learning never truly ends, perhaps it never will.
That is why I find Operator of One's Own Ingenuity such a welcoming definition. It embraces every beginning. The ending, on the other hand, depends entirely on how willing we are to keep thinking, experimenting, and creating.
For anyone who still feels uncertain about where they belong, I believe it is a good garment to wear while building their own path.
Conclusion
Absolutely.
In everyday life, it is not always practical to replace it with phrases like I create handcrafted jewellery and artistic objects every time you speak to someone. It can become cumbersome to constantly say handmade or hand-drawn, especially in those areas where the line between original creation and reproducible production is far from clear.
Sooner or later, you will probably find yourself using the word artisan simply because it helps people immediately understand the context of your work. It is a shared cultural shortcut, and sometimes that is exactly what communication requires.
After all, the debate mainly concerns the commercial and promotional use of the term. For many small creative projects, the practical boundaries are still uncertain, and only time will reveal how these rules will be interpreted and enforced.
Very often, artisan will remain the quickest and most elegant way to describe what you do.
The important thing is remembering that it does not have to be the only word through which you define yourself.
Identity is always richer than a label, and every creative journey deserves the freedom to grow before settling on a single name.
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