THE WORKSHOP · CHIERI (TO)
IL PELLAIO
The Tannery Keeper. He talks to the skins. Feels them breathe.
WHO IS IL PELLAIO
Il Pellaio is not a character. He's a consequence.
Since 2012, since the workshop started making its skins, someone had to stay and watch over them. Il Pellaio is that someone — the custodian every true artisan workshop carries within.
Twelve years of bench fumes, of catalysis, of skin breathed in too long. He no longer knows where the workshop ends and he begins. He makes them. He watches over them during the twelve hours of catalysis. He only lets them go when he's sure they're alive.
To Il Pellaio, skins are alive. They breathe through their pores, sweat out ink that doesn't deserve to stay, and heal — if you take care of them. Cheap skins he calls "dead", "liars": not selling them here was his battle. "A corpse doesn't heal," he says. "The wound stays open forever. My skin closes."
You don't tattoo it, he says. You revere it. Holy skin.
HIS OBSESSIONS
THE FLOCK
“Microfibers of crushed velvet — red, blue, yellow — that fall wherever they want. That's why no two skins are ever the same. Ever. Anyone who wants them all identical might as well tattoo on linoleum.”
THE DISCHROMIAS
“They're not defects. They're the signature. Real skin is uneven, alive. Whoever smooths everything out has never looked closely at a forearm.”
THE CATALYSIS
“Twelve hours. The skin is born slowly and the flocks settle where they're meant to. Anyone in a hurry doesn't deserve the skin.”
LIVING SKIN
“It breathes. It sweats out ink that doesn't deserve to stay. And it heals, if you care for it. Want to know if a skin is alive? Make it heal. A real one closes. A corpse stays as it is.”
THE BENCH IS OPEN
FOLLOW OR WRITE.
Every twelve hours, a thought from the bench. Don't expect kindness. Expect obsession.
For orders and shipping, we answer — straight to the point.
Then there's Sebo. I'd rather not talk about it. /sebo