Bedikyan Raphael- rapholuxx

An overcast day, the outskirts of Yerevan, the marshrutka stop for Tbilisi. No cafés, no restaurants — just a road leading nowhere and a man with two Margiela bags that look older than anyone standing near them right now. Maurizio Altieri studies his surroundings with curiosity, as if he ended up here for a reason.

A quick word on his background before we get to our walk.

Maurizio Altieri is a figure around whom something like a cult persists in the fashion world: founder of Carpe Diem, a brand that became a symbol of avant-garde clothing in the nineties and 2000s. Today, he talks about the project briefly and without sentiment: "old shit."

He didn't arrive at Carpe Diem right away — first economics, which quickly bored him, then law, which didn't work out either. After finishing both, he left to travel for seven years, with no particular route, stopping wherever there was something to learn, soaking up the cultural context of each country.

Returning to Italy in 1994, he founded Carpe Diem. The first collection was made entirely by hand, using the best leather he could find — horse, snake. He buried the finished pieces in the ground for several months to strip away the factory shine and make them look like objects that already had a history of their own. He refused the press completely; there's almost no information about him online, only scattered fragments from various sources. It's as if his motto were: "Want to understand how a piece is born — come and see for yourself."

In the early 2000s, he tried to expand, opened a studio in Paris, and closed it a couple of years later. The brand changed names several times and grew offshoots; the team expanded — among those who worked with him then was Maurizio Amadei, who handled the leather goods. But the bigger the company got, the more Altieri felt disconnect pieces made from the finest materials, exactly as he'd envisioned them, stopped feeling special. In 2006, Carpe Diem closed — not from failure, but from that very feeling.

The Meeting

As I mentioned, the meeting place was unusual. I had planned to show him the main sights of Yerevan in Kentron, forgetting that I wasn't dealing with an ordinary tourist but with Maurizio, who was specifically interested in the country's context — its rhythm, its mentality, what it lives by, how it senses the space around it.

I found out he was in the city by chance — through an Instagram story where he was wandering around the Parajanov Museum. I sent a message suggesting we meet, almost at random. The reply came the next morning:

Good morning. I am currently at the address below. If we want to meet for a coffee and a conversation, it might be pleasant.

I got ready quickly and headed there, trying not to miss the chance to talk with what I won't hesitate to call a legendary figure.

When I arrived, I saw a very strange scene. It was raining, I was almost outside the city, next to a bus stop where cars leave for Tbilisi, a highway, and nothing else. I started quickly scanning for Maurizio, worried I'd come to the wrong place, but then my eyes landed on a man with two giant bags and a cane — to say he stood out from the local scenery would be an understatement.

We fell into conversation easily, as if we'd already known each other for a couple of years. I asked him about the fashion industry, but he clearly treats fashion-as-industry with irony these days. "Avangard and other bluh bluh bluh stuff," he tossed out at one point, and it was obvious the topic tired him slightly, the conversation quickly drifting elsewhere. What genuinely interested him was something else — he kept asking me about Armenia's history and context, the state of the people's spirit, and about my origins and my sub-ethnicity.

 I answered all the pressing questions with a happy face and pride in my people, and he seemed more and more impressed. Soon, the conversation shifted toward the format of wanting to eat something, and we set off to fulfill our desires.

Altieri took a picture of me and a teddy bear in a taxi

It was about two kilometers to a place where we could eat — with those same bags- until we managed to arrange to leave them at another bus station under a guard's watch. We settled on the SAS food court, or rather, there wasn't much choice given our location. I suggested he try some street food classics — kebab, gata, zhengyalov hatz, and of course the famous Armenian coffee in a jazve. Unsurprisingly, he liked it, and I ended up explaining the recipes to him.

Over the meal, the conversation unexpectedly turned to Artsakh. Altieri asked in detail about Dadivank Monastery, one of the oldest Armenian monastic complexes, studied its location on the map, and asked what had become of it after the war. 

To answer more precisely, I had to call a friend who'd lived in Artsakh her whole life: she told him how, during the blockade and after the line of contact shifted, access to the monastery had been strictly controlled.

The topic absorbed him so much that later, back in Rome, he posted a series of Instagram stories about the conversation.

La chiave Raccolta

All ' Ombra della Montagna Madre
/[( Masis )]\
La sua Storia Celata

Tra le Sponde dello Stesso Fiume
Liquido Organico ad Ora Bramato
XXV | LXXVII

Non Credo
Visione 
Senza Tempo 
Il Presente Eterno

La Linea Continua
Segno | Di ( Noi ) segno
Sulla Forma 
che non Appartiene 

È – Sia

His words can be read in different ways, but the fact remains: a small country with an enormous cultural heritage will certainly leave an impression on a man so attuned to spirituality — and I'm immensely glad of that.

Maurizio Altieri listens and looks as if there's no filter between himself and what surrounds him: even the cobblestones by the road caught his attention — tiles pulled out of a hole and stacked beside it rather than put back. He studied that scene longer than mere chance would warrant.

Maurizio is now in Rome, preparing for his next trip across the CIS countries. The route will likely come together without a plan once again — just like that overcast day in Yerevan that began at a bus station with two enormous bags.

by @rapholuxx