Inside Nicolò Castellini Baldissera’s sumptuous Milan apartment

I was born in a city filled with luminaries yet characterized by an exceedingly dull exterior. In Italian, Milan is often described as minerale—literally “mineral,” meaning gray and cold. It is neither baroque and seductive like Naples, nor exotic like Venice and Palermo. There is none of Turin’s prim and presentable regularity and it completely lacks the delicious antiquity of Bologna.

Milan is Italy’s modern city—the only one I’ve known with mosquitoes hearty enough to withstand a winter’s frost. Each weekend, whole neighbourhoods empty out as the denizens retreat north to the mountains, and south to the sea—to somewhere with charm… To Italy.

Last year I happened to be in Milan on 15 August, at the height of the summer vacation, crossing the city on my way from somewhere to someplace else, when I passed a group of Japanese tourists. With a sense of desperation, they asked me where they could find an open restaurant. I suggested they try Santa Lucia, an old faithful that never fails to be open when no one else is, but it might have been more helpful to point them toward Florence! Milan has always been enigmatic to visitors, be it the middle of summer or a Tuesday in spring.

Lacking natural beauty, Milan has to work for it. It is a city dominated by industrialists; here, even the aristocrats are entrepreneurial. It is a city of doers, where fairs for fashion and design engulf and interrupt daily life. Precisely because it is not the Eternal City—a place where the residents can relax into the upholstery—it often remains elusive to foreigners. To discover Milan, you must meet the Milanese—the creators of their own beauty.

I returned to Milan with my partner Christopher Garis after a 30-year hiatus in London. We nicknamed the apartment “lo squallidone”—“The Grand Squalor”—when we first moved in. We were lucky enough to find the place; real estate prices were rising, and, on a practical level, it had everything we needed but lacked charm. On our visits with the realtor, I vividly remember a large white leather sofa sitting in front of an equally large black television, and not much else.

It is what New Yorkers would refer to as a “classic seven”: three bedrooms, living and dining rooms, kitchen, and maid’s room. All laid out with miles of corridors and restrained details, it felt ready for an upwardly mobile couple with a pair of kids and angsty cocker spaniel. Just right for so many people, but to me it presented a challenge.

Devoid of furniture, the picture was hardly any better. A vacant apartment in Italy is a barren wasteland; more often than not, a new tenant will find a pipe in the floor and the faded outline of a counter where the kitchen sink had once been. Renters are usually left bathroom fixtures, but buyers might not be so lucky. “Lo Squallidone” was a true blank slate.

One of the benefits of living in Milan is the sheer number of industrious people who can help you realize just about anything; my framer suggested three art restorers within walking distance! Along a row of storefronts on Via della Moscova I found an antique shop with a set of silverware, an electrician to rewire my lamps, and a little fabric shop where I unearthed some excellent silk stripes and deep blue velvet. My painter—Orsola Clerici from PictaLab—proved to be one of the most patient collaborators I have ever worked with. Only for the curtains did I venture beyond Milan’s boundaries, to my upholsterers in nearby Brianza. Creating a little universe within my bland apartment never felt easier.

In a matter of weeks the apartment came together. “Lo Squallidone” had become “Trompe l’Oeil.”

Inside Milan by Nicolò Castellini Baldiserra, with photography by Guido Taroni, is published by Vendome Press on 20 October.