Interview with Cecilia Moriano
- Daniel Weiss
- Nov 12
- 4 min read
Updated: Nov 16
Cecilia Moriano, the quiet force behind a new chapter in Italian textile history. Photographed on the grounds of the former family-owned factory. IMAGE: AI generated by Daniel Weiss
It is early morning. The air smells of freshly cut grass and espresso. Down the slope, Lake Como sparkles in the distance. Further up, where the terrain rises, lies the Moriano atelier. The halls of the old weaving mill once stood here. Now, only fragments remain. A few rusty gates. A pergola draped with wild vines. And the main building, a 1970s villa with long window panes and shadows drifting across the marble floor.
Cecilia Moriano welcomes us barefoot, holding a steaming cup of coffee. Her dog Bruno jumps onto the sofa, the one upholstered in the orange fabric she once discovered in her father’s storage room. What first seemed like a lucky find turned out to be the beginning of everything. Today, Cecilia runs the Moriano brand. With a quiet voice, but a clear sense of direction.
We spoke with her about memory, anger, textile self-determination – and the return of a fabric that had been forgotten for far too long.
DW: Cecilia, we are sitting here in your villa above the old weaving mill. A place full of history. How does it feel to be back?
CM: It was never part of the plan. I left to put it all behind me. And when I came back, nothing was like it used to be. And yet everything was still there. The sounds. The smells. Even the cracks in the concrete seemed to recognize me. I think this place knew more about me than I ever knew about it.
DW: The orange fabric on the sofa – it seems to carry a special meaning.
CM: Yes. I found it in an old cardboard box, way in the back of the storage room. No label. Just a few handwritten notes. “Non scolorisce” – it does not fade. My great-grandmother had developed it. A vivid orange. Water-resistant. Lightfast. But somehow it was never used. My father thought it was too bold. But to me, it was not just fabric. It was a sign.
DW: A sign of what?
CM: A sign that something had been overlooked. That sometimes it takes an entire lifetime for someone to finally see. My great-grandmother was intelligent, strong-willed, determined. But as a woman in 1920s Italy, she remained invisible. This fabric was her voice. I just turned the volume up.
DW: You were never actually meant to take over the business.
CM: (laughs) No. My brother was supposed to do that. I was allowed to “do a little designing” – that was the official version. And honestly, I believed them for a while. I moved to Paris, Kyoto, Rome. I painted flowers. I folded them. Anything that did not resist. I thought I was doing my own thing. And then one day my brother said, “I don't want to accept the inheritance.” And my father said, “Then you have to do it, Cecilia.” And I said, “Only if I can do it my way.”
DW: What did “your way” mean?
CM: To break with the old structure. To no longer carry what had become hollow. I did not want to continue the company. I wanted to rethink it. But with respect. That is why I started with the fabric. It was too loud for the men who came before me. But just right for a new era.
DW: You had to sell parts of the factory. What was that like?
CM: Terrible. I could not sleep for weeks. But there was no other way. We had to invest. Rebuild. Save what could still be saved. Now there are homes with heat pumps and exposed concrete where the factory used to be. When I walk Bruno down the old driveway, it still hurts. But I try to look ahead.
DW: Bruno is your dog?
CM: Yes. And sometimes also my therapist. He loves this place more than any human could. His favorite spot is the sofa – right where his great-grandmother’s fabric lies. And somehow, that just fits.
DW: What inspires you at the moment?
CM: Flowers. Paper. Folding. I believe there is a kind of tenderness in resistance. Something that appears when you force a material to take shape. My new collection was born in the garden. Not metaphorically. Literally. I press blossoms. I dye fabrics. I create things that linger. And maybe I am telling stories that no one wanted to hear back then.
DW: Final question. What has changed for you?
CM: Me. I am no longer the daughter. No longer the little sister. No longer the girl who draws pretty things. I am the one who says, “This is how we are going to do it.” And surprisingly, people are listen now.
DWHH.art is the personal art project of Daniel Weiss – a collaboration between humans and AI. All stories and images are fictional – created with artificial intelligence, told with human imagination. For all those who believe that beauty is allowed to think.
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