The Story of the Carmina Estela Method

carmina-estela — Sat, 15 Aug 2026 22:12:00 +0000

Seventeen Years Before Leather

For seventeen years, I searched for my place across different professions. I worked in manufacturing, public administration, and office environments. Each of those experiences taught me something, yet none became a place where I truly felt I belonged.

The problem was never work. The problem was repetition. The moment an activity became predictable and had to be repeated indefinitely, I knew it was not where I was meant to remain.

Throughout those years, however, one thing never became routine. Taking something that existed only in my imagination and giving it physical existence. That was the only thing that never lost its meaning.

No matter where I worked or how many hours I spent at my job, I always found the time and the energy to create.

I worked with different materials. The process was always the same. I found deep satisfaction in taking something that existed only in my imagination and giving it physical form. Something I could touch, look at, and hold in my hands.

One of the surviving works from the years before leather

Looking back, I now understand that this was the only thread connecting every stage of that period. Not the position. Not the salary. Not the field. But the need to transform an idea into an object.

After seventeen years, I came to a simple realization. If there was one activity that consistently gave me fulfillment, and one I was willing to devote myself to without watching the clock, then that had to become my profession. Not because it was easier. But because it was the only kind of work I could imagine doing for years without feeling that I was repeating the same day. That is when I decided to stop searching for my place along paths laid out by others, and instead begin shaping one of my own, built on the abilities I already possessed.

That decision eventually led me to leather. But choosing leather was not the beginning of the story. It was the beginning of the next question.

Why Leather?

To explain why I chose natural leather in 2017, I need to return briefly to 2014.

Around 2014, after the dust and sawdust generated by working with wood began causing health problems, I experimented briefly with another material. Scraps of synthetic leather from a nearby furniture factory were enough for me to begin making small, simple, but useful objects.

I had no leatherworking tools. I used a knife, a screwdriver for perforating, a hammer, and a cracked ceramic floor tile as my work surface. I have kept three coasters from that period, perforated with the screwdriver.

The ceramic tile, screwdriver, hammer, knife, and the surviving coasters from my first experiments with leather

My professional direction was not yet clearly defined, and those experiments ended there.

In 2017, I returned to this type of work in an entirely different way. This time, I chose natural leather and decided that, if I continued, I would take it seriously.

That was how the path that would become my profession began:

I did not set out to become a leatherworker. I set out to discover whether I could create an object that met my own standards.

I had always associated natural leather with durability. To me, a well-made object should last for years. I preferred to pay more for something I would replace only because I chose to, not because it had deteriorated.

At the time, I was working in an accounting office and needed two bags that I could alternate for work. I ordered them online. They were not inexpensive, but price was not the criterion on which I based my choice. I considered the material, their overall appearance, and what I could understand from the available photographs. I believed I was choosing two objects that would remain with me for a long time.

When they arrived, the reality was different. Threads were already coming loose from the stitching in several places, and the interior of one of the bags had been left completely unprotected. It had no lining and no finish to protect the leather from dirt and the normal wear of use.

At that moment, I understood that no material, however good, can compensate for workmanship that does not reflect the same concern for durability.

I was disappointed, but more important than the disappointment was the decision I made then.

I told myself that I would no longer buy bags. If I wanted an object constructed according to my own standards, I would try to make it myself.

I had no experience in leatherworking. I had no one to ask for guidance. No one in my family had ever practiced this craft. I had neither an atelier nor specialized equipment.

I began with what I had.

I watched a few online videos about working leather by hand, not to copy designs, but to understand the process and identify the tools I might need. I found some of them. Others I improvised.

A friend gave me a piece of natural leather. It was the only piece I had, and I could not afford to waste it. For that reason, I first constructed the pattern in cardboard. I altered it, took it apart, and rebuilt it several times, until the form I had in mind began to exist in front of me.

Only then did I cut the leather. That was the first bag I had ever made.

The first bag I ever made (2017)

Looking at it today, I immediately see its imperfections. At the time, however, it was proof that something I had imagined could be constructed.

A few weeks later, I took it to work. My colleagues did not know that I had made it. They noticed it immediately and asked me where I had bought it. When I told them that I had made it myself, they did not believe me. I showed them the places where I had made mistakes, where the stitching had not turned out as I intended, and where I had learned through my own errors. Only then did they accept that it truly was my first bag.

One of them said something I have never forgotten: “You should create a Facebook page. I think there may be other people who would want a bag made by you.”

At that point, I was not thinking about building a business. I only wanted to find out whether what I had created held value for someone other than me. I photographed the bag as well as I knew how and published it. Its first photograph was posted on 11 August 2017.

Two weeks later, I received my first order.

It was not for the same design. The person wanted a different bag and trusted me enough to commission it from me. I made it, and other orders followed.

For another six months, I continued working in the accounting office while completing the orders I was beginning to receive. At the end of that period, I decided to devote myself entirely to this path.

Today, I keep both the first bag I made and the two bags that triggered this change in my atelier. I do not keep them out of nostalgia.

The first bag I made, together with the two bags that changed my direction

I keep them because each represents a point in the same history: the objects that made me understand that finding a good material is not enough. The way an object is constructed must also be worthy of that material.

The Atelier

My first commissions changed two things at the same time. On the one hand, they showed me that what I had created held value not only for me, but for other people as well. For the first time, I began to consider that working with natural leather could become my profession.

On the other hand, those very first commissions made me realize that good craftsmanship alone was not enough. I could build objects that were solid, well-crafted, and durable. But I could see the same qualities in the work of many other leather makers. That was when I asked myself a question that would permanently change my direction: If I create the same kind of work as everyone else, why would anyone choose to buy from me?

I did not yet have the answer. But I knew I had to find it. From that moment on, I began searching for a visual language of my own. The work had to be recognizable as mine. More than that, I wanted it to be recognizable without relying on a logo. I dreamed that someone would look at an object and say: “This is a Carmina Estela work.” Not because they had read my name. But because the work itself was unmistakable.

Looking back, I realize that this need did not begin with the atelier. It had been there much earlier. Ever since my teenage years, I had consciously avoided clothing, shoes, and accessories that had become popular simply because everyone else was wearing them. It was not a rejection of fashion. I simply could not identify with the idea of following a direction just because it had become a trend. I felt the need to find my own path.

When I began working with leather, that same need naturally found its way into the atelier. From the very beginning, I searched for that distinction in every project. I altered outlines, explored different proportions, and looked for alternative construction solutions. Each project became another attempt to move away from what already existed and closer to a visual language that truly belonged to me.

Sometimes that distinction came from the shape of the flap. Other times, it came from the construction of the object itself, from the way certain details were integrated, or from its overall visual composition.

Some of the directions I explored during those years

Although the solutions differed, they all came from the same need. I was not searching for a new design. I was searching for an identity of my own.

I deliberately avoided studying the finished work of other leather makers. Not because I didn’t appreciate it. But because I wanted to protect my own creative process. I did not want a shape I had seen in a photograph to remain in my subconscious and, without realizing it, reappear later in a piece I believed to be entirely my own.

For me, then just as now, originality did not mean reinterpreting an existing idea. It meant creating something born from my own imagination. I applied the same principle to my relationship with clients. People would send me photographs of products made by other brands and ask me to reproduce them. I never accepted those commissions. Not because they would have been difficult to make. But because I did not want to build my name on someone else’s work. I preferred to lose commissions rather than compromise the principle on which I intended to build my entire practice.

At that time, I was still working in an accounting office. I was already receiving commissions, and a single piece could be worth almost as much as my monthly salary. For the first time, I seriously began considering leaving my job and dedicating myself entirely to this path. Very early on, I told myself there were only two possibilities. Either I would build a real business capable of supporting my life, or there was no point in starting at all. The idea of making a few objects occasionally in my spare time never interested me.

The atelier of those days looked nothing like it does today. At first, I worked on my husband’s desk. I protected its surface with a vinyl tablecloth and placed a ceramic floor tile on top to cut the leather.

As more tools, thread, and pieces of leather accumulated, the space became increasingly difficult to use. I needed a place where I could leave everything exactly as it was at the end of each day. So I cleared out a room we were not using and turned it into my atelier. I didn’t have a proper workbench. Instead, I had a table tennis table with a work surface that was perfectly suited to what I was doing. For several years, that was my workbench.

It was during that period that I realized time had become one of my most valuable resources. Whenever I came home and found myself alone, I went straight into the atelier. I didn’t change my clothes. I didn’t stop to eat. I tried to make use of every available minute. When my husband and son came home, I stopped working. But if they went out again for an hour or two, I returned to the atelier immediately and continued exactly where I had left off. I don’t remember ever feeling that I was making a sacrifice. Quite the opposite. I spent all my free time there because it was exactly where I wanted to be.

During the day, I thought about the next project. In the evening, I continued developing it in my mind. Sometimes I woke up with new ideas and couldn’t wait to get back to the atelier to see whether they could become reality.

Looking back, I believe the atelier was more than the place where I learned to work with leather. It was the place where I began defining the principles that would guide everything I would create. Craftsmanship was necessary, but it could not be the final definition of the work. I wanted them to carry an identity of their own. I didn’t yet know where that search would lead me. Nor did I realize that what I was trying to find was neither a design nor a style, but something entirely different. I would only understand that several years later.

The Search Before The Method

I didn’t want to create well-crafted objects alone.

I wanted them to carry an identity of their own.

What I didn’t yet know was where I would find that identity.

For years, I believed the answer lay in the form of the object. I changed proportions. I explored different constructions. I drew new outlines. I experimented with visual languages that were completely different from one another.

Each of them brought me a little closer to something. But none of them was the thing I was truly searching for. It didn’t take long for me to understand why. No matter how different a form was, it could still be copied. No matter how unusual a construction was, someone could study it and, given enough time, reproduce it. And if it could be reproduced, then it wasn’t the signature I was looking for.

I didn’t simply want to create something different. I wanted to discover a language that belonged exclusively to me. A language that could not be reproduced. I wanted the distinction to arise from something deeper than a form that could be studied and reconstructed from the outside. That is why I never settled into a single style.

Looking back today, someone might think I kept changing direction. In reality, I wasn’t changing my mind. I was simply continuing the search. Sometimes the process began with a pattern. Other times, it began without any drawing at all. I would place pieces of leather on my workbench and begin building directly in the material. I allowed the leather to guide me. The form emerged as the process unfolded.

Some ideas began directly in the material, before they became finished objects

Some of those pieces became the most unusual— and, at the same time, the most desired.

One of the unconventional directions that emerged during this period.

Others I abandoned because they did not resolve the question that had set the work in motion. During those years, I came to understand that differentiation is not simply about doing things differently. It also requires the courage to question rules that others no longer even notice.

I often found myself asking: Who decided that the leather of an object has to be perfectly uniform? Who decided that every surface has to look the same? Who decided that every line has to flow smoothly? I wasn’t trying to provoke anyone. I was trying to understand whether other possibilities existed.

At the same time, there was one thing on which I never compromised. If a solution wasn’t durable enough, I abandoned it. If an object wasn’t practical for everyday use, I abandoned it. If I felt that a construction might become a problem over time, I preferred not to offer it at all. I kept telling myself the same thing: Either I do everything within my power to make it last forever, or I would rather not offer it to anyone.

With every project, I eliminated another possible direction.

I wasn’t building the answer yet.

I was only learning what the answer could not be.

And so the years passed. Between experiments. Between questions. Between finished objects and abandoned ones.

Throughout all those years, just as today, God was a natural part of my life. But as I gradually realized that none of my attempts was the answer, my prayers became increasingly specific. I was no longer asking only for guidance. I was asking for one thing alone: An idea whose identity could belong to no one else. I was convinced such an answer existed. And I was equally convinced that I simply hadn’t been able to see it yet. That was when my prayers changed.

I wasn’t asking for success. I wasn’t asking for more clients. I wasn’t asking for recognition. Almost every time, I prayed in nearly the same words: I am convinced that You have far more than just one idea of what could be done with natural leather so that it would belong to me alone. Please give me just one of the ideas You have.

That prayer did not exist only in the atelier. It accompanied me everywhere. When I walked down the street. When I was at home. When I was at church. When I was working. I looked at the world around me and wondered whether the answer might be hidden in a detail I had not yet noticed.

I kept experimenting.

I kept searching.

But above all, I kept waiting.

I didn’t know when the answer would come. I only knew that it existed. And I was convinced that, when I finally received it, I would recognize it.

The Day The Method Appeared

For years, I had been searching for the same thing. Not a new form. Not a different construction. Not a visual effect.

I was searching for a language that could belong to me alone.

One day in April 2023, I was alone in the atelier. I was working on a handbag I was making for myself. The body had already been completed. Only the flap remained. There was still daylight outside. I no longer remember the exact time. But I remember perfectly what happened next.

On my workbench were some materials. As I looked at them, I made a connection between them. Then, for the first time, I imagined the result they might produce together. My next thought was simple: “Let me try.”

I didn’t begin on the handbag itself. I picked up a small leftover piece of leather from a previous project. If the experiment failed, I would lose nothing more than that scrap.

The moment I saw the result, I was speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was exactly what I had been searching for all those years. The recognition was immediate: “This is it. If it holds up, this is the answer I’ve been searching for.”

I didn’t make a second test. Instead, I applied the same idea directly to the flap of the handbag I was already working on. I accepted that I might lose it. If the experiment failed, I would simply make another flap. But I needed to see how it looked on a real surface. The result was exactly as I had imagined.

First public presentation of the handbag bearing the initial manifestation of what I would later call the Carmina Estela Method. Published on 27 April 2023.

At that moment, I knew that the answer I had been praying for over so many years had finally come. Only one question remained. Would it last?

I didn’t know. I had no answer. There was no precedent. Visually, I was convinced I had found what I had been searching for. But if it couldn’t withstand time and use, it could never become what I hoped it would be.

I told myself that, in the worst-case scenario, the discovery would remain an artistic expression. Perhaps a wall piece. Perhaps a decorative work. But not something intended for everyday use. And yet, deep within me, there was a conviction I couldn’t explain. I felt that God had not answered my prayer only halfway.

I didn’t believe He had given me nothing more than a beautiful visual effect. I believed He had given me the complete answer. All that remained was to prove it.

That evening, I showed the discovery to my husband and my son. They were impressed as well. But our reaction was the same. “It looks extraordinary. Now we need to find out whether it will last.”

That was where the day ended.

The day on which what I would later call the Carmina Estela Method first appeared.

The Decision To Make It Part Of My Work

The day I discovered what I now call the Carmina Estela Method was not the day I decided to build everything around it. Quite the opposite. I chose not to rush.

From the very first day, I was convinced of one thing. Visually, I had found the answer I had been searching for for years. But my conviction alone was not enough.

I needed evidence.

From April 2023 until the end of 2024, the method underwent a continuous process of technical and material testing. Not through a single test. But through many. On different surfaces. Under different conditions. In different real-world situations.

During that same period, I continued to publish works in which the method was already present. Not to commercialize them. But to observe people’s natural reactions. I asked no questions. I sought no confirmation. I made no attempt to influence their responses. I simply observed. The comments came on their own. And over time, I noticed the same observation appearing again and again. Many people said they had never seen anything like it before. At the same time, I continued my own verification. I searched for similar images. I analyzed. I compared. I tried to disprove what I was already beginning to believe.

Throughout that entire period, I was learning about the method just as much as I was testing it. I learned its possibilities, its limits, and the conditions under which it could or could not exist.

Equally important, I was becoming increasingly aware of the environment in which I would continue building my work. I observed that more and more leather goods were beginning to resemble one another. The differences between leather artisans were becoming increasingly subtle. I came to understand that the clearest and most irreducible distinction in my work was the Carmina Estela Method.

At the end of 2024, I looked back. I was not simply looking at the objects. I was reviewing the entire journey. The discovery. The testing. The observations. People’s reactions. And everything I had learned about the method during that time. That was when I reached a simple conclusion. I no longer needed further evidence to decide that the Method was ready to become visible within my work.

It was time to bring into the world something that belonged exclusively to me.

That is why, from the very beginning of 2025, I began presenting the first commercial works created using what would become the foundation of my entire body of work.

Looking back today, I realize that the most important decision was not discovering the method. It was choosing not to rush the conclusion. I preferred to let reality speak before I did. Only then did I build everything that exists around it today.

When The Method Found Its Form

After deciding that the Carmina Estela Method would become part of my work, one question still remained. What form could carry it without reducing it to a surface effect?

For that reason, I did not want to apply it indiscriminately to a series of different objects. It needed a form of its own, where structure, proportion, and material could work together as a coherent whole. Arcana emerged from that need. Its form had to be precise enough to carry the Method without competing with it, while also being distinctive enough to be recognizable.

The prototype had already existed since September 2023. It was the conical monoblock body of a handbag whose proportions and lines still needed refinement.

Early conical monoblock prototype developed in 2023, before the final refinement of proportions and structure

What had seemed clear in the original concept proved far more difficult to achieve in physical form. The development was not linear.

At one stage, I entrusted its construction to a leather artisan with many years of experience in luxury leather goods in Milan. Even with that experience, the conical monoblock structure could not be made as I had designed it. The result did not meet my standards, and the collaboration ended there.

That moment was more than a technical setback. It clarified the true nature of the work.

Arcana could not be separated from the process through which I had come to understand and develop it.

I resumed its construction in my atelier and began a long period of refinement and recalibration. The geometry, the opening, the balance of the body, the rigidity of the walls, the way the material recovered after pressure, the position of the closure, and the relationship between the exterior and the interior all had to work together in harmony. A change in one area affected the behaviour of another. Nothing could be treated as an isolated detail.

The form was refined through repeated construction, observation, correction, and reconstruction. Some decisions were visible. Others remained inside the object, where they determined whether the structure would remain stable over time. This process continued until Arcana no longer existed merely as an idea or as a difficult prototype, but as a coherent work.

Arcana after the refinement process: the constant form through which the Carmina Estela Method becomes individually manifested

As the form became stable, the role of the Method also became clearer.

The Carmina Estela Method is not an ornament added to Arcana after the object has been designed. At the same time, Arcana is not merely the object on whose surface the Method becomes visible. The two came to form a necessary relationship.

Arcana provides the constant form. The Method gives rise to the singular manifestation. This distinction is essential.

Without a constant form, each manifestation would risk being perceived as nothing more than a decorative variation unrelated to the others. Without the Method, the form would no longer contain the element through which every Arcana becomes singular from its origin. Neither replaces the other.

At this stage, Arcana is the work through which the Method can be encountered and understood. The Method explains why one Arcana can never become identical to another. The form remains the same, but the manifestation of the Method develops differently in every work. It cannot be anticipated or predefined, and it becomes fully visible only when the process is complete. For this reason, the identity of each Arcana is not assigned after completion. It is born together with the work through the Method’s singular and unrepeatable manifestation.

Once Arcana had become the work I had envisioned, another need became clear.

Because every work is singular, and because the technical knowledge behind the Method remains confidential, I documented each Arcana so that its origin, identity, internally documented provenance, and continuity could be preserved.

The archive, the registry, and the individual documentation exist to support the work and to preserve what can no longer be reconstructed once the act of creation has ended.

carmina-estela on tuhat

About the Carmina Estela Method

Each manifestation occurs once