Glass-sic Evolution
20 Years of Bocci

(Design)Twenty years is an instant in the life of a tree, yet in the human measure of time, it can carry the weight of a lifetime’s alchemy. In that span, Omer Arbel has guided Bocci from a small, experimental collective into a living, breathing constellation of ideas—ideas that take form not just in glass and metal, but in the spaces between light and shadow, in the way air hums around a sculpture, in the slow release of beauty over time. Twenty years is a milestone not measured in collections launched or awards won, but in the quiet revolutions sparked by a conversation with molten glass.

This is an interview not about products, but about presence—about what happens when time is treated as a medium, imperfection as a virtue, and curiosity as a compass. Together, we step into Omer Arbel’s luminous continuum, exploring the alchemy of materials, the architecture of ideas, and the spaces where design becomes something beyond itself.

Maison Ë Looking back over Bocci’s twenty-year journey, which moments or projects do you feel most profoundly shifted the company’s DNA—and did they arise from intention, or from serendipity?

Omer Arbel I can see three profound shifts over these past twenty years.
The first came at the very beginning, with the early cast glass works. I set out to make a perfect solid sphere, but constraints forced me into producing two hemispheres joined together. What felt like compromise became revelation: a seam that opened a luminous void, watery and alive, giving the work its soul. In that moment I realized the most essential qualities are often gifts of the material itself, not of my intention. Since then, the studio’s ethos has been to begin with the intention only to set action in motion, then to listen, and let the material redirect us.

The second shift arrived about a decade in, when I became fascinated with complexity. Copper and glass began to merge, their properties recalibrated so they could expand and contract in unison. This era was my “complexity Olympics”—each work a symphony of precision, timing, and virtuosity. It was like testing how far intricacy could be pushed, while still yielding objects that invited love and use.

The third shift is where I stand now. Perhaps shaped by becoming a parent, I’ve gravitated toward radical simplicity. Take 141: two puddles of glass lifted as if hanging laundry. Behind it lies orchestration and skill, yet the gesture itself is elemental, spontaneous, unrepeatable. Each outcome is unique—as Bocci has always been—but today the uniqueness feels freer, stranger, more alive. That looseness excites me for what comes next.

M.Ë You often describe your work as a dialogue with materials. How has this conversation evolved over two decades, and have the materials ever “taught” you something you weren’t ready to hear?

O.A. Many times. The most persistent challenge has been wood. I grew up in British Columbia, surrounded by magnificent old-growth forests and a culture of timber. Yet by the time wood reaches me, it has already been processed, standardized into rectangles. My instinct is always to engage earlier in the life of a material—at the scale of growth, of forests tended, of trees still becoming.

Glass has always felt natural to me, almost like a best friend. I spend so much time in the glass shop that the dialogue with it is instinctive. With collaborators who’ve been alongside me for over a decade, our intuition is deeply intertwined. The same goes for metal and even concrete to some degree—they yield to experimentation and surprise. It reminds me that not every material offers itself to the same kind of manipulation and that, too, is a lesson in how design thinking must adapt.

M.Ë How does time—in making, in experimenting, in living with a piece—play into the essence of Bocci’s creations?

O.A. Time is essential because we live in an age of consumption where objects are treated as disposable. I often ask myself: why add more “stuff” to a world already overflowing? The only justification I find is to think of objects as companions. My children naturally do this—they treat a cup or a toy as if it has its own spirit. I feel the same about a worn spatula I’ve had for fifteen years; it’s not precious, but it carries history, memory, and affection.

I believe true sustainability lies here. It’s not about using the least energy in production, but about creating something meaningful enough to endure centuries. When an object or space gains value through time—emotionally, culturally, even economically—the energy invested in its birth is justified many times over. That’s the horizon I try to work toward: making things that grow more luminous with age.

If we, as designers and makers, can create objects worthy of that kind of relationship, then we resist consumerism. Such things aren’t discarded—they’re repaired, inherited, even cherished. Architecture offers the best example: buildings with cultural value are restored, not demolished. In that sense, time doesn’t diminish them; it enriches them.

M.Ë Light in your work often behaves like a living organism—elusive, moody, sometimes unpredictable. How do you reconcile the technical precision of lighting design with the almost mystical qualities you seek to evoke?

O.A. Light has always felt mysterious, almost beyond comprehension. We respond to it instinctively, yet never truly understand it. Often I find our works are most beautiful in natural light—sometimes even more so when unlit. It’s an architectural way of seeing: to imagine a room as a vessel slowly filling with liquid light.

When I lived in Mexico City, and later in Barcelona, the megametropolitan skies produced the most astonishing sunsets. Dust and particulates scattered the sun’s radiation into impossible colors. To think that what we are seeing is the residue of explosions on a distant star, filtered through atmosphere and haze, and then transformed into beauty in the human eye—that’s extraordinary.

In my work I try to create particulates of my own. Each piece is a cosmos of diffusion, layers that catch and scatter light so it can be perceived. Installed in space, they act like suspended constellations—less an object to fixate on, more a medium that allows the body to sense the vast volume around it. Unlike a chandelier demanding attention at the center of a room, our works create an ambient field of perception. In that way, light is not something I control, but something I invite to reveal itself—elusive, moody, alive.

M.Ë Your practice straddles architecture, sculpture, and product design. In the 20-year history of Bocci, how have these disciplines cross-pollinated, and where do you see the borders dissolving next?

O.A. I’ve always loved making buildings—that was my first dream as a child. But inside the studio there are no borders; ideas flow in whatever direction they want, carried by the same group of people. The divisions only appear outside of us, in the way the world insists on categories. Eventually we must decide: is this a building, a sculpture, a product? Without the label, people don’t quite know how to engage.

These categories are really just economic models. A product lives in a store or online, and the choice is binary: buy or don’t buy. A sculpture passes through galleries, dealers, and institutions that must first confer legitimacy before anyone dares to collect. Architecture is different again and the most complex because it involves procurement systems, clients, engineers, and builders. A vision has to resonate with dozens of people and unfold across five years or more, demanding immense resources. It is the hardest, but also the most expansive.

For me, the work itself doesn’t change across these territories; only the frameworks do. All these systems exist externally.

M.Ë Bocci has elevated the irregular, the organic, and the imperfect into the realm of the exquisite. How do you define luxury in a world that still often mistakes perfection for value?

O.A. For me, luxury has nothing to do with perfection. In fact, I try not to think about what others expect at all. I simply make the work I believe in—whether or not it finds a marketplace. That freedom, the ability to follow curiosity without compromise, is the real definition of luxury.

The world often treats luxury as an aesthetic category—polished surfaces, flawless finishes, the illusion of perfection. I don’t involve myself in that conversation. To me, luxury is the freedom to create imperfectly, to discover forms that may appear irregular or strange, yet carry truth. That freedom is more precious than any label of value.

M.Ë We increasingly see Bocci pieces inhabiting contemporary Levantine luxury spaces, where the spirit of organic form—fluid, imperfect, and deeply rooted in nature—is interpreted in many luminous shades. Do you also have a creative vision for the evolving cultural landscape of the new Middle East?

O.A. I grew up in Jerusalem and that early childhood has never left me. The textures of that place—its intensity, its uncertainties, its ambitions—remain formative, even if I carry them mostly on an unconscious level. I’m certain my relationship to light comes from there. In that region, golden haze is always present in the air, and it gives the light a density, a palpable weight. Perhaps my lifelong fascination with light as a living medium began in those atmospheres. And perhaps, too, the drive of a family that crossed cultures—the feeling that one must succeed in a new world—shaped my own ambition as a maker. Hearing that Bocci pieces are finding homes in Cairo and elsewhere in the region fills me with joy. From my vantage point, I only see the boxes leaving the studio each day, destined for places I can’t always trace. To imagine them glowing in those spaces, creating intimate encounters with people there, is a gift in itself.

M.Ë Your studios exist between Vancouver’s natural vastness, Milan’s position as a center of design, and Berlin’s layered urban history. How has this constellation of places shaped Bocci’s cultural and creative identity over the years?

O.A. Much of this constellation began as lifestyle choices. My partner and I loved Berlin, and when the time came to establish a European base, we simply chose the city we wanted to live in. What started as pragmatism grew into affection—after so many years, you fall in love with a place almost by osmosis.

In those early years, I moved constantly between Berlin and Vancouver. The oscillation was exhilarating: Vancouver, scarcely a century old, set against Berlin, where our building alone was older than the entire city of Vancouver. Every two months I flipped between New World and Old World, between vast landscapes and dense histories, between cultures so different in what they value, how they speak, how they dream. That contrast shaped Bocci’s identity—it sharpened my sense of how ideas absorb the character of their environment.

Milan came later, and at first only out of necessity. We dreaded the fair each April—fluorescent lights, endless hours on foot, the punishing blur of alcohol and coffee. So instead, we bought an apartment and began exhibiting on our own terms. It changed everything: mornings with fresh orange juice, quiet rituals, a setting that felt like home. More importantly, it was sustainable—no more building vast temporary exhibitions only to discard them weeks later. Together, these three cities—Vancouver, Berlin, Milan—have become a kind of shaping identity axis for Bocci.

M.Ë If the next twenty years of Bocci could be distilled into a single guiding principle—one that future collaborators might look back on—what would it be?

O. A. The future can’t be planned—it’s too fluid, too unknowable. There is so much change in the world that it feels impossible to predict what comes next—even a year from now. My partner and I have never worked with five-year visions; we’ve always trusted the moment, letting uncertainty guide us. If there is a principle, it’s simply this: to remain open, and to keep creating a dialogue with the unknown. You make these statements of what you want—or what you think you want—and then let them drift.

Berlin
In Berlin, I had a transcendent experience at the Feuerle Collection. It is hidden underground in a former military bunker, reimagined by architect John Pawson with an almost monastic restraint. Along one wall runs a vast pool of water, a kind of thermal battery that quietly absorbs heat and cold, stabilizing the temperature for the artworks. Yet its presence feels less functional than elemental—concrete, glass, and then this silent body of water, holding the room in suspension. The collection itself moves between ancient Chinese and Japanese works and contemporary pieces, but the most unforgettable part is the tea ceremony, offered only by invitation. It begins almost invisibly, with the faintest sweep of incense across the air, and then unfolds into a ritual of patience and presence. It is one of those rare places where architecture, atmosphere, and human gesture align, and where time seems to move differently.

Vancouver
In Vancouver, I think of Arthur Erickson’s Museum of Anthropology, recently restored by one of his students. Monumental concrete arches and glass walls frame the extraordinary totem poles of the Indigenous peoples of this region, each carved from ancient trees of immense scale. Cornelia Oberlander’s gardens form a sensitive response to the site, with a reflective lake that gathers the ambient northern light and turns it into a quiet, meditative presence. The whole place feels spiritual—brutalist architecture softened into reverence by nature and history. And then, almost as a secret coda, a long stair descends through the forest to Wreck Beach, where the city dissolves into sand and sea.

Milan
In Milan, I always return to La Latteria—a tiny restaurant run by a husband and wife, with barely ten tables. It has the feeling of entering someone’s home, where each meal is prepared with quiet devotion. For years it was unchanged, and was a ritual each time I visited. Now, it’s slowly passing to new hands, with the couple guiding their successors through a gentle transition. That continuity—of care, of knowledge, of atmosphere—feels rare in our time, and it’s exactly why the place remains so dear to me.

As our conversation draws to a close, it is clear that the past twenty years of Bocci are not a completed chapter but a living prologue. The questions Omer Arbel asks of light, material, and place are the same ones he will carry into new geographies and cultural contexts—perhaps toward the vast deserts of the Middle East, perhaps into architectures that do not yet exist. For him, the journey is not about arriving at answers, but about continually reshaping the space between curiosity and form. And for those who encounter his work—whether under the shifting glow of a Berlin evening, in the filtered sunlight of Vancouver and Milan, or in a new city rising from the sand—the invitation remains the same: to slow down, to look closely, and to dwell in the quiet splendor of what lies beyond.