So many thoughts whirl through the mind and so many memories surface on hearing the name of Alessandro “the great”, as I like to call him.
I think everyone had enough material to write pages and pages after meeting him because every day and every meeting with him filled the mind. Everything was magically transformed into an adventure, from the weekly newsroom meeting to having a quiet coffee.  Magic should not be explained nor exposed.
The secrets were to be found in his lively eyes, in his words, which explained everything with a simplicity grasped by all, and in his hands, which moved like those of the illusionist as they described forms.

I don’t know, his secret magic always left me open-mouthed like a child and he has taken it with him, like a stylish elf vanishing into the woods.

We laughed until the tears came (I swear) the same ones I am crying now, intelligent tears.

Dear Alessandro, I always saw you as the gaze that looked farther, past the appearances, the banal and the immediate. Your wide eyes – surprised, enquiring and focused but with flashes of wit and the hint of a smile – formed a profound and unrestricted contact, guiding you with intelligence and courtesy towards new horizons.

I learnt a lot from you. Thank you, Alessandro.

Our journey together on the raft that Alessandro steered twice down the “great torrent that is Domus”, as he liked to call our magazine, lasted just one memorable year, from 2010 to 2011. Eleven issues. All marked by discipline and enthusiasm, a recipe that he seasoned with a large dose of wit and a light-heartedness that I always envied. He came to the newsroom on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Smiling and friendly, he would sit at a large white desk partially covered by tidy piles of paper and magazines, not Ponti’s desk which I believe made him feel uncomfortable. He immediately looked through what was put before him and answers requiring more thought were given at the next meeting. He was unique, a great and gentle warrior always keen to support the people he believed in. He was unforgettable and taught me to wear a smile whatever the circumstance. I try to do so every day.

Mendini taught me how to make a magazine. I had already met him before he edited Domus in 2010-11 but that was the first time I had seen him at work and I learnt simply by attending his newsroom meetings. He arrived with his knowing smile and an editorial plan for 11 issues and handwritten roadmaps, 30% of which was open to last-minute news and projects. He never rejected the newsroom’s proposals, he simply didn’t publish them unless he liked them. Punctual, precise and utterly reliable, he could judge content at a glance. When each issue came out, he would have a box of treats sent to the newsroom by the celebrated and very Milanese Confetteria Galli, and continued to do so afterwards. He took my hand the last time we met.

Ciao Alessandro.

Ciao Alessandro, you brought a sense of joy to the newsroom during your tenure as editor-in-chief. The sun came in when you entered our office. Your caring professionalism meant you could handle everything and everyone impeccably but with an open heart that left a lasting imprint on every one of us. Thank you for allowing us to spend time with you.

Ciao Aessandro... indirectly my editor-in-chief, you kept me great company in the archives with your editorials and your colourful, curious and diverse Domus... thank you!

Ciao Alessandro, your gaze and the way you smiled conveyed your enthusiasm for running the Domus newsroom once again. They were all I needed to know what you were thinking, what you wanted and what you expected of me. “There, the genius is with us” I would say. We never got it wrong. It is that very gaze, smile and kindness that I shall miss, as well as the genius in you. You were a maestro for all but especially for me.

I met Alessandro at the first newsroom meeting. That was 2010 and it was to be a very special year – with eleven issues produced with the world’s greatest designer, back for a second time at the helm of the “ocean liner” Domus. He was a master of culture and utopia but, above all, also a great role model.

Weighing his words, he asked you to listen carefully and, by waiting a few seconds before answering, challenged you to think whether your question was well articulated. He made you feel important as he stared into your eyes with a lively, curious and always slightly amused gaze. A witty and courteous whirlwind, he was always ahead of the times and beating deadlines. He could deal with Mickey Mouse and Plato with the same (apparent) simplicity, always profound and never prosaic.

Among other things, I felt privileged to share one of his passions, for comic strips.

Thank you for the many ideas you shared with us and for the subtle wit with which you brightened our days in the newsroom. I shall miss you.

We were connected by a history, that of Milan’s contemporary art. 
Even before meeting you I had spent long afternoons studying the collection of works exhibited in Casa Boschi Di Stefano. I didn’t realise at the time that you had been born in the Via Giorgio Jan apartment building, designed by Piero Portaluppi and built by your grandfather in 1930. It was your grandfather who started collecting fine works by Tosi, Funi, Sironi and Casorati; and he was the one who introduced Uncle Antonio and Aunt Marieda to their first artists; and they, in turn, started collecting them. Years later, this history brought us together again. During your second tenure as editor-in-chief of Domus, I managed to grab your attention by proposing a rereading of contemporary artworks photographed in 1970s’ Italian interiors, a magical coming together of art and architecture. So, together, we chose the interiors of Gae Aulenti, Sottsass and Nanda Vigo, filled with works by Schifano, Fontana, Enrico Baj, Wesselmann, Capogrossi, Arman and Castellani. That history was familiar to you and every issue of Domus that you oversaw in 2010 closely resembled you.
I shall miss your gentle soul concealed behind a keen gaze.

I feel honoured to have worked for you, dear Director, for your professional skills and humanity.
When you left the letters to be transcribed on my desk, they were always accompanied by a thank you note on which you drew a little flower. What a delicate and polite gesture.
Your friendliness, your good-natured irony and your smile will always remain in my mind.
Unforgettable Alessandro, I will miss you.