Behind every one of them is a single sculptor, Michele Lorenzin, working the way sculptors have worked for centuries — just not on packaging.
A Sculptor First, a Collaborator Second
Michele didn't come up through packaging design. He trained as a sculptor, in a part of Italy where that tradition runs deep — where the influence of figures like Canova and Giorgione isn't something learned from a textbook so much as absorbed from the surroundings. That background shows in how the work gets described: not as shaping raw material into a predetermined form, but as listening closely enough to a piece of wood or stone that its own shape reveals itself.
It's the kind of claim that can sound like marketing language until it's seen in the finished object. In Lumi's case, it doesn't.
Why No Two Caps Are Ever Quite the Same
Every cap is carved entirely by hand — not roughed out by machine and finished manually, which is how most "handmade" claims actually hold up under scrutiny, but carved from start to finish by one person following the grain of one specific piece of material.
That produces genuine variation from piece to piece. A knot that an automated process would reject becomes, in this method, the reason a particular cap looks the way it does. The small irregularities aren't flaws to be sanded away; they're evidence — of a specific day, a specific hand, a specific decision made in the moment rather than programmed in advance. Few objects in this category can make that claim honestly anymore.
Inside the Residenza d'Autore
The caps take shape in what Lumi calls the Residenza d'Autore — part studio, part something closer to a retreat, and not a production facility in any conventional sense. It's a space that smells of cut wood and stone dust, where the sculptural side of the work and the perfumery itself appear to develop in dialogue rather than one simply decorating the other afterward. Michele's forms, worked out first in stone or wood, seem to inform the mood of the fragrances built around them, and the fragrances, in turn, feed back into decisions made at the workbench.
The exact mechanics of that exchange are hard to describe from the outside. What's easier to describe is the result: a cap and a scent that feel conceived together, rather than paired after the fact by a marketing brief.
An Object Meant to Be Finished by Someone Else
What sets Lumi's philosophy apart is the idea that none of this is considered complete on the shelf. A sculpture on a pedestal stays fixed, sealed off, meant only to be looked at. These caps are built around the opposite premise — that the piece isn't finished until someone picks it up, wears it, and lives with it long enough for it to become personal.
That framing matters for anyone selling the finished bottle, not just for anyone making it. Every bottle that leaves the shelf isn't really the end of the object's story — it's the point where the work stops belonging only to its maker and starts belonging to whoever takes it home.
The Collection: Perseo, Krea, Concipio
The three fragrances built around Michele's caps each represent a different moment in the same creative arc.
Perseo leans into myth and structure — a composition with the same confident, deliberate geometry expected of a sculptural piece that knows exactly what it's meant to be.
Krea captures something more restless: the spark of creation itself, caught mid-motion, before it's settled into a final form.
Concipio sits furthest back in that sequence — the quiet moment before an idea has any shape at all, translated into something reflective and inward rather than announced.
Three fragrances, three stages of the same act of making — each one, like its cap, carved by hand, and each one, like its cap, not really finished until it's chosen.
