Never too much: A conversation with illustrator Olimpia Zagnoli

Your poster for the Milano Cortina 2026 Olympics is already becoming iconic. What inspired the way you approached it?

The idea behind the poster was to celebrate both athletes attending the Olympics, as well as all the participants going to see the competition or the ones watching from home. Everyone brings a piece of their personality to the event and that’s what I wanted to highlight. Both the framing of the poster and the use of glasses are elements I use in my visual vocabulary. The colours of the poster are inspired by the Olympic rings, which dictate the palette of the piece.

When I began [my career], a lot of my characters were small, in a corner of an illustration. Slowly but surely, they got bigger, meaning physically but also demanding more space. I was able to let my characters, especially women, take more space in the grid, pushing the boundaries to the point where the character almost breaks it. Having people in the foreground comes very naturally now. 

Your home and studio feel deeply personal. What influences how you shape them? 

My mum has a passion for design. She was the one that first introduced me to the Eameses. Her taste is in everything around me, even if it doesn’t take the same shape as at her house. She has a more typically mid-century taste. I have drawn from those references but also added my own personal inspiration, filtered through the advertising, packaging design, confectionery, and plastic objects of the ’80s. [That led to] traits that have now become distinctive of my visual language.

What part of your studio feels like its true centre? 

I’m very lucky because my studio has a big wooden window that overlooks the courtyard and there are two giant magnolia trees. It’s what I see when I work. There’s a connection with the outside world. When you’re an illustrator, you often work on your own. It’s nice to have a window that reminds you there’s a world out there and this relationship with a little bit of nature brings you back to what’s important. 

What is your creative process?

The process is messy in the sense that I do a little sketch in the corner of my planner and then I go to the café and I draw something on a sugar package, you know. So everything is messy in collecting all this inspiration, thoughts and stuff. But then it comes out in a way that feels controlled, like polished. I spend so much time thinking that when it’s time to actually touch the material or finish an illustration, I can do it in maybe a couple hours because everything has been done before that, like the thinking.

Tell me the story behind your red "chiclet" sofa.

During Covid, I found this apartment in a Gio Ponti building. I was attracted to a clean aesthetic like Bauhaus and I knew I wanted to break that rigidity. I looked up hundreds of sofas and the chiclet was one of my favourites, but it was impossible to find a vintage one. Then finally there was a reissue and I was like, “that’s a sign.” 

Also, I am obsessed with confectionery to the point where I wrote a book about it. Chiclet is what chewing gum is called in some regions in Italy, so I find another connection aside from the softness and round shapes and the colour. I feel like it really resembles my aesthetic. 

You encountered Alexander Girard’s work after you’d already developed your own visual language. What was that moment like?

I was almost breathless because, aside from the embarrassment of “Oh my God, somebody did it before me and now it looks like I copied them,” which I think is quite common among artists, there’s also a part of me that’s shocked that somebody else can have the same connection with how you use lines and colours and choosing how to synthesise something that comes from nature, from real life, into a shape.

Are there other Herman Miller designers you feel particularly connected to? 

The Eameses, for sure. I wept when I was in front of [the Eames House in Pacific Palisades, California] because there’s a deep connection in terms of the care taken with the details, the colours, the materials, with the kind of living space that allows you to be creative and free. And George Nelson. There’s a certain fun in the way he uses shapes that I always find exciting.

I see you also have a limited-edition Steinberg Eames chair!

Steinberg is the illustrator – like a pop star to me. I’ve always been a curious observer of his work and practice. When the Steinberg edition came out, I talked to a friend and said, “Are we getting it?” She said yes, and it was a decision made at midnight with a sense of craziness, like “OK, let’s do it!” 

Italy has an expansive design history, from Mussolini’s propaganda posters to Munari’s radical simplicity. Where do you put yourself within that lineage? 

Definitely as far as possible from Mussolini. Hopefully very close to Bruno Munari. I started with Munari’s children’s books and the more I grew up, the more I was in contact with new parts of his work. His sensitivity towards observing is very Italian because it feels like the product of sitting at a café and watching the world go by, and questioning. I still feel like it’s the most important thing to do in life – to understand other people, cities, design, by observing and understanding what people want and need, and why. 

What has been the project that has been most meaningful to you?

I really liked working with the MTA [Metropolitan Transportation Authority] in New York. I made a poster called “New York View” in 2014. It was in every subway station, and I started getting so many messages and photos from normal people like just commuting every day. And it made me so emotional because there’s a very solitary dimension to my work. It was so powerful because images are so powerful. They don’t need translation. People just react to them. To be like a channeller for this power is a great privilege.