by Gonzalo Barreira

The Uncertainty of Self

Defining oneself has never been an easy task, much less for an artist. Art—true art—doesn’t emerge from the certainty of who we are, but from the endless questions that surround that very mystery. Perhaps that is what defines us best: the elegant chaos of not knowing, the silent artistic wink from within, and the ability to create despite the blindness. Or maybe because of it.

A Grateful Beginning

I consider myself fortunate. We don’t choose where we are born, or who raises us, but we do choose how we want to exist. I owe everything to my family—my father, a skilled lawyer with tireless ethics, and my mother, a generous woman whose dedication to others shaped my idea of beauty. They gave me access to a privileged education at one of the most prestigious private German schools in Valencia, Spain. My older brother, an engineer, became a model of reason and balance. Together, we’ve always shared a silent harmony, a connection that transcends words.

Childhood Glimpses of Creation

As a child, I was fascinated by the complexity of forms. I would choose the strangest toys, trace them onto blank pages, and fill them with unexpected colors. That was my first encounter with creation—art not as decoration, but as revelation. I now realize that, even then, I was already winking at the world without fully seeing it.

From Medicine to Design

School never nurtured my curiosity for design. I initially dreamed of becoming a forensic doctor, perhaps drawn to the idea of understanding the invisible causes behind everything. But that dream faded, giving way to what had always been there: the need to create. I started studying Architecture, but after two years, I realized I was chasing an idea of design that wasn’t mine—it lacked soul, intuition, and personal truth.

Returning to My Artistic Roots

That inner voice led me back to my roots. In 1957, my paternal grandfather founded the first art and design school in Valencia—a space that would witness the love story of my parents, and decades later, my artistic awakening. There, I studied Interior Design for four transformative years. I discovered not only techniques but fragments of myself I didn’t know existed. If I could return to any moment in life, it would be the day I chose to study at my family’s school.

The Leap Into the Unknown

Adulthood came as it does for everyone: without instruction. Just a leap into uncertainty. But I knew one thing—I needed to look beyond Spain. My ambition was not fame, but
growth. I explored every corner of the globe: Canada, Australia, South Africa, Mexico… But each possibility lost its glow the moment it felt real. That’s when I looked closer, not farther. Europe has always been the cradle of modern art, and in my eyes, Italy will always be its heart.

Finding Florence

Florence, a city I had forgotten, reemerged like a lost memory. This was the birthplace of Michelangelo and Leonardo. It wasn’t a coincidence—it was destiny. That’s how I found STAR Florence Design School, a place where creativity is spoken in many languages, where students and professors from all over the world shape spaces and ideas together.

Project I: The Introspective Space

Since my arrival, I have completed six major projects—each one a new lens to see the invisible.
The first, The Introspective Space, was a cube within a cube within a cube—three immaterial layers of the human self. The outermost shell reflected how others see us; the middle, our self-image; and the innermost, our soul. This soul was housed in glass—fragile, luminous, and completely transparent. I wanted to express that no one ever fully explores what lies within themselves. That’s the quiet struggle of every stoic blind artist: sensing, rather than seeing.

Project II: A Winery of Silence

Then came a winery in California—a retreat from mass consumption. The focus was on serenity and understated luxury. Golden interior accents whispered elegance without shouting. You can read the full article here

Project III: Beneath the Sea in Vieste

Next, I designed an underwater restaurant on the coast of Vieste, Italy. Inspired by octopuses and sirens, the project integrated the sea without overpowering it. The Mediterranean light, marine life, and water movement all became part of the interior. I shared this project with a classmate working on her thesis. It was a collaborative dance—one of those rare creative connections that stay with you.

Project IV: A Gallery Without Corners

Fourth, we tackled an unconventional art gallery in Florence. No straight lines, six meters high, once a garage. I challenged the notion of the white cube gallery, building instead a textured, layered space of corrugated metal, a central red spiral staircase, and elevated walkways to expose as much art as possible. The greatest challenge? The original drainage system beneath the floor—a physical constraint that became part of the story.

Project V: The Nomadic Culinary School

Then came a culinary school in the Swiss Alps, conceived with a nomadic spirit. The institution travels the world, taking chefs and students with it. We designed with that movement in mind: neutral tones, adaptable materials, and a structure that could be a classroom—or a stage for a TV show. After all, cooking too is performance art.

A City That Changed Me

Florence has given me more than knowledge. It gave me new eyes. Not literal sight, but that deeper gaze—the one that artists and blind men alike share. My peers have changed how I understand design. Italy is soaked in art, and you absorb it without trying—like breathing.

The Final Reflection

So maybe this artistic wink isn’t just a fleeting gesture, but a quiet rebellion. A way of saying: I don’t need to see everything clearly to feel it deeply. Perhaps the stoic in me has learned that clarity isn’t always visual—it’s intuitive. It’s the kind of truth that emerges when you stop chasing perfection and begin embracing process, contradiction, and vulnerability.
Florence has been more than a city to me. It’s been a mirror—sometimes harsh, sometimes kind—but always honest. It reflected my fears, my doubts, and most importantly, my potential. In its cobblestone streets, in the light that filters through its narrow alleyways, I found not just inspiration, but revelation. I found proof that the soul of design is not in what you can see, but in what you can sense.
I once thought that being an artist meant creating beauty. Now I know it means understanding yourself enough to transform the invisible into something tangible—something that speaks when words fall short.
Maybe it’s time to stop winking at the world and finally open both eyes—not just to see more clearly, but to be seen completely.
And if blindness brought me here, maybe it was never blindness at all—but a deeper kind of vision.