Cosima Montavoci is a contemporary artist born in Venice. In 2015, she graduated with a degree in Fine Arts from the Gerrit Rietveld Academie in Amsterdam. Until 2018, she worked in a studio at the NDSM Werf in Amsterdam Noord and opened a small shared atelier in the Jordaan district. In 2018, she returned to Venice, where she continues her artistic exploration. Her work moves between humour and absurdity, exploring the boundary between meaning and nonsense, tragedy and lightness, chaos and order. For Montavoci, humour and the irrational play a crucial role in the process of acceptance: they lighten complex themes and invite us to find value in the smallest details. In addition to her artistic practice, she has a deep connection with glass. She began working with the material at the age of 16 in Murano, and it was love at first sight. From this passion, the contemporary glass jewellery brand Sunset Yogurt was born. The name refers to that moment when molten glass takes on the texture of yoghurt and the warm hues of sunset. Each piece is unique, thanks to the small imperfections that make every creation one of a kind. We visited her atelier, nestled in a quiet calle in Murano, at the heart of Venetian glassmaking, to talk about her practice, her inspirations, and her vision of the world of artistic glass and contemporary jewellery in Venice.
INTERVIEW BY VALERIA NECCHIO
PHOTOS BY VALERIA NECCHIO
VN: First of all, tell me about the beginning of your artistic journey and your encounter with the world of glass.
CM: It all started very early. There was never much doubt: ever since I could hold a pencil, I’ve always drawn. As a child, my mother would sit me on the sofa and I’d spend my time drawing, without even watching TV.
By the time I was in middle school, I was already apprenticing with an artist in Treviso. I went on to attend art school, although I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the teaching style—it was mainly about copying, with little room for creativity. One summer, because I hadn’t done very well at school that year, my father decided to show me what “real life” was like by sending me to work with glass. Here in Venice, working in a furnace is a bit like working in a factory, and the environment wasn’t exactly what you’d call women-friendly—especially twenty years ago. But I absolutely loved it. When the summer ended, my father asked if I’d learnt my lesson. I said yes—and that I’d enjoyed it so much, I didn’t want to stop.
So I enrolled in evening classes to finish school while continuing to work and research glass on my own. I took a course with Davide Penso (who now focuses more on sculpture, still using lampworking techniques), and then continued teaching myself for many years. In fact, I invented some techniques, colours and methods on my own through constant experimentation, focusing on lampworking—a technique that, since 2020, has been listed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.
In a historically male-dominated environment like glassmaking, lampworking allows me to work independently, without needing a furnace or a team. It’s precisely thanks to lampworking that I fell even more deeply in love with this craft and found my own space within it.
VN: But then you moved abroad.
CM: Yes, I later moved to the Netherlands to study Applied Sciences in Contemporary Art. The university had a small section dedicated to glass, but as an international student, it was nearly impossible to bring all the materials I needed—and it wasn’t quite what I was looking for anyway. So I focused on other techniques and created work mainly in sculpture and installation art. My passion for glass never faded, though, and after graduating in 2015, I felt it was time to return to it.
I had always tried to do something different with glass, but it still felt ornamental to me. I wanted to create something truly new. That’s when I began developing Sunset Yogurt as a proper brand, trying to channel the same themes from my contemporary art into my jewellery.
VN: Where does the name Sunset Yogurt come from?
CM: Sunset Yogurt was born because, to me, molten glass looks like the colour of a sunset and has the texture of yoghurt. When I started working with glass in Murano at 15, people would often ask why a young girl—who they also found attractive—was working in such a tough environment. At first, I’d explain my love for the material, but I soon realised that only a small percentage of people were actually listening. So I started answering simply: Sunset Yogurt. If someone was genuinely curious and asked me why, then I’d explain. Over ten years later, when it came time to name my project, it couldn’t be anything else.
VN: What makes your relationship with this material distinctive?
CM: Glass is particular—almost capricious—but for that very reason, it imposes limitations that help define your artistic language. For example, if you’re making murrine, the pattern has to be precise and identical in every piece—it’s all about technique. But if I’m creating eyes, I want every streak to be different—just like our real eyes aren’t identical.
That’s what led me to search for unusual colours that allow me to break away from the repetition required for mass production. I use glass rods—coloured Murano glass that I modify and sculpt in the flame. In Murano, the formulation of glass and its colours has always been a closely guarded secret: glass is melted at night, and only a few people know the exact formulas and ingredients. Even those who work in the furnace often don’t know the precise details.
To achieve my unique effects, I start with an existing colour and “contaminate” it with other pigments. It’s a constant process of experimentation.
VN: Did growing up in Venice influence your artistic path? Did it inspire you, or did it feel like a constraint?
CM: Growing up in Venice definitely means living immersed in beauty—not just because of the glass, but also the monuments, churches, and architecture. I realised this even more clearly when I studied in the Netherlands. There, everything has a completely different aesthetic—even the buildings that are considered historical. A Bauhaus building, for instance, is super minimalist. Just a poster is enough to make a statement—imagine hanging a Murano chandelier in one of those!
It’s no coincidence that traditional glass is often very decorative, almost ostentatious: in such visually rich surroundings, an object needs to have a certain visual weight to stand out.
That said, in Venice, glass is everywhere—so much so that people often stop noticing it. This is also because, if you walk through the main streets, the quality of what’s in the shops isn’t always great. You need to know where to look and discover the right places. Sadly, many shops have become like a Grand Bazaar, full of cheap trinkets—low-quality souvenirs and so-called Murano-style pieces that are sometimes just plain ugly or not even made in Murano. I’m thinking of those glass clowns, miniature aquariums… things that make you go, “Really?”
It makes no sense to think that glass is only good for making vases, murrine, or huge chandeliers. I mean, let’s be honest—most people don’t live in palaces where they can hang a Murano chandelier, or even have the time to clean one. Out of context, some of those objects just seem over the top. And that’s a shame, because glass has massive expressive potential.
On the other hand, if you seek out the more authentic scenes—artists who’ve consciously carved out their own path, or even just by visiting the Murano Glass Museum—you’ll discover that it’s a truly marvellous world. With glass, anything is possible, and there are some truly incredible projects out there.
VN: So, your relationship with this world hasn’t always been positive.
CM: At first, I found it almost oppressive—especially because of its somewhat outdated image, tied to a style that didn’t reflect me. That’s precisely why, in my work, I try to distance myself from that idea of “pedestal glass”—you know, the kind of necklaces displayed in dusty velvet cases under a spotlight. That’s not to say tradition isn’t important: if you study it properly, you discover extraordinary things. The problem today is with those who don’t specialise, who simply follow trends. If blue is in fashion one year, then everyone starts producing blue glass. But that way, you end up pleasing the market without any real artistic research behind it.
That said, there are people who’ve always followed their own vision, working with designers and treating glass as a genuine expressive material. That’s what makes the difference between a work of art and a commercial product. There are many such examples in Murano, but also here in Venice—like the artisan in Calle del Fumo who creates glass insects, or the studio in San Giacomo specialising in fish. Maybe they’re not conceptually groundbreaking, but technically, they’re extraordinary.
Even in my own work, the first glass eye I created five years ago was completely different from the ones I make today: less refined, less precise, less “alive”. Specialisation is what raises quality. Focusing on your own artistic identity, rather than just chasing the market, is essential in my opinion. No one else can say the things you hold inside you—and that’s what makes a piece of work truly unique. I also think it’s important for inspiring new generations. Sometimes university students visit me and say, “Thank you, you helped me make peace with glass.” Seeing that it’s possible to break out of the usual moulds—even if they wouldn’t necessarily wear my jewellery—encourages them to experiment.
VN: During your studies in Amsterdam, was there something that influenced you and still echoes in your work today?
CM: I came from a very traditional background, but I’d always had the desire to express my ideas in an original way. When I arrived in Amsterdam, I found myself in an environment with a strong focus on the conceptual side. That kind of academic approach helped me understand what sort of research turns a creation into a work of art. It was there that I began to reflect on the difference between an artisan and an artist.
The artisan is someone highly skilled who creates functional objects, while the artist was often seen as someone who only thinks, without even getting their hands dirty. Personally, I believe an artist can be both someone who thinks and someone who makes. Manual technique is essential for me, and sometimes, what I do instinctively with my hands is more immediate and powerful than any rational idea. But once I’ve chosen a form, I always go on to study its implications and references.
In Amsterdam, I had the opportunity to engage with people from more than 60 different countries, and I learned that every symbol, every shape, every colour carries its own specific meanings. So before I finalise a work, I try to understand all the possible interpretations and the reactions it might evoke.
Now, every decision I make is influenced by an awareness of what lies behind the piece, the context in which it’s shown, and how the public might read it—depending on where it’s being exhibited. Working on my own also allows me to explore the unexpected qualities of the material—for instance, how glass naturally tends to form rounded shapes. There’s no point in trying to force it into sharp corners when it’s a material that wants to curve.
My experience in Amsterdam also taught me not to accept limits imposed by others. Even if someone might prefer a piece that’s visually beautiful, for me the strength of a work lies in its deeper meaning. Aesthetic beauty isn’t the only measure of value. Thinking about context is essential—not just where a work is exhibited but, in the case of jewellery, even its packaging. For example, in my “Thingness” collection, the pink satin pouch was designed to create a certain feeling—almost a tactile impression that hints at the emotion the piece will trigger.
VN: What was it like returning to Venice after so many years in Amsterdam? How did it affect your artistic practice?
CM: Coming back was a happy, conscious decision. The Netherlands was fundamental to my education. I absorbed everything I could from that environment, but at a certain point, I started to feel signs pushing me elsewhere. There was a wave of gentrification—especially after Brexit—that was moving at incredible speed, as well as various personal and health-related issues: I’d been advised to walk more, get more sunlight, and eat more fish. All things you do naturally in Venice, without even realising it.
Plus, I kept receiving invitations to exhibit in Italy, especially in the northeast. When the organisation I was collaborating with, B#Side War, covered the transport costs for my four ‘Tomb Sculpture’ pieces—over 130kg including packaging—for a show at the Doge’s Palace in Genoa, I started to think: “Why am I still here, if my work is so in demand in my own country?” Of course, the Netherlands is open-minded—but only to a certain type of discourse. When you arrive from Italy, it all feels more dynamic and free, but in the end, every place has its pros and cons.
So I came back with a different, more mature awareness. And I came back with a plan: to open a space, structure my practice, and take advantage of international opportunities without giving up a stable base.
VN: And so you opened your own space in Venice. How did it go in the beginning?
CM: I was full of enthusiasm, and the reception was amazing. People were eager to see glass through a new lens. I had chosen a space on Via Garibaldi, with a shop window that created a bit of confusion—many people thought it was a traditional shop, whereas for me it was an artist’s studio, an atelier. And managing it alone meant I couldn’t keep standard opening hours. Then a series of events forced me to scale things down.
In 2018, shortly after the move, the first acqua alta hit, and I was completely unprepared. In 2019, I felt ready—I had everything I needed to face it—but it was higher than expected. I saw the water rise up to my thighs, in the dark with the power out and sockets underwater, as Via Garibaldi turned into a raging river. The salt soaked into the walls, corroding them. But somehow, you always find a way to get back up.
Then came the lockdown—a ruthless form of natural selection where, unfortunately, the big players often survived and smaller ventures had to either reinvent themselves or shut down. I tried to stay flexible and realised I needed to find a more sustainable balance.
VN: At the same time, important recognition started coming your way.
CM: Yes, I was featured in publications like The New York Times and Vanity Fair. I was invited to participate in Tex Venezia’s “Tradition and Innovation” for Balancing Acts, and started forming new collaborations. It was a time of reassessment but also of new opportunities. For example, I decided not to invest in rented spaces that didn’t offer stability and instead bought a place in Murano, where I opened my atelier and showroom. It’s only open for events or by appointment.
I now have various retailers and also manage sales through my e-commerce. It’s a much more manageable solution because it allows me to work without the constraints of a traditional shop and to organise events, exhibitions, open days—more intimate moments with the public, where you can have a glass of wine and feel at ease. For me, art is tied to conviviality. People who visit don’t see me as a sales assistant, and money isn’t the focal point of the experience.
And if I need to travel for an event or exhibition, in Italy or abroad, I just close the door and go—without having to worry about paying for an unsustainable lease. It’s a way of working that allows me to stay present in Venice without tying myself down to one single location.
All these challenges have led me to rethink some of the romantic ideas I had at the beginning. You know, the classic dream: open a studio, a shop, an atelier right in the centre of Venice, maybe behind the Biennale. But at what cost? This is a journey you build brick by brick—without ever giving up on big dreams.
VN: So your studio gives you a more direct relationship with people?
CM: For those who prefer a more traditional shopping experience, there are still stockists that carry my pieces and the online shop. But it’s important to me that people understand there’s a whole project and a real person behind it—even through a screen. Building a relationship with people also depends on me: if I stay behind a shop window, people will see me as a shopkeeper. But if I open the door to my space and create a welcoming environment, everything changes. I can explain my work calmly, away from the hustle and bustle—almost in a timeless dimension.
VN: Tell me more specifically about the Sunset Yogurt project. What’s the vision behind it?
CM: The core idea is to give new life to glass. Some people didn’t get it straight away, but for me it’s a clear reference to punk. You know how they used to say “Punk is not dead”? Well, I say “Murano glass is not dead.” Some took it as a provocation, thinking I was claiming to “revive” it—but really, I just want to give it a jolt, to create something new.
I was also thinking a lot about the phenomenon of memorabilia—how when you go to an exhibition, you might pick up a postcard or a leaflet at the end. A sort of artistic souvenir, which then ends up tucked inside a book and forgotten. I wanted to create something that carried a different sense of permanence—something that could be lived with, taken around, that wouldn’t stop existing. Something that could take the concepts beyond the gallery space, with a touch of humour, as a tool for acceptance.
I had been treating body parts in a sculptural way within gallery spaces, and I began to see the body itself—through glass—as an exhibition space. Even though function tends to separate jewellery from art, in this case, it’s not just about aesthetics. It carries the theme of the exhibition with it, wherever it goes. If someone sees someone else wearing a little boob-shaped earring and asks, “What is that?”, that becomes a chance to tell a story. And in that way, the work keeps living.
VN: So Sunset Yogurt was born from an artistic need, first and foremost.
CM: Yes, it all started with teeth. I was making the sculptures for Tomb Sculpture, which are covered in reproductions of wisdom tooth roots, and ivory glass was perfect for making them. Then I began thinking about all the possible associations—how teeth are rooted in our traditions, their meanings in dreams, common sayings, and ancient customs—like early humans adorning themselves with animal teeth to show their strength…
VN: And that’s how the first collection, Thingness, came about.
The name comes from a concept by Paul Thek, a 1970s American artist. He was Catholic and gay, so he carried a deep internal conflict. Once, he visited the Capuchin catacombs in Palermo and was struck by the sight of the displayed bodies, hanging as if they were in conversation with each other, like flowers. That experience led him to reflect on the joy of accepting one’s materiality. He called it “the joy of accepting my thingness”, freeing himself from the religious connotations of body and soul.
It’s a very powerful concept, and I wanted to bring it into a more joyful dimension. Thek made incredible works—his Meat Pieces—but they evoke more unease than acceptance or joy.
Back in university, I came across Freud’s essay The Uncanny. Freud explored this phenomenon—what he called “the uncanny”—with a particular focus on mannequins. In essence, it’s about something that is both familiar and unsettling. You see something that appears normal, yet it makes you uncomfortable. You know it’s not alive, not a threat, and yet it triggers a reaction. Freud suggests this reaction happens because, somehow, you recognise yourself in what you see, even though it’s separate from you. It’s like seeing yourself from the outside, and yet it still feels like a part of you.
This concept, which I had already explored in my artwork, fits naturally within the Sunset Yogurt creations. But here, I approach it through a playful aesthetic and humour, which softens everything, makes it lighter and easier to accept.
When I founded Sunset Yogurt, one of my main intentions—besides giving glass a shake—was to use humour as a tool for acceptance. I wanted my work to spark reflection, but without taking itself too seriously. Because sometimes, by laughing, we can say much more than a serious speech ever could.
VN: That’s fascinating—and it’s something that also comes through in your collection on pills and mental health.
CM: Yes, absolutely. At a certain point, people almost expected an anatomical theme from me. But I don’t want to be an isolated artist who only looks inward, so I pay attention and absorb what’s happening around me. The Pills (Andrà tutto bene) collection deals with the taboo of mental health, and how the boundary between normality and something else becomes more and more blurred.
When I made the little boobs, for example, my aim was to talk about a kind of feminine strength beyond sexuality. Breasts serve a function that isn’t sexual—though they’re often seen that way. They feed, they nourish. So to me, they represent a symbol of generous, non-destructive strength. I decided to make them sweet, like little candies, and I didn’t think there was anything threatening about them.
And yet, I saw people getting “offended” even before I had a chance to explain. That made me realise this was a taboo worth delving into. So I made the Family Jewels collection, where I naively portrayed genitals in pastel colours, and through a liberating laugh, we could move past it.
Then came the Covid period, which truly tested people’s psyches, and I felt a need to talk about mental health. That’s when I turned to the part of the body that carries everything: the mind.
VN: And how was that received?
CM: Very well—especially since I’ve had this more intimate space where I can meet people one-to-one. Often, they’ll share personal stories. When it comes to bespoke pieces, someone might ask for an eye that resembles a loved one’s, or a particular setting or arrangement.
With the Andrà tutto bene collection, people sometimes ask me to recreate a specific pill—maybe one that helped them through a hard time. Some share deeply personal experiences related to mental health or pain, showing me just how outdated the taboo really is.
This collection also led to a collaboration with students from the BigRock Master 36 in Concept Art at H-Farm, to design a headpiece. That’s where I AM OK was born—a small series of jewels spelling out Valium and Ibuprofen in Morse code, made in Murano glass.
At the same time, they resemble pills anyone might have taken—painkillers, anti-inflammatories, fever reducers… medicines that are part of everyday life. So this collection isn’t just about normalising mental health discussions; it’s also an invitation to reflect on the use of medication. On one hand, pretending everything is fine without addressing real issues is pointless. On the other, blindly relying on a chemical fix without questioning it isn’t right either. Balance is key.
These are also the core themes behind Mollified, the artistic collective I co-founded with Lorenzo Passi in 2022. Through the lens of glass, we take an anthropologically ironic look at human behaviour—something we’re continuing to explore in our upcoming exhibitions this July at Galleria Sparc in Santo Stefano, Venice, and in September at Villa Albrizzi Marini in San Zenone degli Ezzelini, Treviso.
VN: And what’s your experience of the contemporary jewellery scene in Venice?
CM: I’m a bit of an alien in the world of contemporary jewellery, in the sense that I often exhibit in jewellery shows, I do make jewellery—but I come from a very different background. I didn’t train in jewellery, but in glass and sculpture. When I create something, I think first and foremost about the body, about balance, then about aesthetics. I rarely start with a sketch—it’s more hands-on. Those with a traditional jewellery background tend to approach things quite differently, from what I’ve seen.
That said, in recent years, there’s been a lot of movement. The Venice Academy has just opened a department for contemporary jewellery, and more and more artists are experimenting with glass in this field. Personally, after years of wanting to deepen my skills in goldsmithing, I won a scholarship from an American foundation for an intensive course at Alchimia, the contemporary jewellery school in Florence. Not to work with precious metals, but to build better structures around glass and go beyond the limits of simple fittings.
To me, contemporary jewellery shouldn’t just be a decorative object or a catwalk piece that’s impossible to wear. It needs a strong concept, but also the ability to live in everyday life—to be worn on the street, to tell a story. That’s why I’m more interested in the human energy behind a piece than in technical perfection. Jewellery can be wearable sculpture—a means of spreading ideas and stories. And in that sense, there’s still so much room to experiment.
Of course, I still want to keep a more accessible line—with simple, wearable fittings that withstand daily use—but I also want to push beyond the limits of classic jewellery. Because if it’s always just an earring, a ring, a pendant—no matter how special—it ends up being the same thing. By applying the same mindset I use in making artworks, I’ve created more sculptural pieces. And from there, a whole new world of possibilities has opened up—ones that don’t exist in traditional jewellery but can exist in art, even if they often remain trapped in galleries.
VN: How do you envision the evolution of Sunset Yogurt in the coming years? Collaborations, new directions?
CM: Jewellery-making is a significant step for me, and I want to delve deeper into it. Even in terms of equipment, I need to further develop the studio. There are many techniques I’ve experimented with that really interest me, but there’s still a great deal to learn on the technical side.
With the Mollified collective, we’re working to give more visibility to artists who use glass as a medium for contemporary art. The aim is to collaborate and collectively create a new landscape for glass – one that represents us, rather than simply decorates.
Ideally, in the future, I’d love to have more time to dedicate to that and eventually create a space where people can come together, learn, and experiment collectively.
VN: A shared workshop?
CM: Yes, exactly – but that’s not something that can be done with private funding alone. Public support would also be essential. If there were state funding, it would be possible to open a space specifically for collaboration and education. As it stands, every artisan and artist has to do everything on their own.
It would be wonderful to focus more on the advancement of contemporary jewellery and glass, especially here in Venice. A dream of mine is a three-storey workshop: a workspace, a hub, a meeting point, artist residencies, an exhibition room… But one step at a time.
VN: What advice would you give someone who wants to follow this path?
CM: The biggest mistake is thinking you can arrive in Murano and instantly land a permanent position. That’s not how it works. I’m not saying they’re doing you a favour – it’s a job and a tradition that’s at risk of disappearing – but it’s also not the kind of place that welcomes you with open arms.
Still, it’s an extraordinary material, and one that requires your full commitment. It’s not a material that yields easily; it shapes you, and in the end, it gives back so much. There should be partnerships with schools to spark more interest, and there need to be incentives for those who want to learn. I’d love to take on an intern myself, but the bureaucracy makes it difficult.
There are courses out there – some are pricey – but in a month, you can grasp the basics. After that, it’s all about experience. But glass is a demanding material. If you’re looking for quick profits, this isn’t the right path. It requires perseverance. It’s a bit like intaglio printing: you have to work at its pace, with patience. That’s the nature of glass. It bends you, not the other way around. Better to accept that and let yourself be shaped by it – gradually, you soften.
