Should we be more Italian?

On 'Bella Figura'

The first time I stepped into Antonella’s apartment in North Dublin, it felt like crossing an invisible threshold. Outside, along Saville Row, cars whizzed past the grey street, spraying a fine mist into the air — familiar sounds, familiar city air, a stone’s throw from Five Lamps corner. Quintessential Dublin, you might say. But when I closed the brightly painted orange door, the click of the old latch sealed me off from ordinary life and into a small, lived-in theatre.

Her apartment is a homage to drama — not the brooding, moody kind, but the flamboyant, joyous kind. Walls are crowded with old theatre posters, masks, musical instruments, swatches of red, gold, green. Every corner hums with memory: objects from past productions, souvenirs from her travels, cluttered vignettes that tell a story. It’s the sort of place where everything feels curated, but nothing feels contrived.

Antonella has been in Dublin for over twenty years. She knows the city better than me — its ways, its hidden gems, its characters. Yet she remains unmistakably Italian — or more precisely, Sardinian. There’s a particular groundedness in her, something of the rugged mountainous terrain of that island of old traditions and history. Everything about her gestures, her voice, her presence carries the rhythm of another land.

And then, at the back, past the parade of ornamentation, is her kitchen. It’s small and functional, with a window looking out toward the Connolly railway line and the patchwork of yards and rooftops beyond. Pots hang above the cooker, glass jars line the shelves with grains and pulses, old metal signs offer humorous sayings. One features a woman holding a frying pan with the caption: “You’ve two choices for dinner: take it or leave it.”

This is where Antonella really shines. She sits you down, pours a glass of something — water, wine, whatever’s right — and begins laying out small plates: olives, cheeses, roasted peppers, oil-dark artichokes, cured meats.
“You must eat something with protein,” she insists. “You must eat.”
It’s not a question, not a suggestion — it’s an act of love. Her hospitality is effortless yet intentional, sumptuous yet grounded. She makes you feel like the centre of the world without making a fuss.

This, I’ve come to realise, is bella figura.

In Italy, bella figura means more than just “looking good.” It’s a whole ethos, a lived philosophy of presence. It’s about how you dress, how you speak, how you offer a coffee or a compliment. It’s about grace — not the kind bestowed from on high, but the kind that arises from attention, care, and a deep reverence for beauty in the everyday.
It’s knowing which wine to serve with fish, or how to enter a room without disturbing the air. In hospitality, when you invite someone over, there’s an unspoken expectation to make things beautiful — not through wealth or extravagance, but through attention to detail and respect for your guest.

Bella figura is not vanity. It’s about respect — for yourself, for others, for the moment you find yourself in. It’s a way of saying: I honour this life enough to make it beautiful.

There’s something deeply captivating about this aspect of the Italian spirit — the belief that life is meant to be beautiful. That striving to surround ourselves with beauty is not frivolous, but sacred — a quiet act of reverence. Beauty, you might say, brings us closer to the divine.

In a world that often feels drab and utilitarian, in the sterile zones of modern cities where beauty seems far away, the choice to create — or even simply notice — beauty can become a form of resistance. A way of reclaiming dignity. A way of saying: I am still human. I still see. I still care.

I recalled a memory from some years ago and wondered: was this too an encounter with the spirit of bella figura?

I was working as an assistant leader with the conservation group Groundwork in Killarney National Park. My alarm went off at 7 a.m., giving me plenty of time to prepare and enjoy a bit of quiet before the day began — another long one leading twenty-something volunteers up a mountain to clear rhododendron.
I made my way downstairs to the men’s bathroom, expecting it to be empty — assuming the volunteers were still asleep. But instead, I found the three young Italian lads lined up at the mirror, grooming themselves with quiet precision.
They leaned over the sinks with studied attention, their implements of care — razors, moisturisers, combs — laid out like sacred objects on an altar.
I stood there in a kind of awe, wonder, and mild confusion. I couldn’t quite conceive how anyone would give such dedicated attention to their appearance first thing in the morning — especially before spending the day hacking at invasive plants in a remote, unpeopled forest.

At the time, I brushed it off as monumental vanity. But looking back, I see now that something deeper was at work — a cultural instinct, rooted and inherited. And those kinds of roots are far harder to eradicate than any invasive plant.

I could do with more of the bella figura philosophy in my life. I’m sitting here writing this with a mass of unkempt hair on my head that would make a windblown hawthorn tree look neat.
As someone born of Irish soil, I can’t help but feel how different that impulse is to the way many of us move through the world here.

I’ve often joked with a friend about being my unofficial fashion assistant. Once, I even called her from a TK-Max changing room to get a second opinion — and thank God I did. What I thought was a perfectly good shirt-trousers combo met with an explosion of laughter on her end.
Part of me still dreams of an app that could translate vague aspirations — “a mixture of Clint Eastwood in the Spaghetti Westerns, George Clooney, and a slightly tortured artist look, under €100 please” — into ready-to-wear outfits I can buy within a 50km radius.
Somebody needs to develop that app.

Of course, here I go again — doing that very Irish thing of self-deprecation. And there's another contrast between our ways and the Italian spirit.
Italians love humour too, but their humour often elevates the speaker rather than diminishing them.

In Ireland, grace often hides. We are a people suspicious of polish. Raised on self-deprecating humour, we learn early not to draw too much attention to ourselves. To “have notions” — to appear too proud, too stylish, too certain — is a kind of social sin.
The ideal is not to shine but to blend, not to dazzle but to connect.

Where bella figura says, “Be beautiful for the sake of others,” the Irish instinct whispers, “Don’t get above yourself.”

I need to be more Italian.

Or perhaps, more simply, I need to be more attentive to the small graces that can turn an ordinary moment into something beautiful..
It strikes me that the same attention I offer to the land, to the birds, to the cycles of the seasons, is the same care I could offer to myself.
The wild hawthorn dresses itself in blossom without apology.
The blackbird sings at the top of his voice, unafraid of being heard.
Maybe it’s not about having notions after all. Maybe it's about remembering that grace is a natural part of who we are.