Wumbo de Janeiro
Wumbo de Janeiro collects traces of time. Living in Hamburg with his wife and their cat, he transforms everyday objects into an archive of attention. Wumbo de Janeiro lives there in a constellation that feels less like a refuge and more like a foundation. It's the place where his thinking begins—collecting, observing, the slow work of noticing.
The apartment isn't a minimalist space, but a composition of objects, memories, and matter. Italian furniture from the 1950s to the 1980s coexists with piles of magazines, records, books, and clothes. Everything bears a mark; everything contains movement. It's a room that thinks—and lives with it.
Most mornings begin with coffee, carefully prepared by small roasters he closely monitors. A ritual of attention: concentration, craft, rhythm. Perhaps also a silent homage to Italy, the country that has shaped his work on Stone Island from the very beginning.
Over the past five years, Wumbo has immersed himself in the history of the brand—born in the 1980s out of technical curiosity and military pragmatism. What began as a passing interest has become a method. He reads, collects, documents, and digitizes: old catalogs, ad pages, hangtags, buttons, and labels. For him, collecting isn't about ownership, but about awareness.
“You can read how someone was thinking by looking at a jacket,” he says.
Massimo Osti, founder of Stone Island, sees himself not as a designer but as a researcher—someone who treats material as an idea and clothing as an experiment. Wumbo takes that principle even further: he collects ways of thinking, not trophies.
His archive contains around 120 pieces, always in flux. Some arrive, some go. What remains is worn, examined, and photographed. "Anything you collect should be used," he says.
He learned that collecting requires patience—and the ability to tolerate frustration. "Fast fashion makes me sick," he says softly, almost nonchalantly. "There's no need to buy new. With a little knowledge, there's good design at every level."
For Wumbo, collecting is a counter-movement: against acceleration, against indifference. Old pieces aren't nostalgia but resistance—against oblivion and the dulling of culture.
Alongside clothing, music and cinema have been constants in his life. He collects records, cassettes, CDs, and VHS tapes—formats that seem like small cultural archives in themselves. He doesn't watch films to escape; he watches them to see more clearly. "I'm addicted to films," he says, without irony.
This approach informs his current collaboration in Switzerland, where he is developing an exhibition about collecting, archiving, and research. It's not a spectacle, but a continuation of what he already practices: drawing patterns, reading matter, understanding time.
In the evenings he drinks smoky whiskey, listens to old tapes, or skates long distances—movement as a way to let his thoughts take shape.
And sometimes, he says, everything that matters starts with a good cup of coffee.
