Life With: Niccolò Debole
Life With: Niccolò Debole
Niccolò Debole is an artist and designer based in New York City. We sat down with him to learn how the story of his parents' meeting shaped his artistic journey, how an apprenticeship provided him with an authentic glimpse into the art world, and how he knows when a piece of art is truly complete.
Text by Leon Hedgepeth, Photos by Chandler Bondurant
Niccolò wears ANOTHER Polo Shirt 2.0, Brown Melange (see more) & ANOTHER Jeans 3.0, Used Blue Marble (see more).
What’s your most important morning routine to start the day off right?
My dog gets me out of the apartment every morning—I can’t just lounge around all day. He’s lazy enough to sleep in with me, so I don’t have to be up at six, but he still needs his walk. That means no staying in bed until the afternoon; he’s got to go out.
My girlfriend, who lives down the street, is a "make coffee at home" kind of person, but I need to go out for mine. It works perfectly—I take the dog, get outside, and everyone wins. Since I live on the sixth floor, it’s not like I can just pop in and out quickly, so the routine is set. I wake up, feed him, shower while he eats, then we head out. He does his business, I grab my coffee, we soak up some sunshine, and then we’re back. He’s seven now, so this has been our rhythm for years.
What’s the first thing you do when you get to your studio?
I’ve been working on being less precious with materials—less precious with the work itself. You need to be prolific, to make, make, make. For me, that means getting better at just putting things down on a page. I’ve tricked myself into easing into it, but I’m pretty organized, so my process always starts with setting up—prepping my workspace, moving things around on my desk, clearing any excuses.
Music is essential. I’m not much of a podcast guy—unless it’s soccer talk, since I watch and play a lot—but most of the time, it’s music. Then it’s the sketchbook. I’ll draw for a while, flipping through a list on my phone where I jot down ideas and phrases that spark something. From there, I just let things flow.
How did you first get into making art?
I grew up in a very arty family. My dad's from Florence, Italy, and my mom actually went to Duke. She did a study abroad program in Florence for painting, and that’s where she met my dad. So Florence—Birth of the Renaissance, right?—became this massive presence in my life. My mom was a painter, my dad was from Florence, and it all felt kind of poetic.
My mom’s from just outside Philadelphia—a Jewish woman from the U.S.—and my dad’s this Catholic Italian guy. They’re so different, and yet art was always this unshakable force in my life. A lot of my earliest experiences with art came from trips to Italy—visiting my grandparents, my cousins, and, of course, seeing the churches, the Accademia, the Uffizi Gallery. The architecture alone was an education. Before I even knew who Warhol was, I knew Botticelli. Our house was full of art books.
Even in L.A., we have a five-foot statue of David just chilling in the backyard. My parents are obsessed. And I loved drawing and painting as a kid—there are endless photos of me with a watercolor set or crayons in hand. My parents were always supportive, signing me up for art classes early on.
Do you remember the first piece of art that made you want to pursue it as a career?
When I was in high school, I had a really cool job. I was part of this program at MOCA—the Museum of Contemporary Art in LA. I think they might still have it, but back then, it was called MAP, the MOCA Apprenticeship Program. Basically, we got to work at MOCA—not at the front desk or anything, but with the curators. I even had an ID badge that gave me access to the storage floor—just this massive concrete room filled with giant wooden crates labeled with names like Rauschenberg and Warhol.
The second year I was there, Jeffrey Deitch was the head of MOCA, and he put on this huge street art exhibit. I’ll never forget one moment in the elevator with him. I was already inside when he walked in, wearing these tiny wooden glasses. He took them off, folded them, put them in his jacket pocket—then pulled out an identical pair from his other pocket and put them on. And then he just got off the elevator, like nothing happened. I remember standing there like… what just happened? That apprenticeship program was probably half the reason I got into Pratt. I think it showed them that I was really down for the cause.
As an artist, how do you know when a piece is finished? Is it a feeling or something more specific?
I often wish finishing a painting was as simple as adding one last brushstroke, but it never works that way. Over time, I’ve developed a system: I paint in my bedroom, then put the piece on a blank wall in my living room. I don’t look at it until the next day. If I still don’t like it after a few days, it’s not done. But if I think, “That’s nice,” or take a picture, I know I’m close.
Usually, when I finish a piece, it’s done. There have been only a couple of times I’ve revisited something months later, but it was worth it. My process usually involves completing about 20% of a painting, then pushing it to 80%, and finally adding small touches until it's finished. Sometimes I wish someone could just tell me, "It’s done," but that’s just part of my rhythm.
The ceramic clocks you made were amazing. What was your thought process behind creating them?
My friend mentioned a ceramics class in Greenpoint, and I thought, "I'll do that." I wasn’t planning on making mugs or ashtrays, though. When I got there, we learned hand-building techniques, no wheels. Everyone else planned small trinkets like mugs or earring holders, but I randomly said, "I'm making a clock," with no real plan.
What I loved was how it blended design with function, and how it forced you to focus—no screens, just hands and clay. The surprise of glazing was exciting too; you never know how it’ll turn out after the kiln. It became a great, tactile break from my usual work.
What’s your most important morning routine to start the day off right?
Off the top of my head, I’d give you two answers: the polished, expected one and the honest truth. For me, the truth is about fully stepping into the day by starting with stillness.
Before the rush of productivity—gym, skincare, tasks—I need a moment to sit, exist, and reconnect. It’s my way of acknowledging I’m alive, feeling grateful for another day, and embracing the chance to make it meaningful. That quiet reintroduction to myself sets the tone for everything else.
Your forthcoming group exhibition, Inside Out II, debuts on March 15—what inspired this body of work?
I have one piece in a group show with a theme exploring inner and outer voices—the duality of self. It's something they do every year, and I’m friends with the organizers. My painting depicts a windowsill with a fire escape and a glimpse of a building, reflecting the idea of being between spaces, at the threshold where everything feels uncertain. It connects to that feeling of helplessness, being on the edge of chaos, unsure whether you're in or out. I believe the intersection of the inner and outer voices is where true creative success lies—when a piece speaks for itself, without words, conveying emotion clearly. That's the essence of the "inside-out" concept.
What new projects are you currently working on that you’re really excited about?
I'm working on more clocks, which I'm excited about, and I'm in talks with a Gallery in LA for a show. One of the gallery's Italian founders found me on Instagram, and we connected over our shared upbringings and mutual love for Italian art. He’s not just about displaying art but wants something conceptual and collaborative, which is really exciting.
What’s an album you’ve had on repeat lately, and why?
One of my favorite albums to paint to is Velvet Underground's Live 1969. It’s the first album I play when I start painting—no skips, lighthearted, and with raw, human moments, but they sound incredible. If I want something with less vocals, I turn to Air. Any of their albums are great, but Moon Safari is my top pick.
How do you like to spend your evenings?
You know, I do most of my painting at night. During the day, I'm usually working on freelance projects, walking my dog, or running errands. So, my evenings are for me. I'm 30 now, and I don't really like going out that much anymore. Most nights, I either spend time with my girlfriend—we cook dinner, watch TV, or listen to music—or I’m painting by myself in the dark, also listening to music, which is one of my favorite things to do.
