One Night in a Tuscan Estate Reborn as a Hotel With an Artist Residency

Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head.

I always prefer to travel somewhere new. Unless that place is Italy, in which case I’d return a million times over. So this summer, after a road trip honeymoon around Scotland and subsequent girls’ trip in Greece and Albania, I decided to tack on a solo four-day stay at Villa Lena, a luscious Tuscan estate spread across roughly 1,235 acres with converted guest rooms, a farm-to-table restaurant, an organic flower and vegetable garden, and a residency program run by the hotel’s namesake art foundation.

Built for Italian aristocrats more than 100 years ago, the villa fell into disrepair until undergoing a six-year renovation by its new owners—art collector Lena Evstafieva, her musician husband Jérôme Hadey, and Parisian restaurateur Lionel Bensemoun—who reimagined it as a decadent hospitality haven. The trio reopened the destination in 2013 as a creative’s oasis, with 74 rooms and private villas for guests across the grounds repurposed from historic agricultural buildings, reserving the showstopping peach-painted villa for artist residents from around the world.

From April through October, the foundation invites a handful of cross-disciplinary creatives to board for free (with meals, sans air-conditioning) for roughly a month and develop new work in their own studios. In exchange, they lead guest workshops like "floral sculpting" and "emotional drawing" and leave behind a creation for the foundation. Besides the resident-led workshops, guests can also book creative retreats throughout the year, like the fall Harvest Festival, which offers workshops in ceramics and floral installations, plus truffle hunting. About an hour’s drive from Florence, the surrounding area offers visitors opportunities for various flavors of adventure, from the scenic on-site park built on the ruins of a medieval castle, to the nearby ghost town of Toiano, largely abandoned by people but teeming with cats. And, of course, in every direction there’s Tuscany, on the off chance you decide to leave this pastoral refuge.

After weeks of searching for a just-right place to spend my short solo week, a florist friend introduced me to Villa Lena. As a terminally online millennial with a closet full of abandoned art projects, the pairing of creative ethos with luxurious lodging immediately stood out to me as a special kind of vacation experience. And as a person enraptured by eating even more than artful living (sorry), it sealed the deal to be able to opt into a half-board food program, which included a daily breakfast buffet and nightly four-course Tuscan dinner. Lucky for me, there were quick direct flights from all over Europe to Pisa—just a 45-minute drive from Villa Lena.

Wednesday

2 p.m.: My cab driver pulls up the twisty road, the abundant grounds of Villa Lena rising into view. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve been on my own. I glance up at the stark terra-cotta villa that I saw in nearly every photo online, its picturesque entryway arches framed by twin cypress trees and a moss-covered fountain. Italy may be in a heat wave, but I have a feeling this will be the perfect restorative jaunt to cap off my travels.

I duck into the blissful air-conditioning in the Fattoria—the villa’s former stables that now serve as the spacious lobby—and sign up for the various offerings for my three-night stay. My picks include an abstract painting session, an on-site vineyard tour, and an ambitious early morning yoga class.

3 p.m.: A small hotel car takes me and my engorged Away suitcase to the nearby San Michele building (just a short walk up a tree-lined staircase), which holds the restaurant on the first floor and six spacious bedrooms above. Entering my room feels like arriving at the country home of a moneyed, eccentric friend. Frescoes of olive trees by French graffiti artist Jay One Ramier crawl up the pale walls and onto the yellow ceiling. Globo Cesta pendants flank the bed, adding a touch of modernity by contrast. On the wide desk sits a milky bouquet of dahlias and Queen Anne’s lace from the garden, lending the room an herbal scent. French doors frame a verdant view of Tuscany’s rolling hills. In the en-suite bathroom, I swoon at the lavish bathtub across from hand-painted dragon-scale shower tiles. It’s the ideal setting for me to collapse into bed for some brain-smoothing phone time.

4:30 p.m.: It’s still scorchingly hot, so before my vineyard tour I visit the main hotel pool—luckily just a few steps from my room. Naturally, the set up is an Instagrammer’s feast, pleasingly symmetrical with lounges and striped umbrellas in rich alternating colors, all with a background of olive groves. As the bartender brings me a fruit salad in a martini glass, I notice a few of the artist residents hanging out at some tables on the other side of the bar, dancing to the Top 40 hits blasting from a hidden sound system for a hammy photoshoot I’d later spot in their IG stories. At home, I typically spend more time behind a screen than socializing. But I love how the isolation of solo travel forces me out of my introvert-comfort-zone. I hope I can meet new friends here. For now, there’s this fruit cocktail.

8:15 p.m.: After a steamy vineyard tour and a walk to the nearby ghost town (very spooky, though not quite as abandoned as I expected), I take a quick, refreshing wash in the open shower in my room and head downstairs for dinner. Instead of getting a table for one in the dining room, I summon my extrovert energy and go outside to the long communal table where the artist residents sit on the front terrace. When I tell them I’m traveling solo and ask if I can join them, Miyelle Karmi, a ceramicist from London, warmly tells me to take a seat. The one open chair is at the end of the table, where I recognize curator Kimberly Drew, an influential trendsetter in the NY art scene. Across from her is performance artist ms. z tye, and we quickly figure out we all live about a mile apart in Brooklyn. Classic.

I meet the others around the table as wide trays of family-style dishes arrive from the kitchen: stewed chicken cacciatore, gooey béchamel omelets, and a crisp pile of salad from the garden. Geckos crawl up the sides of the pinky-beige walls, pausing above one of the many pairs of black window shutters as criss-crossed strings of twinkle lights turn on. When I mention this piece, art writer Camille G. Bacon comes around to sit with me. I find myself easily oversharing with her on the challenges I’ve had balancing identity and ego when embarking on new work, but she’s such a gentle listener the vulnerability feels natural.

The artist residents head to bed around 9:30, but I’m still hungry. Since I’m on the half-board program (which I have somehow forgotten includes a four-course dinner), I pop into the restaurant for a plate of homemade pappardelle and a rich vegan chocolate tart before the kitchen closes. An Italian man I met earlier stops by to say hi. Riding high on my extrovert success, I invite him to sit, and we debate the best and worst pasta shapes (bucatini and farfalle, respectively). "What do you think about Italians being so uptight about how Americans eat?" I ask. "Well," he replies, "I’m trying not to comment on how you’re cutting your pasta with a fork." Despite the faux pas, to my naive surprise, he not-so-subtly propositions me (!). (I decline, but note for those looking: there’s fun to be had in Italy.)

Thursday

8:15 a.m.: I wake up still full from the pappardelle, but I am Vacation Rachel who goes to morning yoga so I drag myself out from under the soft linen blanket. I get lost finding the studio, ending up at the pool, but spy some of the artists heading toward the Fattoria and follow them downhill. The bright space overlooks the lush hills outside, and the six of us practice our crow poses. I only fall over once (fine, twice).

10 a.m.: The worn wooden French doors of the restaurant hang open on all sides, speckling the yellow blooms on each table with sun rays. At the breakfast buffet, I choose from glass trays of buttery pastries, thick slices of lemon poppyseed cake, pungent cured meats and cheeses, saucer-sized tomatoes, and the most charming freshly picked strawberries that decidedly break my heart.

I grab a table on the restaurant’s panoramic back terrace with Koen, a tall Belgian man who practiced next to me in yoga. Just past the white-metal fence that wraps around us, the cantaloupe-hued artists’ villa rises up from a dense smattering of trees. Koen’s also here solo/sans-husband, and it’s his last morning at the villa. His rejuvenating stay helped him find clarity on what he wants out of his life and consulting business, he tells me, as I have a private love affair with the best croissant I’ve ever eaten. The menu has a handful of dishes not included in the half-board, and we both decide to splurge on scrambled eggs with fresh roasted vegetables. Before Koen checks out, we dash to the pool to do our own hammy photoshoot.

7 p.m.: After a toasty day with a little swimming and a lot of lounging, I head to the Fattoria for a special talk on curating Black art that’s open to guests. It’s one of a few events this week for a simultaneous residency called My Queer Blackness, My Black Queerness (MQBMBQ). The panel features Kimberly Drew and Mistura Allison, one of the only Black female curators in Italy, with moderation by Jordan Anderson, who founded the MQBMBQ residency here three years ago. A couple dozen of us sit on throw pillows on a wide stone staircase to listen as they discuss the responsibility they find the world puts on them as curators, and how they maintain their mental health through it all. After, I join a few of the artists for dinner again at the communal table. We indulge in flaky fish and too-warm white wine, chatting long after the twinkle lights come on. 

Friday

10:30 a.m.: After an adorable breakfast with more fresh strawberries and two iced oat lattes (hallelujah), I make my way down a dirt road past the Fattoria to the artist studios. There, I meet multimedia artist Erin Tyler, who is teaching the hour-long workshop on miniature abstract painting that I signed up for. The hotel is in a late-summer lull, and I’m thrilled that it ends up being just the two of us.

Erin shows me how to trace my chosen image—the breakfast strawberries—and then fill it in with blocks of painted color. I end up staying for nearly three hours, learning about Erin’s life in Missouri as my hands and arms gradually accumulate globs of paint. It’s glorious. The studio gets unbearable without air-conditioning, so we retreat to the pool together, still slightly spotted in colors.

4 p.m.: It’s my last full day, so I take a final walk through the grounds, finding my way to the garden. Butterflies weave through the creamy dahlias that welcomed me in my room, next to sunflowers the size of dinner plates. Stacked neatly on a vine in the sun are the gleaming orange tomatoes that appeared in my salad the night before. Gigi, the gardener, grins at me as he sorts through a basket of plump vegetables and doesn’t seem to notice when I sneak a blackberry. It’s unlike any I’ve ever had, a sharp swirl of tart and sweet. The whole scene is almost too on the nose, like someone put "dreamy Tuscan garden" into an AI filter. But this pastoral vision actually exists. My list of reasons to return to Italy has gotten longer. 

11 p.m.: A DJed remix of Beyoncé’s "Cuff It" bursts speakers around the pool, easily filling the nearby restaurant terrace where I’m finishing my white wine from dinner. Earlier, curators, reporters, and photographers arrived from all over Italy, gathering in an old wood workshop repurposed as an airy art studio about a mile down the road from the center of the villa. They came to watch the final MQBMBQ performance, a raw and powerful piece from ms. z tye called "American Idoll" about trans identity and ancestry.

A party is just getting going around the pool to celebrate, with music from the Florence-based DJ Ruva Mukonoweshuro. The festivities are for the residents and curators, but I sneak in. Everyone is unbridled and wine-drunk. Bodies start splashing into the pool, dancing buoyantly as their long floating clothes create a halo around them. It’s summer, and we’re in Tuscany, celebrating art. I ditch my phone and jump in.

Top Image: Coke Bartrina, Courtesy Villa Lena

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