In Mussolini’s Italy, even interiors were political. That’s according to Furnishing Fascism, a new book by architect, historian, and educator Ignacio G. Galán, published by University of Minnesota Press. Though the book is more of an academic tome than a coffee table page turner, it’s full of interesting facts about the development of not only the Italian nation state but also the unexpected role that modernist decor played in shaping the very idea of what it meant to be Italian.

First, a brief history lesson: Though the peninsula has centuries of ancient history that just about everyone knows—Caesar, gladiators, aqueducts, and so on—Italy wasn’t actually a unified country until a late-19th-century movement called the Risorgimento, when a loose collection of states were finally brought together under the guise of one nation. That left a lot up for interpretation, from what government they’d have to what cities would act as cultural and political capitals. Decades later, as Italy slunk away from World War I in the midst of a financial collapse and unsatisfied with both its rulers and what it had taken away from the war, fascists found a foothold. In 1922, Benito Mussolini came to power, taking brutal control over not only the government but also the press, the schools, and all media.

Part of Mussolini’s vision for Italy centered around producing a totalizing image of Italian identity—not Tuscan or Roman or Sicilian. (As Galán notes in the book, during the Risorgimento one popular saying was, “We have made Italy. Now we need to make the Italians.”) In Mussolini’s opinion, the creation of a national identity could engender patriotism as well as uniformity. If he and his buddies could convince everyone that ideal Italians worked hard, maintained a clean home and healthy body, and believed in the supreme leader above all else, then they could more easily control Italians writ large.

For fascists working within Mussolini’s team, part of that control came through shaping what it meant to have an ideal Italian home, or as 20th-century Italian architect, designer, and Domus founder Gio Ponti called it, “la casa all’italiana.” (For the record, Ponti didn’t work for Mussolini, but he did comply with the systems in place at the time, as did most of the major architects and designers working in the country during the interwar period. Galán writes in the book’s introduction: “The pursuit of furniture’s modernization and stylization was often able to integrate them in support of the regime, even if the projects were not always conceived with this purpose.”) While massive, state-sponsored architectural projects could project fascist dominance on the population as a whole, the government believed in the power of furniture just as much, thinking that showcasing what an ideal Italian living room might look like, for example, could drive the party’s message home through a sort of subtle consumerism. Through furniture and furnishings, the party could reinforce the idea that, to be a good Italian or a good member of the party, you couldn’t live in the past. You needed what was new, now, and what everyone else on your block had, lest you be deemed an outlier.

A uniform set of domestic interiors, the fascists believed, could also unite the Italian peninsula, from rural hamlets to bustling cities. As Galán notes in the book, fascism finds strength in suppressing regional identities, as well as in emphasizing order, hierarchy, and national rebirth. Architects and designers like Ponti and Emilio Lancia used their training to produce pieces like Domus Nova, a mass-produced furniture series designed to update the image of the Italian middle-class home, which fused clean lines, natural materials, and slight nods to the region’s ancient past to push the domestic ideals of discipline, cleanliness, rationality, and productivity. Sold in suites at department store chains like La Rinascente and through catalogs, the pieces were thus highly visible (and covetable) to a wide swath of the population.

While the very idea of modernist, fascist furniture might seem like an oxymoron, given that the movement was by its very nature about international collaboration and progressive views, Italian modernism is, in essence, a blend of what’s best about the modernist movement—efficient design, industrial production, and overall accessibility—and what’s inherently backward about fascist politics.

Italian modernist furniture like that produced by Ponti, as well as Carlo Enrico Rava (one of the principal members of Gruppo 7 and founding figures of Italian rationalism), were clean and functional, but they were also elegant and decoratively refined. Pieces often had particular cultural flourishes, like Italianate nods to ancient Rome or the Renaissance, or the kind of intricate inlay work you’ll never find on a Le Corbusier piece. Their furnishings were built with Mediterranean products like local woods, marble, or leather rather than bent steel or other more modern materials, and events like the Milan Triennale (established in 1923) were framed around the idea that the Italian furniture showcased was more a symbol of national rebirth and superiority than membership in a larger international modernist movement. (In essence, “Sure, this furniture’s modern, but it’s Italian modern.”)

Though the fascist movement was relatively short-lived in Italy, lasting just under 25 years, Italian modernist furniture survives, drawing big bucks in vintage shops and inspiring designers and architects even now. But embedded in each piece of furniture, in each part of a complete set, is a bit of fascist ideology, the suggestion that you could engineer a national identity through everyday life. Through consumption, the fascists argued, there was consent, and for millions of Italians of the era, buying sets of modernist furniture meant they were ready to ride for Italy—and whether they realized it or not.

Photos reproduced from Furnishing Fascism: Modernist Design and Politics in Italy by Ignacio G.Galán. Published by the University of Minnesota Press, 2025.

Top photo: Giuseppe Terragni, Sala Per Direttorio featuring the Benita chair, Casa del Fascio, Cuomo, 1936. Quadrante 35/36 (October 1936). Avery Classics, Avery Architectural & Fine Arts Library, Columbia University.

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