About me

I’m a telecommunications engineer.
Now I design lingerie.
It makes more sense than you’d think.

The signal

For years, I worked with electrical frequencies—how signals travel, where they meet resistance, what distorts them, and what makes them reach the other side intact. I learned that precision isn’t optional. Everything responds to measurable logic. Nothing is accidental.

Then I discovered that the body also emits signals. It tells you exactly where it needs support without compression, where it seeks freedom, where it tolerates the touch of lace and where it rejects it completely.

The problem is, almost no one listens.

The turning point

Inside me, there was a constant search: I wanted to create something with my hands. I tried a thousand things… and I always gave up. Until an illness forced me to stop. To ask myself seriously:

What do I desire? What truly moves me?

That’s when lingerie appeared.

With the naivety of someone looking for shortcuts, I bought the book How to Become a Lingerie Designer, genuinely believing that reading it would be enough.

(Engineer brain: If I understand the theory, I can skip the practice, right?)

Wrong.

No book turns you into a tailor, designer, or seamstress. It took a lot of study, a lot of trial, error, more error, and the kind of resilience that comes from unpicking seams at 2am when they’re completely wrong.

I immersed myself in the technique. I trained in lingerie pattern-making and sewing. I traveled to England to specialize with the best: David Morris at IA Technical. It was the turning point.

The education: 10 years of real bodies

Then I started teaching. For the past 10 years, I’ve been teaching lingerie making, and it gave me something no design school could: access to real bodies and real conversations.

Many people came to my classes because they couldn’t find the lingerie they were looking for. I watched how my patterns fit on their bodies—all different sizes, shapes, needs. We talked endlessly about how things felt, what worked, what didn’t, what they needed but couldn’t find in stores.

Those 10 years taught me that there is no “standard body,” only specific bodies with specific needs. That understanding is built into every pattern I design now.

And I applied the same technical obsession I had learned in engineering.

The method: design for bodies

When I design a piece, I don’t start by asking “How does it look?” I start with “How does it feel?”

I start by touching the fabrics, feeling their elasticity, texture, how they behave on the body.

Then come the structural questions:
How do you support without squeezing?
How do you distribute weight without it digging in?
How do you make Calais lace—technically rigid—adapt to different bodies?

I make the patterns. I test them endlessly—on my body, yes, but knowing every body is different. That’s why I design with adjustable straps, multiple hook positions, and flexibility built into the structure. I want you to decide how your lingerie feels: tighter, looser, however makes you feel like yourself.

I’m not here to tell you how you should wear it. I’m here to give you options so you can make it yours. (Though if you ask, I love advising—10 years of teaching means I have opinions.)

I test patterns until they work. Until a seam disappears. Until the structure allows for personalization without compromising support. Beauty is the result of something functioning across different bodies, not just one.

I don’t understand lingerie as a costume, but as a structure of emotional support. If a seam bothers you, there’s interference. If the fabric isn’t right, the connection with yourself is lost.

This isn’t romantic craftsmanship. It’s engineering applied to intimacy—with respect for your agency over how it feels on your skin.

The lineage (or why this had to happen)

Over time, I discovered a deep connection with my ancestors. And maybe why an ingenieer wanted to sew lingerie.  My paternal surname, Sartori, comes from the Italian for “tailor.” And an even greater surprise: my maternal surname comes from the medieval verb rhabiller—to repair, adjust, mend a garment.

Perhaps it was the confirmation I needed that I was on my path. That legacy is present today in every garment from Sartori Atelier.

What happens in this Atelier

Sartori Atelier is in the center of Barcelona, a city that breaths creativity, that inspired me to take the leap. Everything happens in the same space here: design, pattern-making, prototyping, sewing. There’s no production chain. No intermediaries. Just me, the fabrics, and a pathological inability to settle for “good enough.”

I work in small series or made-to-order. With rescued fabrics, French laces, quality deadstock stretch tulle. Because what I do, can’t be scaled without losing control, and control is the only thing I don’t negotiate.

Every piece that leaves here has passed through my hands. Literally. It’s not a marketing phrase; it’s a technical requirement.