In Residence with

Annalisa Ferraris

A conversation on hosting, space, and seeing the everyday anew.

The plate, the candlelight, the curve of a glass - every element finds its place. An artist working at the intersection of food and visual art, Sydney based Annalisa Ferraris brings the rigour of a fine arts training and the intuition of a sous chef to a practice that treats dinner as composition.

A National Art School honours graduate and Central Saint Martins alumna, she has built a multidisciplinary world that moves between immersive dining, spatial styling, and design. Beyond the niche she's carved for herself, she wears several other hats as an artist and writer, and more recently, opening up her Paddington terrace, Casa Ferraris, for showings, shoots, and intimate gatherings. A character-filled house on Glenmore Road, it has become a kind of living mood board - and the home she lives in, where we met her one afternoon.

We sat down with Annalisa to talk about the art of hosting, the spaces that shape her, and the quiet conviction that the ordinary is always worth a second look.

You've moved between art school in Sydney, Central Saint Martins in London, restaurant kitchens, and now a practice that draws on all of them. Has the path felt like a natural evolution, a series of opportunities you said yes to, or some of both?

Definitely somewhere between the two. I think when you’re creatively wired, you never really stop dreaming. Then you mix that with life experiences, different jobs, different people, and you slowly find yourself on a path shaped by all the small nuances collected along the way. 

I’ve also always liked saying yes to things that push me out of my comfort zone. More often than not, that lands you in uncharted waters- which is usually where the most interesting things happen. I think all of those experiences, from art school to restaurant kitchens, now naturally bleed into one another within the work I make today.

"I’ve also always liked saying yes to things that push me out of my comfort zone. More often than not, that lands you in uncharted waters - which is usually where the most interesting things happen."

Your work has the discipline of an artist's eye paired with the generosity of an Italian upbringing - where food is the gathering point, and the way love enters a room. When you're building a menu for an event, what influences can you trace back to early life?

Oh, that’s a divine description! So much of the way I work with food is deeply informed by my early life. My confidence making fresh pasta and ravioli is entirely attributable to my Nonna Maria, who was training me from the age of three.

Then there’s the sense of occasion and curated execution, which is all my mother, and father. They would host these incredible dinner parties with an extraordinary amounts of food, extensive wines, everyone beautifully dressed, and everything executed immaculately, there would be waiters in bow ties, sometimes even accordion players and not a single hair out of place. I think that sense of generosity, theatre and care naturally found its way into my own work. 

Casa Ferraris is at once a home, a studio, a set, and a gathering place. What does it look like at its most lived-in - and what does it give you that a more conventional workspace couldn’t?

Well, because there always seems to be something on the horizon, I try to keep the house tidy and event-ready at any given moment. In saying that, it is still very much a home - so there are absolutely bed sheets balled up on the dining table and shoes scattered throughout the house from time to time.

What makes it different from a more conventional workspace is that I find the space endlessly inspiring. Each room carries a different feeling, but all of them spark something creatively. I can move from one space to another and begin imagining something entirely different in each. It holds all the things I love in one place - our art collection, design, food, and a garden that feels completely transportive. 

There's a thread through your art and your dining work of finding energy in spaces and objects others might overlook. How does that eye carry through into the way you set a table, or live in a room?

I think in every aspect of life, you have to take the time to notice the little things - and celebrate them. Sometimes I’ll host something in a previously overlooked corner of our house simply for the joy of discovering the space anew.

The same goes for objects. To a guest, they may just seem like curated pieces, but to the owner they can be deeply emotional anchors within the tapestry of a life. My coffee table is the perfect example: a book of photographs I made in my third year at art school sits beneath a Murano ashtray I found at a market in a tiny village in northern Italy. Worlds apart, yet somehow perfectly symbiotic on the table together. 

In a world built on instant content and constant entertaining, you've made a case for the considered gesture - the slow meal, the column written by hand, the dinner that lingers. How do you protect that rhythm, and what does a day off actually look like for you?

I feel incredibly passionate about real connection and genuine engagement. In many ways, I think I protect that rhythm because I feel so strongly opposed to the antithesis of it. The more we consume - and the faster we consume it - the more I think we begin to crave the things that are real: the long meal, the thoughtful gesture, the conversations that open new ideas.

A day off is a funny one. I’m not sure I’ve ever actively had one, and truthfully, I don’t know that I’d want one. I’m very much an ideas machine, so even on quieter days there’s still a constant hum of thoughts arriving - sketches, notes, fragments of writing quickly jotted down. 

What do you hope people carry away from a night at your table? And once dessert is cleared, which room do you find yourself drifting to with friends?

I hope people carry away a sense of connection - to one another, to the food, or even to a cocktail served at the bar. There’s something incredibly special about watching people slowly settle into an evening and truly engage with each other, and what they’re eating.

Once dessert is cleared, we almost always end up on the floor of the living room. In winter, the fire will be on, cocktail in hand, and everyone chatting away long after the night was meant to end. For example, our Baya rug has become the centre of our living room - it’s durable, practical, and now a space where our son can crawl and play, but it still feels considered.

A home reveals itself in the things people choose to keep. Which objects in yours carry the most meaning - the pieces you'd never part with?

Oh, there are so many! All the pieces my husband and I bought together at auction, artworks we collected when we first started dating, Murano treasures brought back from Italy after family holidays. There’s one set of cutlery in particular that I’ll never part with. I made my husband and brother drive all the way to a remote town to visit an antique market in the middle of European winter.

It was pouring with rain and we trudged through the market while the boys begrudgingly followed behind me. I bought the set for an absolute pittance, along with a handful of other treasures, and finally agreed to take them to lunch afterwards. Every time I use that cutlery now, I can almost smell the rain again and taste the pici with Bianco ragù we ate that afternoon. It’s extraordinary how objects can hold memory like that- entire moments suspended inside them. 

Your neighbourhood is one of our favourites in Sydney. Where should we go on our next visit - a few of your go-to spots?

Love that - it’s mine too. Civico 47 is a favourite: unpretentious, consistently good, and the seasonal menu always brings variety. The duck is a forever favourite.

For a cold martini, I love Fred's. Sitting street side and watching people drift by is one of my favourite ways to spend an early evening.

And if you’re in need of a facial, nothing beats FENN - utter heaven. 

Annalisa's Rug

Hugo in Almond