What You Haven’t Seen, Until Now – The Journey Behind Zarifi Interiors

Every collection begins long before the products arrive on the website. It begins with research, planning, maps, markets, conversations, travel, coffee stops, workshops and the hope of discovering something special.

When I launched Zarifi Interiors, my focus was on building those collections. I photographed the finished pieces, wrote the product descriptions and worked out how to bring everything together into an online shop.

Until now, the sourcing journeys themselves have largely stayed in the background. This time, I want the journey to be part of the story too.

Every collection starts with a question: where might I find truly handmade pieces that are yet to be discovered?

I'm drawn to pieces that feel thoughtfully made and have a story behind them. My aesthetic is centred around natural, neutral tones, understated forms and a slightly rustic quality, but always with a sense of refinement. I'm not looking for pieces that shout for attention, but for things that feel quietly beautiful and considered. Sometimes that story is rooted in traditional techniques or local materials; sometimes it's found in the maker's inspiration, the forms they create or the influences they've drawn from elsewhere. I'm looking for homeware that feels distinctive rather than mass-produced, and for makers whose work has something of their own voice in it.

Long before I book a flight, I'm already researching towns, makers and workshops, trying to understand whether a place might hold the kind of collection I'm hoping to discover. 

I start online, looking at independent makers, their work and the things that inspire them. I find artisan markets, craft centres, villages known for particular traditions, clusters of studios or individual makers tucked away in places I hadn't previously considered. I look at what a region is known for – whether that's ceramics, textiles, woodwork or something completely unexpected – and gradually start to build a picture of what might be there. 

There's no simple answer to what happens when I get there. No two sourcing days have really looked the same. Sometimes I arrive with a carefully researched list of places I'd like to visit. Other times, the research simply gives me a starting point and I see where it takes me.

In Poland, for example, I'd contacted a ceramic maker I'd discovered online before travelling and arranged to visit her. I found her studio in an area north of Wrocław, across the bridge, where several other studios were clustered together. I spent an afternoon making my way between the ones I'd found during my research, while also discovering others I hadn't come across online.

The following day, I returned to the maker's studio on my own. I'd left my family at the hotel spa and walked there carrying an empty suitcase, with the hotel's towels and bedding packed inside to use as padding for the pieces. 

While I went back to the studio, my family enjoyed the hotel spa.

After agreeing wholesale prices and selecting a collection, I carefully packed the pieces into the suitcase. Rather than drag a pottery-filled suitcase back across Wrocław's cobbled streets, I took an Uber back to the hotel.

My only real regret was not bringing a bigger suitcase. There was one large handmade platter, around 38cm across, with a beautiful deep turquoise and sea-blue glaze and an intricately textured rim. I wish I could have brought it home, but it simply wasn't going to fit. Perhaps it gives me an excuse to go back for it.

A handmade platter I had to leave behind in Wrocław.

Prague was completely different.

I'd found a workshop online that I wanted to visit, but when I arrived it was closed. I was due to fly home the following day, so I tried again the next morning with our suitcases. We stopped for a coffee break in a nearby café, where a lady who spoke English kindly agreed to enquire by phone about their opening times for me.

But it wasn't to be.

Instead, I came across the Eliášův obchod ("Elias shop"). I went inside and discovered that the little shop also served as a supported workplace for people with disabilities.

The Eliášův obchod ("Elias shop"), where I discovered the mugs that became the Prague Collection

I hadn't planned to visit the shop at all, but I ended up carefully choosing the mugs that would become what I now call the Prague Collection.

The Prague Collection 2025

Interestingly, the collection doesn't necessarily look like traditional Czech pottery. Some of the forms were inspired by Chinese and Japanese ceramics, while the handles were sourced from Indonesia. They became part of the Prague Collection simply because that was where I discovered them.

That is part of what I find interesting about sourcing. A collection isn't necessarily a representation of the place I've travelled to. It's a collection of things I've discovered there—pieces that have caught my eye for all sorts of reasons.

Lisbon was different again.

Campo Santa Clara ceramics, January 2026

I'd planned to visit an artisan market during the trip, but heavy rain meant that it was cancelled.

I still found some wonderful makers and studios while I was there, although many were more established boutiques rather than the quieter, less-discovered makers I tend to look for. 

I came home without a collection.

But I didn't come home feeling that the trip had been wasted. There were still plenty of makers, places and possibilities that I hadn't had time to explore, and I'd like to return one day with more time to do so.

And perhaps that's the thing about sourcing: there isn't really a formula for it.

d'Orey Azulejos, a tile shop I discovered in Lisbon.

I can research for weeks before I leave, but once I'm there, things rarely unfold exactly as expected. A workshop might be closed. A market might be cancelled. A maker I hadn't planned to visit might turn out to be the most interesting discovery of the trip.

Sometimes I come home with a suitcase full of pieces.

Sometimes I come home with a list of places to return to.

And sometimes, like Lisbon, I come home empty-handed.

Next week, I'll be travelling to Murcia in south-east Spain.

This time, I have ten days to explore, a notebook full of plans, a map covered in notes and a growing list of places I'd like to visit. But however much I research before I leave, I know that some of the best parts of the journey won't be on that list yet.

For the first time, I want to document the sourcing trip as it unfolds—not just the pieces I bring home, but the places I visit, the people I meet and the discoveries along the way.