Where in the World is Nicolas Now?

This article is from our first-ever print issue, available for order online now.

The maverick architect and design curator Nicolas Bellavance-Lecompte was never satisfied to follow a traditional career path. From instigating architectural interventions in Berlin as a student, to launching a collective of Canadian designers in Milan in the late 2000s, to opening the cultish Carwan Gallery in Beirut, and most recently, launching a countrywide exhibition in Rwanda called “Interludes,” the lithe, now 45-year-old Bellavance-Lecompte has spent much of his life forging innovative ways to engage with design, almost always in unexpected places.

His most acclaimed and peripatetic project to date, however, is Nomad, the roving collectible design fair that typically attracts the prestigious likes of Nilufar and Rossana Orlandi. Founded in 2017, it has in many ways influenced big-name fairs such as Design Miami and PAD.

This year is an especially big one for Bellavance-Lecompte. In the fall, he will bring Nomad—which in recent years has been based in the jet-set locations of St. Moritz in the winter and Capri in late spring—to the UAE, and to the Hamptons in summer 2026. During the winter, he is curating a first group show of West African designers at the Palais de Lomé in Togo. By fall, he’ll also be launching Palmento Floresco, his own brand of olive oil produced on his farm in Sicily, where he will soon begin hosting design residencies. That’s in addition to several projects currently in development in the Global South. “I often feel that I’ve lived ten lives,” he says.

Looking back at your childhood, what can you now see that clearly influenced you and the directions you chose?
I was born in Montreal. My dad was a lawyer and judge, and my mom taught visual arts before becoming an educator working with handicapped students and helping them to assimilate into work and society. So I grew up between these two very different influences. I also had a grandmother who was a trained pilot and painter, and very much into the art world, who deeply influenced me.

My parents always told me that since I was a child, I had this sort of fascination for the unknown, for adventure. I think I’ve always had this urge to be a cultural explorer. I don’t know how to define it, but in a way, I’ve always been compelled to question things, to go deeper, to explore and travel. Everywhere I travel, whether it’s to East Africa, North Africa, India or the Middle East, I am always trying to understand different systems of thinking and creativity and how everything works. Also, my house in Canada where I grew up was kind of a representation platform for a very multidisciplinary and super-eclectic way of doing things. When I was 16, I was doing pop-up events selling secondhand clothing that I was collecting with my friends, or making movies. I was always open to meeting new people and hosting parties. It’s been my motto since then; my home has always been open to everyone.

What and where did you study?
I studied architecture at University of Montreal for two years, followed by a move to Italy to study Italian and finish architecture in Venice at the IUAV. While there, the dean had just launched a visual-arts section inside the IUAV, and he invited a great lineup of artists like Joseph Kosuth, Olafur Eliasson, Tobias Rehberger for workshops, and we were only a few dozen of students in the workshops. It was amazing. Afterward, I spent time in Austria learning German before relocating to Berlin, where I was based for five years, working on a master’s degree in interdisciplinary creation. At the same time, I was working with the artist Thomas Demand and collaborating with Mykita, the eyewear brand. In 2008, I moved to Milan and have been based there on and off ever since.

Of all your earliest experiences, what do you think influenced how you work now?
It was my time in Berlin, studying Interdisciplinaeres Gestalten, which means “interdisciplinary creation,” at Kunsthochschule Berlin Weißensee. It was a mix of everything, and for my thesis I worked on an urban project, using dismissed areas of the city as a platform, inviting international creatives to do installations. I can see how that was a spark of what I’m doing now. In the meantime, I met a lot of artists, including Olafur, with whom I had maintained contact, and others like Jeppe Hein and Thomas Demand, who was Olafur’s neighbor. He said to me, “Oh, since you’re done with your studies, you should come and help me to build a forest for the project we are doing for the Biennale in Venice.” I was like, “Okay, why not?” So I started to design and build a forest for him. Afterwards, I did a few other projects for him. This is when I discovered that design was a place that was a dynamic area between architecture and visual art. For me, it was a discipline that offered more freedom and possibilities.

What was your first big design project?
After I left Berlin and moved to Milan, around 2008, I decided to start a collective of Canadian designers that we called Samare. I have been to every Salone in Milan since 2001, and back then I was seeing how countries like the Netherlands were doing so well by marketing their design talents together as a group. I thought, “It’s so sad that in Canada designers are not promoted internationally and craft is dying. Is there a way to revitalize traditional crafts with a contemporary perspective?” So that’s how I started my very first project, by putting together five designers in our collective. And then I would lead the projects and say, “Let’s work with rawhide weaving. Or let’s work with the ceinture fléchée technique,” which is a way of weaving old belts that were being used on the fur coats of hunters; it’s very traditional as well. We were trying to dig into Canadian cultural history, and to have a new take on craft to valorize the work of the last artisans who were still working with those techniques, often women living on Indian reservations. So we did a full collection of rawhide and steel furniture that we presented in Milan in 2008. It was a huge success. Matter gallery in New York also loved the collection and Jamie Gray said, “Guys, you should be part of my American Design exhibition for ICFF week”. So we had our first show in New York after this. That’s how everything got started. I started to understand that what I really loved to do was to develop and curate the first creative pitch, as well as the overseeing of exhibitions. I always liked the whole creative process associated with the show itself, developing a scenography, working on a setup, and putting things together. I realized that was essentially the work of a gallerist, and so that is when I decided to open a gallery.

Why did you open a gallery in Beirut?
I knew right away that I couldn’t open a gallery in Milan. It’s so obvious and boring since many galleries were already operating there. I wanted to do something more unique, linked to who I am and explore new things. At that time, I was traveling often to the Middle East. I was super passionate about Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, and Egypt especially. The Levant was, for me, a very exciting place in the world, and I had many friends there. Then at a certain point, I was talking to a friend of mine, Pascale Wakim, an architect, and she told me, “Well, you know what? If you want, we could do a project together on collectible design in Beirut.” I thought it would be the best concept ever to create a platform that involved collaborating with local designers, craftsmen and inviting international designers to come and be inspired. Nothing had been done yet in terms of contemporary design as a gallery in the Middle East, so it was great. We had a compelling story to attract international collectors. Carwan was born. That was in 2011. It was a very open platform, and we supported some amazing projects with both known and less-known designers. For example, I invited Vincenzo De Cotiis to Beirut, and we did an mind-blowing project together that we presented in Miami in 2013.

Tell me more about the project…
It was called “Déchainement.” Basically, we decided to do a collection of objects that we would present in Beirut and Miami. It was the first time Vincenzo was in Beirut, so I took him everywhere to discover the city, post-civil war. He was fascinated by the industrial and modern architecture that was abandoned, all half-bombed. He took a series of beautiful photos that he used as a starting point. In terms of material, he became very inspired by the layering that he observed in the urban fabric of Beirut. So we developed a series using various materials, from fiberglass to oxidized brass, and layered them. My favorite work of the collection was a chandelier produced by Venini that was influenced by the process of glass oxidation. When we presented that collection in Miami in 2013, it’s not for nothing that Loïc and Julien from Carpenters Workshop landed at my booth, and their mouths wide open saying, “Wow, what’s this?” They signed him the year after.

When did you conceive of Nomad? Was that before you left Beirut in 2019?
Yes. In 2016, I met Giorgio Pace for the first time, who was my business partner at Nomad. I had been traveling the world with Carwan, to many fairs between Dubai and New York, Basel, Miami, and on and on. I thought that there was something missing: a more intimate fair that traveled, and that had a more laid-back format that would spark dialogue between architecture and design. To create a sort of exclusive experience, where you can really have time to exchange with collectors, and create relationships in a more meaningful way. I was chatting with other galleries and friends of mine at the fairs, like Fumi. I asked them, “Guys, would you be interested if we would do a group exhibition in some palazzo in Florence? And we invite all of our clients so we can have quality time in a unique architectural context?” Everyone always answered, “Yes, please. It’s so nice to be in a beautiful place, and to have time to organize dinners, and to take care of our best clients somehow.” Then I met Giorgio, and he told me he wanted to do a similar format. That’s how Nomad started. We did the first edition in 2017 in Monaco, in the former Villa la Vigie of Karl Lagerfeld. Then we continued with editions in St. Moritz, in Venice, in Capri, and that was just the appetite to seek new locations. I’m traveling next week to UAE to explore potential synergies to bring Nomad there and also to Jaipur. 

I think that what you did then was quite pioneering, to take contemporary design objects out of the white walls of a traditional gallery space and put them in dialogue with historical spaces.
Yes, I would say that’s true. I mean, look at Design Miami, what they did in Paris, and even in Los Angeles, their last two editions. It’s very close to the Nomad concept. I feel like PAD is also doing a similar operation in St-Tropez. They want to exhibit in an historic palace. That’s good to see that sometimes a new experimental project like Nomad can shake up big entities somehow, and to change the model of doing things.

At the same time, you continued to travel. What has been, more recently, the place that has inspired you?
In many ways, Siwa. It’s an oasis in Egypt that the designer India Mahdavi introduced me to. I went for the first time just as a visitor to discover Adrère Amellal, a project that India had been working on with the owner, Mounir Neamatalla. When I was there, I felt so inspired. Mounir said to me, “You know, here, Nicolas, you can let your creativity free. If you want to do something, you are welcome.” I decided to come back, and Mounir proposed that I work with him  on the revitalization of Siwa’s old town, Shali. This particular project was more about using design to solve social and economic issues. We explored how to reactivate the abandoned medina and make it attractive for the locals. So I did all this research about programming with Mounir and his team, and for two years I was traveling there very often with Miles, the son of India. We were working on this project together. For me, this has been probably one of my most revelatory projects.

Even if we managed to rebuild only four small adobe buildings, because things work so slowly there. But just the experience of being with the local population in the desert! This cultural exchange was so special for me. Also the exercise of working with the artisans that has a completely different cultural heritage and thinking about how to make things. Art and design in Siwa is something completely different than in the West. I think working here was probably one of the most interesting cultural challenges that I’ve had in my life, and the one I love the most. It’s what ultimately led me to my last projects in Tunisia and Rwanda, along with a project with the Botswana designer Peter Mabeo.

Tell me more about Peter.
I met him over 12 years ago in Milan, at Salone. We stayed in touch and were always looking for a way to collaborate with each other. He had his own company Mabeo, producing furniture, and was collaborating with people like Patricia Urquiola and Jasper Morrison. At one point he said to me, “Okay, why don’t you curate a project for me that we could present at Salone?” But then I told him, “You know what Peter? I don’t feel like doing another project for Salone del Mobile.” I was feeling that things should no longer be structured in a Western-centric way. I feel that it’s not what is needed in this world anymore. For me it was more interesting to organize a way to allow people to discover Botswana culture and to go there instead of asking Peter to come to Milan and fund a big space to organize a presentation. “Let’s organize an experience in Botswana.” Because at the end of the day, during Salone or at any presentation, you have maybe 50 people that really matter that come to see your exhibition. Maybe five key journalists, 10 buyers, and maybe 10 collectors, and maybe five museum curators. So I thought of another model: why don’t we invite these people to Botswana for 10 days? It’ll cost you less to fly everyone there than to rent a space in Milan, and they will remember the experience for all of their lives. I thought it’s such a better way to communicate and present his work in its original context, and then you could potentially also develop a local hospitality concept towards this.

Because once this story is published and people will start talking about it, there will be others who will say, “Okay, maybe I want to go to Botswana.” Not just to see the animals and to do a safari in the Okavango Delta, horse riding, but: “I want to discover local creativity and to understand what’s being produced there and do this tour of the artisans and the villages and to understand the country’s vernacular architecture, and so on.” So Peter liked the idea and we worked together on a program to do a design rally in Botswana and to develop different sites. We still haven’t managed to find the right funding to finish developing it, but I’m sure it will happen eventually.

And this idea led to “Interlude,” the project you curated in Rwanda that uses design and culture to make positive social change, correct?
Yes. I think that’s exactly what I wanted to bring to Rwanda, the idea that we don’t need to take Rwandan designers and artists to the West in order for them to be recognized, but we can also do it the other way around. Bring experts and attention there and valorize their heritage and work, using what they have locally. One of the project founders, Cristina Romelli, is a dear friend. I met her in Abu Dhabi at the fair in 2011. We were sitting next to each other on the plane. She has also worked on different projects linked to art and design in the UAE. She fell in love with Rwanda and met the other founder Bonita Mutoni on a trip, and they became good friends. She said, “I want to do something for this country”.

Then she reached out to me and said, “Well, you are, I believe, the perfect curator I could find for this project.” And I mentioned to her the project I had in mind with Peter, and she said, “A project in this spirit would be amazing. It’s exactly what Rwanda needs.” So we traveled the whole country together from north to south, east to west. For me it was important to visit designers, artists, all of the museums in the country and all the structures that could be potential venues for exhibitions. I had basically carte blanche.

I selected three sites and structured the whole exhibition under the concept of memory, partly because the memory of the genocide against the Tutsi that happened in the 90s is still very alive. The trauma of this event is still very much alive and discussed, which is a healthy thing because many countries tend to bury their dark chapters of history, although the best way to move on is to talk about it and keep the memory alive. This was important content for the artists to engage with. So that’s why I came up with the theme of reconnecting memory and to bring together the idea of past, present, and future, and to integrate the idea of precolonial heritage, which is especially complex in Rwanda, because the genocide at the end of the day was a sort of result of colonial division of the population imposed by the Belgians. So I decided to divide the exhibition and venues into three parts: the past, the present, and the future. The “past” exhibition was set within the former capital of the precolonial era, which was Nyanza, where the last king had his palace. That’s where the first day of the exhibition happened, and where I commissioned works from four different artists and designers, who came up with very interesting site-specific works to be shown in the context of the residence of their former king.

The second site, the “present,” was the presidential palace where the president was killed the first day of the genocide. His plane was shot down, and it crashed in his own garden. The debris of the aircraft is still in the back of the house. And apparently, many terrible things happened in that house during the year of the genocide. This location is so traumatic to many Rwandans that several of the artists I invited to do site-specific work there refused to be involved in the project. So it was very challenging because I had some drop-outs, sadly, because they didn’t want to engage with this building. But I stuck with it because although the genocide happened 30 years ago exactly last year, it is still part of the present culture, and it represents this fear. So for me it was important to create an exhibition that could reconcile the local population with this building. My strategy was to say, “Why don’t we work with the artists and creatives to ask them to create talismanic works that could help the visitors to be protected in their journey to rediscover this house so that they belong to them?”

You’re bringing some of this work this year to Milan?
The idea was to present the exhibition at the Milan International Triennale, creating a pavilion for Rwanda in response to the global theme of Inequalities. Unfortunately, due to political unrest in the region, the project did not receive the expected funding and approval. However, I remain hopeful that we’ll soon be able to bring this exhibition abroad for the artists involved.

What would be a future dream project for you?
I actually have a few dream projects that have just been confirmed. I’ve been appointed general curator of the next Design Biennale of Algeria in 2026, and I’m genuinely excited about it. It’s exactly the kind of project that energizes me: the challenge of something entirely new, with the opportunity to explore Algiers and the unfamiliar horizons of southern Algeria. Speaking of new territories, I was also recently commissioned by the Palais de Lomé museum in Togo to curate one of the first retrospectives dedicated to West African design, a region I’ve been researching intensively over the past three years. The talent emerging from the region is extraordinary, and I’m truly excited for this exhibition scheduled to open at the end of the year. Finally, there’s my Sicilian project, Palmento Floresco. I’m restoring an 18th-century fortified farm, which I hope will eventually become a creative residency — a space to host designers and have all sorts of conversations.