Emmanuel Esposito is an Italian craftsman and engineer, best known for his precision knifemaking and collaborations in high watchmaking. With a background in mechanical design and a deep passion for craftsmanship, he has developed innovative techniques, including his patented double C-lock and intricate mother-of-pearl inlays, blending modern materials with traditional artistry. In 2018, he collaborated with independent watchmaker Urwerk, bridging the worlds of knifemaking and horology. His work has earned widespread recognition, redefining the intersection of mechanics, aesthetics, and meticulous finishing.

Emmanuel Esposito: I started working with my grandfather in his workshop when I was six. He taught me the basics, but at one point, I was intrigued by the idea of making my own knife. When I started, I found an old blade that was all rusty, and the handle needed replacing, so I used that as a starting point. I cleaned the blade, ground it, and attached a new handle. For my next attempt, I started from scraps, starting from a piece of steel and putting it together. Of course, it was still a simple fixed blade without a mechanism and lacked the fit and finish of my later knives, but that is how I started.

EE: Well, it depends. I started with fixed blades for hunters, intended for more rigorous use. Of course, tolerances are always important, but you don't need the most sophisticated equipment when starting. But, like any job, you can always find ways to make it more precise and apply better finishing.

People often talk about microns, but achieving five-micron precision requires a highly sophisticated workshop, including strict air quality and humidity control. The real challenge is measurement. Holding a piece in your hand for a few minutes can cause slight changes in its size at the micron level. So maintaining a 10-micron precision, which is what I do now, is tricky, especially for my mosaic inlays, the fit and finish, and the mechanism. In that regard, knifemaking has similarities to watchmaking.

EE: Initially, I didn't know what I could do as I started quite young. Naturally, you start with what you can make; the easier alternative is to create fixed blades. But there's no mechanism involved, so when you develop your skills, you can move into integrals. When making integrals, there is more work and milling of the steel, requiring more time spent on finishing. But back then, collectors appreciated integrals, so that’s where the demand was.

Around the time I was 17 years old, I decided I wanted to get into folding knives, and from that point on, I never looked back. Of course, I started with a mechanism that other people were making, a mechanism you can find in all industrial knives, like the liner and back lock. After that, in 2010, I created my first locking mechanism and got a patent for it. From that point on, I only used my mechanism.

EE: I attended my first knife show in Milan in 2001 as a visitor. While there, I asked the guild president if I could join. To exhibit at the show, you first had to be part of the guild, which required passing an exam. A committee reviewed your knives, and you had to prepare five knives to present. They evaluated them based on strict criteria to ensure they met the required quality standards. The following summer, in 2002, when I was 19, I took the exam and was officially accepted into the guild. By the fall, I was exhibiting at the show for the first time.

EE: The next youngest knifemakers were around 35 to 40 years old, with some makers as old as 80. As you can imagine, gaining credibility wasn't easy—there were doubts about whether I was making the knives myself or if someone in my family was helping me. I remember showcasing around 10 fixed-blade knives displayed on presentation pillows that my mother had embroidered. However, few people stopped by my table since I wasn't well-known in the knife-collecting community. I didn't sell anything, which was disappointing, but it motivated me to push myself further.

EE: Yeah, my approach combined what I wanted to do and what I saw the market was demanding. For the next show, I prepared a folding knife and made some sales. That already felt like a big success because it covered all my expenses. At the time, I was still in school, so I didn't necessarily need a job, but it was gratifying to see someone appreciate my work enough to open their wallet and buy it.

EE: Not anymore. Since COVID, I haven't attended any knife shows. The last one I went to was the Art Knife Invitational in San Diego. The Art Knife Invitational was considered the best knife show in the world. Unlike other events, it was strictly invite-only—just 25 makers recognised as the very best in the industry. The collectors who attended were also there by invitation, making it an incredible event. Getting in was extremely difficult, and I was the first Italian ever invited, and the next youngest maker was probably in his 50s. That alone was crazy—it was a defining moment for me, and in a way, it felt like a major milestone in my career. I last participated in 2019 when the show had already changed after the original owner had passed away.

EE: At the same time, my collaboration with Urwerk was opening doors to a whole new world of collectors. It allowed me to reach buyers beyond the traditional knife shows. Even before working with Urwerk, I had envisioned bridging the worlds of high-end knife collecting and watch collecting. Many clients were already watch collectors, and I saw the potential early on. Since then, I've focused on that path. Honestly, with my long waiting list, I never needed to return to knife shows. At those events, I kept seeing the same collectors—people who already knew me and my work. By then, I had already built a select group of clients I wanted to work with, so returning to the shows wasn't the best use of my time.

EE: I first heard about Urwerk many years ago when one of my clients showed me one of the two prototypes they had made. It was during a dinner one night, and that was my first introduction to their work. I was immediately drawn to what they were doing. Then, after I created my first Scarab money clip, I received a message on Instagram. It was from someone working at Urwerk, asking if I'd be interested in collaborating with the brand. At first, I wasn't sure if it was real—you never know with Instagram! But as it turned out, this person was a knife collector had seen my work in person at a knife show. After being invited to the 2018 SIHH, I met Felix Baumgartner and Martin Frei at the Urwerk booth. I brought my knives with me, along with my portfolio filled with photos of my work. I wanted them to see and feel my craftsmanship rather than talk about it. This meeting began of my collaboration with the brand to develop the concept and make it a reality.

EE: For example, this year, during the week of Watches & Wonders 2025, I'll rent a place in downtown Geneva with three other friends. I'd rather invest my time and money in promoting my work amongst the watch community, where most people don't know who I am and don't know my work, than spend the same time and money going to a knife show where almost everyone knows who I am.

Unfortunately, the knife world doesn't have the same capability of promoting itself, thinking that without much promotional effort, people will naturally find knife artisans on their own accord. There are other challenges as well. For example, with social media, Instagram occasionally blocks images or videos of knives, thinking this is a weapon, not an art form. I'm having a chat with them, but you never know if it's a computer or a real person on the other end.

EE: If you can recognise a creation without looking at the name, that's one of the most essential things an artisan can achieve. Most knifemakers still stamp or mark their blades with their names. And, like everyone else, I used to do the same. But then I had a conversation with a collector—one of the most prominent knife collectors in the world. He told me: "Emmanuel, I think you have your style—not just in the design, but in the way you combine materials and finishing. Your work is instantly recognisable." That stuck with me. That's why, in 2011, I removed my name from my knives and replaced it with my new logo hidden behind two scales. Of course, it's not entirely gone—aside from my logo, my name is still hidden between the two scales. If you look closely, you'll find it. And as you said, you should be able to spot the maker just by looking at it, just like with a painting – you shouldn't have to look for the signature to understand who painted it. If you can achieve this, you've created a distinct style – which is very important for a maker.

EE: To me, it becomes like a job. I don't want to have a job; this is not a job. This is my passion! That's what I like to do. I come to my workshop every morning. I don't even know if it's Sunday or Saturday. I don't even look at the calendar. I do what I like to do when I want to do it. For example, we’re now in mushroom hunting season. I also enjoy going fishing when I feel like it. That, to me, is the most important part, and all the money in the world can’t buy the freedom to do what I like in the way that I like to do it. And as you said, when you scale up and hire people or pay somebody to do a job for you, you then need to change your schedule and your routine. Then you have pressure, and then maybe you do something, and it is not working, and you lose money, and then you have... no, no, no. I don't care for that.

Likewise, when I first presented my patented locking mechanism at the Chicago show in 2010, I brought a prototype with the new mechanism to show. Several companies contacted me about industrial production, but it's too complicated to make it work, and I only did it for myself, for the challenge and to feel a craftsman's pride. Of course, like in watchmaking, others can attempt to copy you, but like anything, collectors recognise which creation is the original and desire that. Others may make mechanisms of their own, but like in anything, if someone is going to be as good as you or better, there's nothing you can do about it, so you might as well only focus on yourself.

EE: There's no better or worse—it's just two different things. Yes, they're both knives, but it's like comparing a Derek Pratt or a Daniel Roth creation to a Quartz watch. They serve different purposes and exist in completely different worlds.

Honestly, I don't think any of my buyers have ever used one of my knives—not even to cut something—even though they could. That's not the point. They appreciate the craftsmanship, the finishing, the design, and the mechanism. In a way, it's the opposite of what a knife is traditionally made for. Take a dagger, for example. Some might look at it and think, "Oh, it's dangerous," because a dagger was originally meant for stabbing, not cutting. That's its historical function. But that's the last thing anyone would ever do with one of my knives. That's not why I make them.

When I work with steel, I don't think about its combat properties. I focus on its artistic qualities—how well it holds the mechanism and allows for the best finishing. My concern isn't whether it's optimised for use as a weapon because—even if you call it that—it's not the right word for what I create.

As for art, I see it more as craftsmanship. I consider artists to be other people, not myself. But in the end, history will decide. If, decades or centuries from now, my work still holds meaning—if it still resonates—then maybe, by that measure, I was an artist. Otherwise, being a great craftsman is more than enough.

EE: Yeah, it's all about the light. When you think about it, everything we see exists because of how light interacts with it—even the most minor details. In watchmaking, especially with anglage and other finishing techniques, the practice originally had a technical purpose. Initially, these finishing techniques weren't just for aesthetics—they were done to prevent dust accumulation and keep components clean. But over time, finishing became an art form. When working with extremely slim components, achieving three-dimensionality requires manipulating light. That's why you see a polished bevel next to a satin-finished flat surface—it creates contrast, depth, and shadow, enhancing the perceived volume of something minute. Even in the tiniest space, these subtle shifts in light bring out a true 3D effect.

EE: I use mother-of-pearl not just for aesthetics—it's because of its stability. Early on, I experimented with bones and other natural materials. They worked fine for fixed-blade knives, but when it came to folders, especially those with extremely tight tolerances, they posed a problem. Even if I polished them perfectly smooth, they would absorb humidity, causing microscopic expansion or contraction. This might not seem like much, but when you're dealing with precision at the micron level, you can feel the slightest shift.

Mother-of-pearl, however, is the only natural material that remains stable because it doesn't absorb humidity. That means if I craft a piece to be perfectly smooth today, it will stay that way over time. Even in my mosaic inlays, where multiple small pieces are fitted together, you can run your fingertip over the surface and it will feel seamless. If I used bones or other natural materials, the individual pieces would shift over time, and you'd feel the edges.

Of course, mother-of-pearl is also beautiful, but it has a limitation: it comes in only three colours—white, yellow, and black. If I used it the same way for every knife, they would all start to look the same, which would be boring. That's why I began to think differently. I realised that mosaic inlays using mother-of-pearl have been done for centuries. In Torino, at the Royal Armory, there are cabinets, swords, and knives with intricate pearl inlays that date back generations. But I wanted to take it further—beyond arranging shapes and colours.

I discovered that mother-of-pearl reacts to light in a unique way. Unlike other materials, its colour shifts depending on the angle of reflection. That's when I thought: "What if I could control not just the shape of each inlaid piece but also how it reflects light?" If I could achieve that, I wouldn't just be working with colour and movement—creating an almost holographic effect. The idea was that as you tilt the knife, some pieces would light up while others would darken, and then, as you move it again, they would switch places.

At first, it was just an experiment—I wanted to see if it was possible. The first piece I made took me a long time, and honestly, I had no idea what I was doing. I put the pieces together and was happy with how they looked. But then, when I studied it more closely, I realised something: "Why is this part lighting up while this part stays dark?" It was beautiful but also random—there was no structure or intentional design behind it. That's when I told myself: "If I take the time to select each piece carefully—not just for shape, but for the exact way it reflects light—maybe I can take this to another level."

So I started experimenting—tilting each piece, flipping it, adjusting its orientation—until I found the perfect combination. That's when I realised that by carefully controlling these reflections, I could create something truly dynamic—something that looks alive when you hold it in your hands.

EE: Totally the United States. When it comes to art knives, that's where they were born, and within the U.S., the epicentre is California. The second most important market is Italy. I remember, more than 20 years ago, Italy had some very significant collectors, some of the biggest in the world. There were also collectors across the rest of Europe, but the U.S. has always been the strongest market. If you want to be successful as an art knife maker and make it your career, you must go to the U.S. knife shows. When I went to California, I met many collectors who refused to travel outside of the state for shows. Even if there was an event in New York, they wouldn't go—maybe because it was winter, and they're used to shorts and T-shirts year-round in California. But that's what made California such a strong market—the collectors stayed local, and the demand remained high.

In the 1990s, Japan also had a huge knife market, but I wasn't involved then. The thing with Japanese collectors is that they are very traditional in their tastes. They've always favoured a small group of American makers, some of whom have since passed away or are now in their 80s. And then, most of the living treasures in Japan can only be sold to Japanese buyers, like the stuff that cannot go outside Japan. So that limits the market a lot for them. But that's why I'm not focused on selling knives to traditional knife collectors in Japan. I aim to sell to watch collectors in Japan—people who may have never even seen a high-end knife before. This happened to me during IAMWATCH 2024 in Singapore—a collector who had never considered knives saw my work, understood the connection between the watch world and my craftsmanship and decided to buy one. That's what expands the market—reaching people who don't already belong to the knife world.