Andre Montana remembers the weight of the glasses before he remembers their shape. A pair of French frames from the 1960s, given to him by his grandfather, worn smooth by time. “Something crafted decades ago, but still mechanically perfect and also emotionally magnetic, nostalgic,” he recalls. The appeal was not fashion. It was the sense that the object had been made with care, intention, and permanence. “Almost feeling the hands that crafted them.”
That early encounter stayed with him, long before eyewear became his profession. Montana grew up in Paris, absorbing its codes of proportion and elegance, but his career began far from ateliers and studios. He trained as an automotive and aerospace engineer, working in environments governed by tolerance, calibration, and precision. “Working in automotive and aerospace meant every micron mattered, every material had purpose,” he says. The discipline suited him, but it did not contain him. “I found myself sketching eyewear during layovers and late nights,” he adds, imagining forms that were as deliberate as aircraft components, but capable of carrying something more personal.
The question of whether engineering was enough did not arrive suddenly. It accumulated. Montana recalls sitting in a laboratory, surrounded by precision instruments, asking himself: “Is this really the only thing I’ll build with my life? I had stability, yes. But no poetry. And that absence started to ache.”
A brief detour into a fashion department clarified what had already been forming. “My heart came alive, it was fate.” Still, he resisted immediacy. Instead of resigning, he left to think. “I decided to travel first to clear my mind. I could always come back to engineering.” That period became formative rather than indulgent. “I had to grow up. I lived a little, worked a little.”
The moment of certainty arrived not in solitude, but among makers. At an optical trade show, Montana realised that his ideas could exist beyond sketches. “I realised I really could make my designs real, something timeless, with engineering that also served emotion, not just convenience.” Some of those designs, he notes, were conceived years earlier and are only now entering production.
Eyewear, for Montana, is not a styling device. It is a daily object that carries meaning disproportionate to its size. His frames draw on architecture, travel, and memory, often in ways that are not immediately visible. Monte Carlo references Mediterranean villas and vintage cars. “There’s a subtle line that runs along the brow line that mimics the archways of a Monaco terrace,” he explains, while the temple tips recall automotive tailfins. Almaz takes a different approach. “It’s our most sculptural frame, inspired by brutalist geometry and Cold War-era minimalism.” The name is literal. “Almaz means ‘diamond’ in Russian.”
“The details … aren’t about showing off,” he says. “They’re there for the wearer, like a hidden lining in a tailored suit.” Design, in this sense, becomes intimate rather than declarative.
Travel continues to shape his work. The Positano collection emerged during time spent on the Amalfi Coast. “I was drinking espresso and watching sunlight bouncing off the water,” Montana recalls. The colours followed naturally: citrus ambers, ocean greens, softened rectangular lenses inspired by postcard windows. The collection’s emotional anchor, however, came from a passing moment. “A local woman in her seventies, passing by in a vintage silk dress.” Her presence stayed with him. “She wasn’t dressing for attention, but for history.” That observation became the collection’s guiding principle. “That’s the spirit of Positano: timelessness without effort.”
Dubai, where Montana later based his brand, offered a different kind of education. He describes the city as a place of layered contrasts, where inherited craft and ambitious modernity coexist. One drive through an older neighbourhood at golden hour proved decisive. Watching sunlight sharpen the edges of glass and steel, he saw how clarity and warmth could exist together. That tension informed Santorini, a frame with oval lenses held by slim, 24-carat plated temples with crystal accents. “A frame isn’t just worn,” he says. “It’s inhabited by light, space, and intention of the wearer.”
Living in the Middle East deepened his understanding of balance. “The region’s history of intricate detailing, architectural geometry, and reverence for materials has deeply influenced my design philosophy.” He points to mashrabiya screens, traditional dress, and the coexistence of richness and restraint. “Opulence with restraint, new and old, rich and simple.” These ideas, he suggests, align with both his Moroccan ancestry and his French upbringing.
Recognition arrived without altering his approach. During a private showroom presentation in Los Angeles ahead of Coachella, Montana brought prototypes almost as an afterthought. Beyoncé’s team, sourcing pieces for the Cowboy Carter tour, selected his frames. “It was surreal, and humbling,” he recalls. “Even the smallest details, when made with care and vision, can speak louder than you ever imagined.”
“Luxury is not just in material, but in intention.” His advice to younger designers resists urgency. “Don’t rush to build noise. Hold your integrity. Build something that matters, even in silence.”
Next comes an all-acetate collection, produced using what he describes as “the finest acetate in the world,” alongside measured global expansion. Growth, however, remains secondary. “We will never mass-produce.” Scarcity, for Montana, is not a marketing strategy, but a position. “These are collectible pieces. Made to be found. And made to last.”
Montana’s work reminds us that design is lived as much as it is seen. Each frame carries the imprint of thought, travel, and observation; each hinge, line, and lens reflects choices made over years. In a world that prizes immediacy, his creations ask for patience – and, in return, offer something that lasts. Explore here
