Nakovalnya Chair

The main principle behind the Nakovalnya Chair is the fusion of architectural brutalism with a highly focused, sculptural approach to everyday utility. The core idea was to re-examine a specific functional typology—the classic valet chair—and transform it from a traditional, often clinical furniture piece into a heavy, narrative-driven structural anchor that visually organizes the space around it.

The inspiration for this design came from two distinct, powerful sources that bridged academic history with my own DNA. The initial spark was ignited during a design history lecture by Artem Dezhurko, where a slide of Hans Wegner’s iconic 1953 PP250 Valet Chair completely captivated me with its dual-purpose anatomy designed perfectly for hanging clothes. I wanted to synthesize that practical valet function with the raw, monumental aesthetic of brutalist furniture we explored in subsequent lectures.

However, the deeper, soulful foundation of the project belongs to my family heritage. The name Nakovalnya itself translates to "anvil," serving as a direct tribute to my great-grandfather, who was a professional blacksmith. His world was one of absolute self-reliance, populated by universal masters who forged heavy, industrial tools out of necessity, yet possessed the incredible delicacy to weave elegant, lace-like baskets from marsh reeds or carve intricate wooden objects. The Nakovalnya Chair is an intentional translation of that ancestral resourcefulness—bridging the weight and strength of a blacksmith's forge with refined, purposeful lines to prove that true design is born from a profound connection to the material.

My main focus in designing the Nakovalnya Chair was to bridge the gap between a heavy, monumental artistic form and a highly practical everyday function. Rather than creating a piece of furniture that simply sits passively in a room, I wanted to achieve a design that acts as a structural anchor, utilizing a bold aesthetic to actively organize the architectural space around the simple, tactile act of hanging garments.

On a deeper level, I wanted to achieve an uncompromising balance between structural weight and delicate purposefulness—a direct reflection of the design philosophy inherited from my ancestors. My goal was to channel the spirit of the universal masters in my family history, who could forge massive, heavy tools on an anvil but also weave incredibly delicate, lace-like baskets from marsh reeds. I wanted to prove that a brutalist, industrial form could possess that exact same dual nature: standing as a powerful, heavy sculptural object while executing its functional utility with absolute grace and precision.

My immediate goal for the Nakovalnya Chair is to transition it from an award-winning concept into a physical reality, and I am currently in discussions with skilled craftsmen who have reached out wanting to help me fabricate it. Because the design requires a deep understanding of structural weight and material execution, partnering with these specialists is the ideal path to honor the blacksmithing legacy behind the piece.

However, my plans are currently met with a layer of personal uncertainty. As someone who does not yet have a permanent home of my own, it is difficult to fully commit to a definitive production and distribution strategy right now. Because this chair functions as a heavy, permanent structural anchor for an interior, its physical presence is deeply tied to the concept of space and home. For now, my plan is to focus entirely on the prototyping phase with these craftsmen to perfect the physical form, while remaining open to licensing or production partnerships that match the stability and scale the design deserves.

The moment of realization happened when I stopped trying to design a conventional chair and started looking for a structural anchor that could hold the raw weight of my family's history. My ancestors, the Kursk peasants, were universal masters who built, forged, and crafted everything they needed out of absolute necessity. In that world of self-reliance, the blacksmith's anvil wasn't a decorative symbol; it was the heavy, grounded heart of all creation.When I looked at the silhouette of an anvil, I saw a beautiful, purposeful geometric paradox. It has a massive, uncompromising base designed to absorb heavy impact, yet it tapers into precise, functional lines. I realized this exact geometry was perfect for re-examining the valet chair typology. By translating those heavy, brutalist proportions into solid timber, the backrest could naturally serve its immediate physical utility—hanging garments.As a designer, nothing compares to the simple joy of seeing your work become a real-life object. After spending so much time looking at drawings and living with a concept in your head, finally seeing it exist in the real world is the most rewarding part of the job. It brings the entire process to life.

I believe that all truly good products always have a story behind them. Storytelling isn't just a marketing layer or a temporary trend; it is a fundamental part of all the things we design and sell. The Nakovalnya chair doesn't try to invent something new in that regard—it simply makes its specific narrative entirely visible and central to its form.The shift we are seeing in the furniture industry isn't about moving from "no story" to "having a story." It is about a growing appreciation for authentic, deeply personal histories over mass-market, generic ones. When a product openly shares its origin—like the way Nakovalnya bridges a design history lecture with the raw, purposeful resourcefulness of my ancestors—it changes how a consumer relates to it.Instead of buying a clinical, anonymous object, the consumer chooses to live with a piece that has an active voice. For designers, prioritizing storytelling means having the discipline to ensure that the functional, physical form and the narrative framework are entirely interdependent. When an object is born from a genuine history and a true connection to materials, it naturally becomes something people want to keep and live with for a very long time.

Using a multi-axis CNC machine isn’t about escaping hard work; it is simply a modern tool that requires its own high level of technical discipline. In reality, mixing new machinery with traditional methods is a pragmatic necessity. New technologies are essential—without them, we simply cannot move forward, and utilizing them can often make products more accessible and efficient to produce. Sometimes this approach leads to sustainability, and sometimes it doesn't, but a designer must balance all of these factors realistically.At the same time, we have to mix these modern technologies with older traditions so we do not lose craftsmanship entirely. The CNC machine allows you to achieve the precise, heavy, brutalist geometry and the exact depth needed for the seat. But wood is a living, unpredictable material. The machine does the heavy clearing, but it takes an actual human hand to understand the grain, finish the surface, and bring the material to life.For a designer, this is a completely neutral, balanced agenda. Everything is equally important. It connects back to the resourceful philosophy of my ancestors, who used whatever tools were available to them to transform raw materials into purposeful objects. Whether you are using a digital router or manual tools, the goal is not to favor one era over another, but to combine precision and craftsmanship to create an honest, functional product.