Interviews with Pedro Miguel Salgado Conde

Over the past several years, I have developed my practice across design, creative direction, objects, branding, writing, and cultural projects.

I am the founder of Monotempo Studio, where I work with both private clients and companies on projects ranging from furniture and decorative objects to brand identity, product development, and broader creative direction. I have collaborated with medium-sized and large companies across sectors such as technology, food, travel, construction, and consumer products, including work connected to brands such as Motorola.

Alongside commercial work, I have also developed a more personal design practice focused on objects, material culture, craftsmanship, ritual, and the relationship between people and the things they live with. My work has received international design recognition and awards, and over time I have become increasingly interested in projects that sit between disciplines rather than belonging entirely to one.

Writing has also become an important part of my creative work. I see it as another way of investigating many of the same questions I approach through design: human behavior, attention, materiality, culture, ritual, and the way we construct meaning through everyday life.

I would describe my experience less as a linear career and more as a continually expanding practice. Each project, whether for a private client, a company, or my own studio, has helped me develop a stronger understanding of how ideas can move between research, design, craftsmanship, and eventually become something real.

When I was younger, I wanted to be an architect. For a long time, I thought that was the path I would follow because I was already fascinated by spaces, objects, proportion, and the way people interact with their surroundings.

Later, I discovered design and all of its different branches, and that completely expanded the way I understood creativity. I realized I was not only interested in buildings or spaces, but also in objects, furniture, graphics, materials, branding, and the possibility of moving between different scales and disciplines. That freedom immediately attracted me.

My first professional experiences were in branding, and that was important because it taught me very early that design was not simply about aesthetics. It was about translating ideas, identity, behavior, and values into something people could understand and interact with.

From there, my practice gradually expanded into furniture, objects, creative direction, materials, and broader cultural projects.

I would say the drive was mostly internal. There was not one single person who made me want to become a designer. It came more from curiosity and from a constant need to understand why certain things feel meaningful, functional, or beautiful, while others feel completely forgettable.

A large part of my education also came from outside formal design environments. I learned by observing, reading, collecting objects, visiting workshops, studying craftsmanship, looking at architecture, traveling, and paying attention to how people actually use things. I have always felt that before creating something new, it is important to understand what already existed and why it survived.

What ultimately made me choose design was the possibility of turning abstract ideas into something real. I like that design sits somewhere between thought and matter. You can begin with a question, a behavior, a memory, or even a philosophical idea, and eventually transform it into an object or experience that becomes part of someone else’s life.

So I would say architecture was the first door, but design gave me the freedom to explore a much larger world.

My three main priorities when designing are human experience, coherence, and materiality.

The first is always the human side. I try to understand who will interact with the object, space, or experience, what behavior surrounds it, what need it responds to, and what kind of relationship it might create over time. For me, design should begin with people, not with form.

The second is coherence. I want the concept, function, proportions, materials, details, and emotional tone of a project to feel like they belong to the same idea. I am not interested in adding elements simply to make something look more designed. I prefer when every decision has a reason and the final result feels resolved rather than decorated.

The third is materiality. I care a lot about how something is made, how it feels, how it ages, and whether the material actually makes sense for the object. I am especially drawn to materials that can develop character over time rather than simply remain pristine.

In terms of technique, I work between digital and physical processes. I use sketching, 3D modeling, rendering, and graphic tools, but I do not like keeping a project inside the screen for too long. Physical mock-ups, prototypes, material tests, and scale models are essential because many decisions about weight, ergonomics, texture, proportion, and presence only become clear when the object exists in the real world.

My style is contemporary, but deeply informed by history, craftsmanship, ritual, and material culture. I am interested in combining inherited knowledge with contemporary technology rather than choosing one over the other.

When I begin a new project, I usually start with research and observation rather than form. I look at the human behavior behind the project, its historical and cultural context, and what has already been learned before trying to invent something new. From there, I move back and forth between intuition, analysis, digital tools, and physical experimentation until the project begins to feel inevitable.

Designing makes me feel intensely alive because it combines curiosity, tension, concentration, and a sense of discovery. What excites me most is not necessarily the first idea or the final object, but the moment in between, when something that only existed as an intuition begins to acquire form, proportion, material, and meaning.

I rarely start a project knowing exactly where it will end. Usually there is a question, an image, a feeling, or even a contradiction that I want to understand. I enjoy that uncertainty because it forces me to pay attention. Whether I am designing an object, working on a piece of furniture, developing something through Monotempo, writing, or even thinking about experiences connected to adventure and the outdoors, the process always begins with observation.

As the project develops, I tend to become completely absorbed by it. I enjoy working through proportions, materials, details, imperfections, and the relationship between an object and the person who will eventually live with it. There is something almost meditative about that level of concentration.

The greatest pleasure comes when an abstract idea becomes real. It is not simply the satisfaction of finishing something. It is the feeling that a thought, emotion, or question has been translated into something tangible that can now exist independently of me. For me, designing is a way of understanding the world, but also a way of leaving something meaningful inside it.

designer can develop are observation, curiosity, discipline, resilience, cultural awareness, and the ability to remain open to unfamiliar experiences. Technical ability is important, but without these other qualities it is very easy to produce things that are visually competent and completely empty.

Travel has been particularly important to me. I learn a lot by arriving somewhere I do not fully understand, walking without a fixed route, getting lost in a new city, observing how people inhabit public spaces, entering old shops, markets, museums, workshops, or simply having conversations with people I would probably never meet in my everyday life. Those experiences constantly change the way I understand objects, materials, rituals, and human behavior. Adventure, for me, is also a form of education.

Endurance sports and mountaineering shaped me in another way. They taught me patience, preparation, resilience, tolerance for discomfort, and how to make decisions under uncertainty. Those lessons translate surprisingly well into design. A difficult project rarely resolves itself through inspiration alone; most of the time it requires persistence, adaptation, and the willingness to continue when the first solution fails.

I have also been deeply influenced by collecting, restoring, and living with old objects and furniture. They taught me to appreciate materials, craftsmanship, patina, and the idea that good design should be able to age with dignity. Motorcycles have reinforced that fascination with objects that are functional but also emotional, mechanical, and cultural.

Reading is another fundamental part of how I learn. I am interested not only in design itself, but also in philosophy, anthropology, history, culture, and human behavior. I have always been fascinated by designers, architects, and artists who did not simply create objects, but actively participated in the intellectual and cultural context of their time. They understood that design does not happen in isolation; it responds to how people live, what they believe, what they fear, what they desire, and what is happening around them. That has inspired me to approach my own work in the same way.

My journey as a designer has therefore never been completely linear. It has moved through product design, furniture, creative direction, independent projects, restoration, entrepreneurship through Monotempo, and experiences far beyond the studio. Over time, I stopped seeing these things as separate. They are different ways of investigating the same questions: why do certain objects and experiences stay with us, what gives them meaning, and how can design become part of a larger cultural conversation?

Perhaps the biggest influence on my work has been this constant movement between disciplines, places, people, and experiences. I believe that the more of the world you are willing to experience and understand, the more you have to bring back to design.

My growth path is becoming increasingly personal. I am less interested in defining myself by a single discipline and more interested in becoming someone capable of understanding the world from different angles and translating that understanding into meaningful work.

In the future, I want to keep expanding the range of experiences that inform my design. I want to travel more, spend more time in unfamiliar places, learn from different cultures, climb more mountains, work with my hands, restore objects, study materials, read more deeply, and continue putting myself in situations that challenge the way I see things. I think creative growth depends heavily on personal growth. The more life you experience, the more you have to bring back into your work.

I am especially interested in designing objects and furniture that feel timeless, emotionally resonant, and capable of aging well. I also want to explore larger-scale projects in the future, including interiors, spaces, and complete environments where objects, architecture, light, material, and human behavior can work together.

My dream project would probably be a place that feels completely lived rather than simply designed. A house, retreat, workshop, hotel, or cultural space where every decision, from the furniture to the materials, objects, books, light, landscape, and even the way people are received, contributes to a single atmosphere. Lately, I have found myself becoming increasingly obsessed with the idea of one day creating a hotel that I could shape almost entirely, not only through its design, but through the experience, rituals, objects, and way it is lived and operated. It is still a very open idea, but it is one that keeps returning to me.

I do not necessarily want to be remembered as a designer who created one iconic object. I would rather be remembered as someone who developed a recognizable way of seeing the world, and who was able to translate that perspective into objects, spaces, experiences, and ideas.

There are still many things I want to create that I do not yet have the experience, resources, or scale to execute. I like that. I think having ambitions that are slightly beyond your current abilities keeps you moving forward. My goal is simply to keep becoming more capable, more curious, and more precise in the way I turn ideas into reality.

My first advice would be not to become obsessed with finding a style too early. At the beginning of a career, it is much more valuable to develop judgment. Style will change with time, but judgment is what allows you to recognize what is meaningful, what is unnecessary, what is well resolved, and what is simply decoration.

I would also strongly recommend studying far beyond design. Read about history, philosophy, anthropology, architecture, literature, economics, technology, and human behavior. The wider your references are, the more interesting your work can become. If all your references come from other designers, eventually you are only designing variations of things you have already seen.

Another important lesson is to understand how things are actually made. Spend time in workshops, factories, with craftspeople, technicians, and manufacturers. Touch materials. See what fails. Understand cost, tolerances, processes, and limitations. Digital tools are incredibly useful, but they can also make bad ideas look very convincing. Physical reality is much less polite.

I would also warn young designers against confusing visibility with progress. Today it is very easy to feel productive because you are constantly publishing, sharing, updating, and consuming references. But real growth often happens quietly, through repetition, failed prototypes, difficult projects, and long periods where nobody is paying attention.

One of the best lessons I have learned is to respect what existed before you. Innovation does not mean rejecting tradition. Study it first. Understand why certain solutions survived, why certain materials were used, why certain proportions feel right, and then decide what deserves to evolve. There is very little value in trying to reinvent something you never took the time to understand.

I also think it is important to build a life outside design. Travel when possible, walk through unfamiliar cities, talk to people you would not normally meet, read, train your body, spend time outdoors, collect things, repair things, get bored, and pay attention to ordinary life. Your work can only be as rich as the world you are capable of noticing.

And finally, follow your obsessions. If a subject genuinely interests you, stay with it longer than feels fashionable. Most interesting designers are not interesting because they constantly change direction, but because they keep asking better questions about the things they care about. In the end, design is not only about learning how to make things. It is about learning how to see.

One of the most important things I have learned is that good work is only one part of a successful creative career. You also need to learn how to communicate, negotiate, manage expectations, protect your time, understand money, and build relationships. Talent is valuable, but reliability is often what makes people want to work with you again.

I think one of the biggest mistakes creative professionals make is believing that the work should speak entirely for itself. It rarely does. You need to learn how to explain your decisions clearly, present your ideas with confidence, and help other people understand the value behind what you are proposing. A strong concept can be weakened by poor communication just as easily as an average concept can be made convincing by a good presentation.

Another important principle is to become very good at finishing things. Ideas are abundant. Finished work is rare. Learn how to move a project from concept to production, how to solve problems when budgets change, when suppliers fail, when materials behave differently than expected, or when a client changes direction. The ability to adapt without losing the essence of the project is an extremely valuable skill.

I would also recommend taking the business side of your practice seriously. Understand contracts, costs, margins, production, intellectual property, timelines, and how to price your work. Creative independence becomes much easier when you understand the structure that supports it. There is nothing less romantic than financial chaos quietly destroying good work.

Protect your reputation as carefully as you protect your portfolio. Be punctual, answer messages, respect collaborators, credit people properly, and do what you said you were going to do. Creative industries are much smaller than they appear, and people remember how it felt to work with you.

At the same time, do not become so focused on pleasing clients, awards, trends, or algorithms that you lose your own point of view. External recognition is useful, but it should not become the reason you create. The strongest careers are usually built through a balance between professional discipline and personal conviction.

And perhaps one of the most useful things is to keep creating work that nobody asked you to make. Client work teaches you constraints, but self-initiated work reveals your direction. Some of the most important projects in a creative career begin simply because you are curious enough to make them exist.

In the end, success in design is not one breakthrough project. It is the accumulation of hundreds of decisions: how you work, how you treat people, what you choose to pursue, what you refuse, what you finish, and what you continue doing even when nobody is watching.

My days rarely begin with anything dramatic. Most mornings start with coffee, usually before I am ready to speak to anyone, and a few quiet minutes in which the day has not yet decided what it wants from me. I like that moment. The light is still changing, the phone can wait a little longer, and I can read a few pages of something, make notes in the margins, or simply sit there long enough for a thought to finish itself.

I try not to begin the day by immediately consuming design news or looking at what everyone else is making. I would rather read something that takes me somewhere else: a piece of history, philosophy, architecture, anthropology, or whatever subject happens to be occupying my mind that week. Sometimes it has absolutely nothing to do with the project waiting on my desk, which is often precisely why it ends up becoming useful.

From there, the day becomes less predictable. Work might mean sitting with a drawing until a proportion finally feels right, running my hand across a material sample and realizing it is completely wrong, visiting a workshop that smells of wood, metal, dust, or glue, arguing with a supplier about a detail nobody else will probably notice, looking at an old chair and wondering why it has survived for sixty years, or suddenly filling a page with ideas because something I had been thinking about for weeks has finally found a form.

There are also days when design is much less romantic. Emails, budgets, production problems, logistics, deadlines. Those days are part of it too. Strangely, even then there are small pleasures: opening a box and seeing a prototype for the first time, finding exactly the material I had imagined, watching someone make something with extraordinary skill, or solving a problem that had been quietly irritating me for days.

At some point, I need to move. Training is an important part of my routine, whether it is the gym, running, or preparing for a mountain. After spending hours inside my head, I like doing something brutally physical and uncomplicated. There is something satisfying about reaching the point where thinking becomes impossible and all that remains is breathing, effort, and the next repetition or step. Very often, somewhere in that process, an idea I had been forcing all morning quietly solves itself.

I also make an effort to leave parts of the day completely useless. I mean that as a compliment. Sitting somewhere without working, taking a motorcycle out without needing to arrive quickly, walking through a neighborhood, looking through an antique shop, having a long lunch, or allowing myself to be bored. I think some ideas need a little emptiness around them before they are willing to appear.

And then there are the evenings I value most: a table, people I care about, food that takes longer than necessary, maybe a drink, and a conversation that begins with something ridiculous and somehow ends two hours later discussing life, death, love, or why an old lamp is better designed than most new ones.

So I do not really have an ideal day based on how much I produce. I prefer days that contain a little discipline, curiosity, physical effort, good work, and enough empty space to actually notice what is happening around me. If something meaningful gets made somewhere in between, that is usually a very good day.

I pay attention to design trends, but I do not believe in following them too closely. For me, trends are useful because they reveal what a culture is currently interested in, what materials are becoming relevant, what technologies are changing behavior, and what visual languages are beginning to feel exhausted. In that sense, they are valuable as information.

But I would never want a project to depend entirely on what is fashionable at a particular moment. If a design only works because it looks current, it will probably feel dated very quickly. I am much more interested in creating work that has its own logic and can remain relevant beyond a season.

I usually keep up with what is happening through exhibitions, magazines, books, architecture, galleries, museums, travel, workshops, manufacturers, and conversations with other creative people. I also look at what is happening outside design, because cultural shifts often appear first somewhere else. Fashion, technology, music, hospitality, art, food, even the way people use cities can tell you a lot about where design is moving.

My references also come heavily from the past. I spend a lot of time looking at older furniture, architecture, objects, materials, and production methods. I think there is something useful in placing the contemporary next to things that have already survived decades. It gives you a better sense of what is genuinely new and what is simply returning under a different name.

I prefer to develop projects from a personal point of view rather than trying to reflect whatever is considered current. Of course, no designer works outside their time. We are all influenced by the culture around us, whether we admit it or not. The important thing is to be conscious of that influence instead of letting it dictate every decision.

So I would say I observe trends carefully, but I try not to design for them. I am more interested in understanding why they are happening, what they say about the moment we are living in, and whether there is anything within them that deserves to remain after the fashion has passed.

The first thing I look for is coherence. I ask whether the form, function, material, context, and intended experience are all working toward the same idea. A design can be visually beautiful and still feel unsuccessful if those elements contradict each other. For me, good design has a certain sense of inevitability, as if every decision belongs there for a reason.

Intention is equally important. I want to understand why a decision was made and whether that decision genuinely improves the relationship between the object and the person using it. Good design should feel deliberate rather than arbitrary. It does not need to be minimal, simple, or restrained. It can be expressive, ornamental, even excessive, as long as everything is contributing to the same idea.

From there, I look at proportion, materiality, usability, and how the object behaves over time. I am especially interested in whether it respects human behavior, whether it creates unnecessary friction, and whether it has enough depth to remain interesting beyond the first impression.

Material honesty also matters a lot to me. I like when materials are allowed to behave like themselves. Wood should be able to age, metal should reveal how it was worked, leather should develop patina. Time is one of the best tests of design. If something only works when it is completely new, I tend to question how well it was really designed.

One of the most common mistakes is adding too much because the designer is afraid the project is not saying enough. Another is confusing originality with complexity. Sometimes the strongest decision is subtraction, restraint, or simply accepting that an existing solution is already better than forcing novelty for its own sake.

So I do not judge design based only on aesthetics or function. For me, good design happens when intention, function, material, emotion, and human experience feel aligned. It should do what it is meant to do, but it should also create a meaningful relationship with the person who encounters it.

One of the questions I get asked most often is: “How do you know when a design is finished?” My answer is that I usually do not know because everything possible has been added. I know because there is nothing left that feels unnecessary.

For me, finishing a design is less about reaching perfection and more about reaching coherence. The proportions, materials, function, details, context, and human experience have to feel aligned. At some point, continuing to modify the project stops improving it and begins to weaken it. That is usually the moment when I know I need to stop.

I do not really believe a design is ever perfect. There will almost always be another detail that could be adjusted, another material explored, or another solution tested. If you wait for absolute certainty, you can keep designing forever. Part of becoming a designer is learning when further iteration is genuinely improving the work and when it is simply a way of avoiding the discomfort of letting it go.

That judgment takes time to develop. It comes from experience, observation, making mistakes, studying objects that have endured, working with materials, and learning when to trust your own eye.

I also think time reveals things that the design process cannot. Once an object leaves the studio and enters someone’s life, you begin to understand whether it truly works. You see how it is used, how it ages, where friction appears, and whether the relationship you imagined between the object and the person actually exists.

So in that sense, I usually keep an open tab in my mind. I do not necessarily go back and redesign everything I have made, but earlier projects continue teaching me. Sometimes I look at old work and immediately see what I would change today, and I think that is healthy. If you look at something you designed five years ago and would not change a single thing, perhaps you have not grown enough.

For me, a project becomes successful when it no longer needs me to explain it. It works, people understand how to live with it, and it begins to have a life of its own.

So perhaps a design is ready not when there is nothing more you could do to it, but when you have done enough that the next decision would be for yourself rather than for the design.

I usually have difficulty choosing a single project as my biggest or best work, because I tend to see every project as part of an ongoing process rather than as a final achievement. Each one teaches me something about proportion, materials, function, context, or the way people relate to objects, and I try to carry those lessons into whatever comes next.

There are projects I am deeply proud of, of course, but I am often more interested in what I have not designed yet. The next project always represents the possibility of doing something more precise, more meaningful, and closer to the kind of designer I am becoming. So in that sense, my favorite work is usually still ahead of me.

At the moment, however, the project occupying most of my attention is a line of objects connected to a second book I am developing. It explores leisure, slowness, ritual, pleasure, and the tension between indulgence and excess. I am interested in those small acts that contemporary life often treats as unnecessary or unproductive, but that can become deeply meaningful when they are approached with intention.

The objects are not meant to illustrate the book. They are another way of thinking through the same questions, but through materials, scale, function, and physical experience. I am exploring pieces connected to domestic rituals, conversation, rest, smoking, drinking, and other forms of everyday pleasure.

What excites me most is the dialogue between the written idea and the physical object. One can develop an argument through language, while the other allows that argument to be touched, used, and experienced. That relationship between thought and materiality is something I want to explore much further.

It is also a project that presents an interesting challenge because it requires restraint. It would be very easy for a subject like pleasure or indulgence to become decorative, theatrical, or excessive. I am much more interested in finding the point where the object feels seductive but still precise, where pleasure is present without losing control.

The project is still evolving, which is probably why I am enjoying it so much. I do not know exactly where it will end yet, and I like that uncertainty. For me, that is often when a project feels most alive.

So if I had to answer today, I would say that my biggest work is not necessarily one finished object. It is the body of work I am still building, and the attempt to make each project more coherent, more human, and more meaningful than the one before it.

If I had to choose one designer, I would probably say Shiro Kuramata. What I admire most about his work is the way he made objects feel almost weightless, poetic, and emotionally charged without losing precision. His pieces often seem simple at first, but the more you look at them, the more you realize how carefully proportion, material, transparency, and illusion are working together.

I am especially drawn to designers who were not simply solving functional problems, but creating a particular way of seeing the world. Kuramata did that beautifully. His work has a kind of quiet strangeness to it. It feels disciplined, but never rigid; conceptual, but still sensual.

If I could speak with one designer from the past, he would probably be one of the first people I would choose. I would be interested in understanding how he thought about emptiness, material, atmosphere, and the relationship between an object and the space around it.

I also admire Ettore Sottsass for almost the opposite reason. He understood that design could be emotional, cultural, ironic, excessive, and even uncomfortable. He challenged the idea that good design had to be neutral or purely rational.

Carlo Scarpa is another major influence for me, especially because of the way he worked with detail, material, aging, and context.

But Carlo Mollino fascinates me in a different way. I admire him not only as a designer, but as a person. He seemed incapable of living inside a single category. He moved between architecture, furniture, photography, automobiles, skiing, aviation, writing, and other obsessions with the same intensity. There is something incredibly compelling about that kind of life. He did not appear interested in becoming simply “a designer”; he built an entire world around his curiosities.

That is probably what I find coolest about him. His work and his life seem inseparable. The furniture has the same sensuality, eccentricity, precision, and appetite for experience that you sense in the person behind it. I find that much more inspiring than the idea of a designer whose entire identity begins and ends at the studio door.

I also admire Alvin Lustig for the intellectual clarity of his graphic work and Enzo Mari for the seriousness with which he approached design as a cultural and ethical discipline, not simply as a commercial profession.

More recently, I have become slightly obsessed with Marcin Rusak. I find his work particularly interesting because of the way he uses organic materials, decay, preservation, and time as part of the design itself. His objects feel almost archaeological, as if they are already carrying their own history.

What connects all of these designers for me is not a shared aesthetic. They are actually very different. What I admire is that each of them developed a distinct intellectual and emotional world around their work.

That is probably what I value most in a designer: not a recognizable style, but a recognizable mind, and in Mollino’s case, perhaps even a recognizable way of living.

My lifestyle is probably defined by movement between very different worlds. I can spend one day in a workshop looking at materials and old furniture, another training for a mountain, another riding a motorcycle, visiting an exhibition, reading for hours, or sitting around a table having a long conversation that ends up being more useful than any formal research session.

I am based in Puebla, Mexico, and I think living in Mexico has influenced me deeply. There is an extraordinary relationship here between craft, ritual, imperfection, color, religion, history, food, objects, and everyday life. You are constantly surrounded by things that carry memory. I think that has made me very sensitive to objects that age well, materials that show use, and spaces that feel inhabited rather than overly controlled.

Mexico City is probably one of the cities that stimulates me most because of its contradictions. It can be elegant, chaotic, ancient, modern, intellectual, vulgar, refined, improvised, and incredibly alive within the same few blocks. I enjoy cities like that, places where you can get lost and constantly encounter things that were not part of the plan.

Travel is important to me for the same reason. I like arriving somewhere without fully understanding it, walking without a fixed route, entering old stores, markets, workshops, cafés, hotels, or simply talking to people I would probably never meet in my everyday life. I think culture is absorbed much more effectively through experience than through observation from a distance.

At the moment, I am working across objects, furniture, restoration, and new projects that explore how ideas can become physical experiences. Increasingly, however, I am also interested in the larger question behind all of them: what kind of culture are we creating through the things we design?

There is a phrase I return to often: “Design creates culture. Culture shapes values. Values determine the future.” I think that is why good design matters far beyond aesthetics. Every object, building, space, interface, or environment encourages certain behaviors while discouraging others. Design can teach us to repair or discard, to gather or isolate, to slow down or accelerate, to pay attention or consume without thinking.

When these decisions are repeated across everyday life, they stop being individual design choices and begin to become culture. And once something becomes cultural, it starts influencing what a society considers normal, desirable, valuable, or worth preserving.

That is why I believe good design is necessary for the advancement of society. Progress should not only mean making things faster, newer, or more technologically complex. Sometimes progress means making things more durable, more thoughtful, more understandable, more humane, or creating environments that encourage better ways of living together.

In my own life, design has made me more attentive. I buy fewer things, but I care much more about what I choose to live with. I repair and restore when something deserves to survive. I pay attention to light, proportion, materials, the way a chair feels after an hour, the way a room changes when one unnecessary object disappears, or the difference between something that merely looks good and something that becomes better through use.

I think those small decisions matter. Good design does not always need to announce progress through something spectacular. Sometimes advancement is simply making daily life more thoughtful, more durable, more beautiful, and slightly more human.

For me, that is ultimately the relationship between design, culture, and everyday life. Design shapes how we behave; repeated behavior becomes habit; habits influence culture; and culture slowly shapes the values we carry forward. That is why I see design not simply as a profession, but as a way of participating in the kind of future we choose to build.

My work culture is built around clarity, trust, curiosity, and responsibility. I take the work seriously, but I do not believe seriousness requires rigidity. I like environments where people can challenge ideas, disagree openly, change their minds, and still remain respectful of one another.

I often work independently during the early stages of a project because I need time to understand the problem, develop a direction, and form a clear point of view. But I also value collaboration enormously. Good projects usually become stronger when they are exposed to different forms of expertise, especially once they move into materials, production, engineering, fabrication, communication, or implementation.

I think I am easy to work with when there is mutual honesty and commitment. I appreciate people who say what they think, who communicate problems early, and who care about the quality of the outcome rather than protecting their own ego. I am demanding about details, but I try to be equally demanding with myself.

When choosing collaborators or business partners, I look first for judgment and character. Skill can be developed, but reliability, curiosity, integrity, and the ability to think independently are much harder to teach. I also value people who are capable of saying “I do not know” and then finding the answer. False certainty creates far more problems than honest ignorance.

Another quality I value is ownership. I enjoy working with people who do not simply wait to be told what to do, but who understand the intention of a project and actively help improve it. The best collaborations happen when everyone feels responsible for the result rather than only for their individual task.

One thing that cannot be forgotten in creative work is that ideas eventually have to survive reality. Budgets change, materials fail, suppliers make mistakes, deadlines move, and things rarely behave exactly as they did in the first sketch. One of the core challenges of the profession is protecting the essence of an idea while adapting intelligently to those constraints.

My responsibilities therefore go far beyond generating concepts. They include research, direction, decision-making, materials, production, communication, coordination, and sometimes solving problems that have almost nothing glamorous about them. I think part of becoming a better designer is accepting that creative work is not only inspiration. It is also responsibility.

For me, a strong designer, artist, or architect needs curiosity, discipline, resilience, empathy, good judgment, and the ability to communicate clearly. They should be open enough to learn from others, but confident enough to defend an idea when it matters. They should also know when to let go of their own ego if a better solution appears.

I believe the best work cultures are not built around hierarchy for its own sake. They are built around shared standards. Everyone should know what the project is trying to achieve, why it matters, and what level of quality is expected.

In the end, my business philosophy is quite simple: do good work, be reliable, treat people well, communicate clearly, and never let ambition become an excuse for carelessness.

I think giving back does not always need to take the form of a large formal initiative. In my case, it has often happened through sharing knowledge, making myself available to younger designers, participating in talks and conversations, and trying to create access to information that can otherwise feel unnecessarily closed.

I enjoy speaking at universities, conferences, and cultural spaces because I remember how valuable it is, especially at the beginning of a career, to hear someone speak honestly about the profession. Not only about awards, successful projects, or finished work, but also about mistakes, uncertainty, money, production problems, rejection, and the less glamorous parts of building a creative life.

I also believe strongly in supporting emerging designers through conversation, feedback, introductions, and opportunities whenever I can. Sometimes a useful connection, a recommendation, or taking someone’s work seriously can make a real difference. Creative industries can become very insular, and I think those of us who gain access to certain spaces have some responsibility to make them slightly more accessible to others.

I would absolutely consider pro bono work when the project has a clear social, cultural, educational, or humanitarian value. I do not think every problem can be solved through design, and designers should be careful not to exaggerate their role, but good design can make systems clearer, spaces more humane, information more accessible, and experiences more dignified. Those things matter.

I have a lot of respect for designers, artists, and architects who become involved in humanitarian or community projects when they do so with humility. The important thing is to listen first. It is very easy to arrive with a beautiful solution to a problem you do not actually understand. In that context, design should serve people rather than the designer’s ego.

What I value most about good design is precisely that ability to improve everyday life, often quietly. A better object, a clearer system, a more thoughtful space, or a more accessible experience can create small improvements that accumulate over time.

For me, giving back also means participating in the culture around design, supporting events, sharing what I have learned, encouraging people who are beginning their careers, and creating opportunities for collaboration. I do not think knowledge becomes more valuable by protecting it too aggressively.

Ultimately, I think success in any creative profession creates a responsibility to leave the field a little better than you found it: more generous, more curious, more open, and with more opportunities for the people coming after you.

My experience with the A’ Design Award has been very positive, mainly because it gave me the opportunity to see my work outside of its usual context. When you spend months developing a project, you become extremely close to it. Having that work evaluated internationally by people from different backgrounds creates a useful distance and helps you understand how the project communicates beyond your own environment.

For me, there are three main benefits to participating in design awards and competitions.

The first is external evaluation. Good competitions force you to present your work clearly and expose it to people who were not part of the process. That can be extremely valuable because it challenges your assumptions and helps you understand whether the intention behind the project is actually visible in the final result.

The second is visibility. Design is increasingly international, and awards can help a project reach audiences, publications, professionals, and potential collaborators that would otherwise be difficult to access. Recognition does not replace good work, but it can give good work a much larger platform.

The third is reflection. Preparing a project for a competition forces you to articulate what you designed, why you designed it, what problem it addresses, and what makes it different. I think that process alone can improve you as a designer. It makes you more conscious of your own decisions and helps you identify both the strengths and weaknesses of your work.

I also think design competitions are important because they create a record of what designers around the world are thinking about at a particular moment. When they are taken seriously, they become more than a ranking system. They can become a way of discovering different approaches, materials, technologies, cultures, and ways of solving problems.

At the same time, I do not think awards should ever become the reason you design. Recognition is meaningful, but it should remain a consequence of the work rather than the purpose of it. The real value is using that recognition as encouragement to keep improving rather than as proof that you have already arrived.

Being selected as Designer of the Day is something I feel genuinely grateful for and deeply honored by. Having my work recognized is already meaningful, but being highlighted as a designer feels more personal because it acknowledges not only a single project, but also the ideas, influences, and path behind the work.

I do not take that kind of recognition for granted. There are many talented designers working around the world, so being given that space and visibility is something I value enormously. It feels both encouraging and humbling.

For me, the best way to respond to that recognition is with gratitude and with more work. You appreciate the moment, you allow yourself to feel proud of it, and then you return to the next project with the responsibility of trying to do something even better.

The main inspiration behind Maybe… came from a simple question: How does a single father prepare his daughter for an experience he has never personally lived through?

I was particularly interested in the challenges faced by fathers who, despite having the best intentions, may lack the knowledge, confidence, or vocabulary to discuss menstruation with their young daughters. I realized that the problem was not necessarily a lack of care, but often a lack of tools to communicate about something that remains surrounded by cultural taboos.

Maybe… was conceived as a bridge between information and human connection. Rather than simply developing an application to estimate the arrival of a girl’s first period, I wanted to create a tool that could help families anticipate an important milestone and approach it with greater confidence, sensitivity, and understanding.

The guiding principle was that good design should not only solve functional problems, but also address emotional and social barriers. In this case, technology became a means of encouraging conversations, reducing uncertainty, and transforming what might otherwise be an uncomfortable experience into an opportunity for trust and connection between parents and their daughters.

My main focus was to make a sensitive and often misunderstood subject feel approachable, natural, and free from unnecessary discomfort. I wanted to design an experience that could turn uncertainty into understanding, particularly for families where conversations about menstruation might not come easily.

One of my priorities was to create something that felt supportive rather than clinical or intimidating. The visual language, user experience, and educational content were all conceived to make information accessible while encouraging curiosity, confidence, and open communication.

Beyond the application’s predictive concept, I wanted Maybe… to serve as a starting point for meaningful conversations between parents and their daughters. My intention was never to replace parental guidance, but to provide families with the tools and confidence to navigate an important stage of growing up together.

Ultimately, I wanted to demonstrate that design can address problems that are not always visible or tangible. Sometimes, the most meaningful contribution of a designer is not creating something entirely new, but making an existing human experience easier to understand, discuss, and embrace.

I believe Maybe… still has significant potential to evolve beyond its original concept. While it began as a design exploration, the social problem it addresses remains relevant, and I see opportunities to develop it into a more comprehensive educational platform.

One direction I would be particularly interested in exploring is collaboration with healthcare professionals, educators, and child development specialists to strengthen the accuracy, accessibility, and educational value of the experience. I would also like to explore how the platform could support different family structures and cultural contexts, especially those where menstrual education remains limited or stigmatized.

For me, the most interesting future of Maybe… is not necessarily technological expansion, but social impact. If the project eventually helps even a small number of fathers feel more prepared to guide their daughters through their first menstruation, it will have achieved something meaningful.

Ultimately, I would like Maybe… to continue exploring a principle that has become increasingly important in my design practice: technology should not replace human connection, but create better conditions for it to happen.

The development of Maybe… took approximately six months, from the initial research and conceptual exploration to the final design proposal. A significant part of that time was dedicated to understanding the social and emotional challenges surrounding menstruation, particularly from the perspective of fathers raising daughters.

The process involved researching the subject, defining the user experience, developing the visual identity, and designing an intuitive interface that could communicate sensitive information in an approachable way.

For me, the greatest challenge was not the visual or technical development itself, but finding the right balance between functionality, education, and emotional sensitivity. I wanted every design decision to serve a meaningful purpose.

Maybe… was not a commissioned project. It emerged from my own curiosity and interest in exploring how design could address overlooked social and emotional challenges.

I have always been interested in situations where people struggle not because they lack good intentions, but because they lack the appropriate tools or knowledge. The idea of a single father trying to prepare his daughter for her first menstruation particularly caught my attention. It represented a very human challenge, one where love and responsibility might exist alongside uncertainty and discomfort.

I wanted to explore how design could intervene in that situation, not by replacing human interaction, but by making it easier. What began as a simple observation gradually developed into a broader investigation of menstrual education, communication, and the role technology could play in supporting families.

Ultimately, Maybe… was driven by the belief that meaningful design often begins by questioning ordinary experiences that society has learned to overlook.

Maybe… is currently an independent design concept and is not being commercially produced or operated by another company. However, I remain open to exploring opportunities that could eventually bring the project to life.

I would be particularly interested in collaborating with organizations working in education, women’s health, or social innovation, as I believe the concept could benefit from interdisciplinary expertise and institutional support.

My priority would not necessarily be to commercialize the design, but to ensure that its original purpose is preserved: making menstrual education more accessible and helping families navigate important conversations with greater confidence.

Whether through licensing, strategic partnerships, or independent development, I would consider any opportunity that allows Maybe… to create meaningful social impact while maintaining its underlying design philosophy.

I have always been interested in exploring how design can influence human behavior and improve everyday experiences. With Maybe…, I wanted to move beyond designing physical objects and explore how a digital experience could address a deeply personal and often overlooked social challenge.

I chose to develop a mobile application because of its accessibility, privacy, and potential to provide information at the exact moment someone needs it. When dealing with sensitive subjects such as menstruation, I believe the way information is presented can be just as important as the information itself.

What particularly interested me was the possibility of using technology to encourage something fundamentally human: communication. I wanted to explore how an intuitive interface could help parents, especially fathers, approach unfamiliar conversations with greater confidence and sensitivity.

For me, the medium was never the starting point. The human problem came first, and the digital experience emerged as a way to address it. I believe designers should not limit themselves to a particular discipline or format, but remain open to whichever tools best serve the people they are designing for.

Not particularly. Maybe… was not directly influenced by a specific designer or existing product. The project was primarily shaped by the social problem I wanted to address and my understanding of the people who might benefit from it.

Rather than looking for aesthetic references, I focused on understanding the emotional and practical challenges surrounding menstrual education, especially within families where these conversations might be difficult.

I wanted the design to emerge naturally from those needs, allowing research, empathy, and functionality to guide the creative process. I believe that sometimes the most meaningful inspiration comes not from observing other designs, but from observing people and questioning how their everyday experiences could be improved.

The primary target audience for Maybe… is parents, particularly fathers who may feel uncertain about how to prepare their daughters for their first menstruation. I was especially interested in single fathers, who might not always have someone to turn to for guidance on a subject they have never personally experienced.

The application is designed to provide parents with accessible information, practical guidance, and the confidence to approach these conversations naturally and responsibly.

Although parents are the primary users, their daughters are ultimately the main beneficiaries. My intention was to create a tool that empowers parents to become better guides, helping young girls approach this important stage of their lives feeling informed, supported, and understood.

What sets Maybe… apart is its approach to menstrual education from a perspective that is often overlooked: that of the parents, particularly fathers.

While most menstrual health applications focus on tracking cycles, symptoms, or providing information directly to women and girls, Maybe… was conceived as a tool to help parents prepare for their daughters’ first menstruation, both practically and emotionally.

One of its distinctive features is the concept of anticipating the approximate arrival of the first menstrual period, allowing families to prepare before the experience occurs rather than simply responding to it afterward.

However, I believe its most important distinction lies in its human-centered philosophy. Maybe… is not simply about predicting a biological event or delivering educational content. It is about creating opportunities for communication, strengthening trust, and helping parents feel more confident in situations they might otherwise find unfamiliar or uncomfortable.

Ultimately, I wanted to design something that goes beyond individual functionality and considers the relationships surrounding the user. To me, that is where design can make a meaningful difference.

The name Maybe… reflects one of the central ideas behind the project: uncertainty.

A girl’s first menstruation is an important milestone, but knowing exactly when it will happen is impossible. I wanted a name that could acknowledge that uncertainty without making it feel frightening or overwhelming.

The word “maybe” suggests possibility rather than certainty, which felt particularly appropriate for an application designed to help families anticipate and prepare for an experience that cannot be predicted with absolute precision.

The three dots were equally intentional in the concept. They represent anticipation, an unfinished thought, and the idea that something is about to happen. There is a certain openness to the name that invites curiosity rather than imposing an answer.

Ultimately, I liked the simplicity and honesty of Maybe… It does not promise to know everything. Instead, it encourages people to ask questions, explore possibilities, and prepare for what comes next. I believe that sometimes good design is not about eliminating uncertainty, but helping people feel more comfortable navigating it.

The development of Maybe… involved a combination of Adobe Creative Cloud tools and UX/UI design methodologies. Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop were used to develop the visual identity, graphic elements, and overall aesthetic direction, while Adobe XD supported the interface design, wireframing, and interactive prototyping.

Beyond the software itself, the process involved user journey mapping, information architecture, and user flow development to understand how parents would interact with the application and navigate its different features.

I also focused on visual hierarchy, intuitive navigation, and the relationship between information and emotion, ensuring that the interface remained approachable and easy to understand.

For me, digital tools are simply a means of translating ideas into experiences. The real design work happens in understanding the user, identifying their needs, and making thoughtful decisions about how technology can serve them.

I believe the most unique aspect of Maybe… is that it was designed for someone who is not directly experiencing the biological event, but who plays an essential role in how that experience is understood and navigated.

Rather than focusing exclusively on girls approaching their first menstruation, I wanted to consider the fathers standing beside them, particularly those who might feel unprepared to discuss something they have never personally experienced.

What makes the concept distinctive is the combination of anticipation, education, and emotional support. By exploring the possibility of estimating when a girl’s first period might occur, Maybe… aims to give parents an opportunity to prepare, learn, and initiate conversations before that moment arrives.

To me, the real innovation is not necessarily technological. It is about recognizing an overlooked human need and approaching a familiar subject from an entirely different perspective.

Sometimes, the most valuable thing a designer can do is not invent a new solution, but recognize someone who has been left out of the conversation.

Maybe… was primarily developed as an independent design project, with my involvement spanning conceptual research, visual identity, user experience, and interface design.

Given the sensitive nature of the subject, the design process required exploring knowledge beyond traditional design disciplines, particularly in menstrual health, child development, and digital interaction. Understanding these areas was essential to developing a concept that could address both practical and emotional needs.

Although my primary contribution was in design, I believe a project like Maybe… benefits greatly from interdisciplinary collaboration. Bringing together expertise in healthcare, education, psychology, and technology would be an important step toward transforming the concept into a fully functional and scientifically validated product.

For me, one of the most valuable lessons was recognizing that good design does not require a designer to know everything, but rather to understand which questions to ask and when other disciplines can contribute to a better solution.

Technology plays an essential role in Maybe…, but I have always seen it as a tool rather than the ultimate purpose of the project.

The concept explores how data analysis and digital interaction could help estimate the approximate timing of a girl’s first menstruation, transforming biological information into something parents can use to prepare and make informed decisions.

However, what interests me most is not the predictive technology itself, but what it makes possible. By combining accessible educational content with an intuitive digital experience, Maybe… aims to reduce uncertainty and help parents approach sensitive conversations with greater confidence.

I also believe technology has a responsibility to remain understandable, especially when dealing with personal and sensitive information. The interface was conceived to simplify complexity without sacrificing the seriousness of the subject.

Ultimately, I see technology in Maybe… as a bridge between knowledge and human connection. Its greatest value is not in replacing parental intuition or medical guidance, but in empowering families with information that might otherwise be difficult to access or discuss.

To me, the most meaningful use of technology is not making human experiences more digital, but making them more human.

Yes, research played a fundamental role in the development of Maybe… In fact, the project began with an investigation into the biological, psychological, and social aspects surrounding a girl’s first menstruation.

I explored existing medical literature and statistical information regarding menarche, including the factors that may influence its timing, such as age, physical development, genetics, and other biological indicators. This research helped shape the application’s central concept: using relevant information to explore the possibility of estimating when a girl’s first period might occur.

Beyond the biological research, I was particularly interested in understanding the social and emotional dimensions of menstrual education. I examined how cultural taboos, misinformation, and communication barriers can affect the way families approach this important stage of development.

These findings influenced the design decisions, from the application’s educational approach to its visual language and user experience. I wanted to translate complex and sometimes intimidating information into something approachable, intuitive, and useful for parents.

For me, research is not simply a preliminary stage of the design process. It is what allows design decisions to move beyond personal assumptions and become meaningful responses to real human needs. With Maybe…, the challenge was to connect scientific understanding with empathy, creating a concept that could make knowledge more accessible and family conversations a little easier.

One of the greatest challenges was designing around an experience I had never personally lived through. As a man, I had to recognize that my understanding of menstruation was inherently limited, and that good intentions alone were not enough to create a meaningful solution.

This made research particularly important. I needed to approach the subject with intellectual humility, questioning my assumptions and developing a deeper understanding of the biological, emotional, and social dimensions of a girl’s first menstruation. It was essential to distinguish scientific information from cultural misconceptions, especially when exploring a concept involving biological predictions.

Another challenge was translating that complexity into a simple and approachable user experience without trivializing the subject or making assumptions about how every girl might feel.

Interestingly, this challenge also reinforced the original inspiration behind Maybe… I was trying to understand something unfamiliar to me, much like the fathers I was designing for.

Ultimately, the project taught me an important lesson about empathy in design: understanding the user does not always mean sharing their experience. Sometimes, it means recognizing the limits of your own perspective and being willing to learn beyond them.

decided to submit Maybe… to an international design competition because I believed the project addressed a meaningful human challenge that deserved to be part of a broader conversation about design.

For me, design competitions are not simply about recognition. They are opportunities to expose ideas to different perspectives, challenge our own standards, and understand how a project resonates beyond its original cultural or geographical context.

What encouraged me to submit Maybe… was precisely its unconventional approach. It was not necessarily the most technologically sophisticated concept, but I believed its strength lay in identifying an overlooked need and proposing a thoughtful, human-centered solution.

I was also interested in seeing how an international design community would respond to a project that placed empathy, education, and family relationships at the center of a digital experience.

Ultimately, I wanted to demonstrate that meaningful innovation does not always require extraordinary technology or complex solutions. Sometimes, it begins with recognizing an ordinary human difficulty and having the curiosity to ask whether design could make it better.

Maybe… taught me one of the most important lessons I have learned as a designer: empathy is not simply about imagining yourself in someone else’s position, but about recognizing how much you do not know and taking the responsibility to understand it.

Working on a subject I had never personally experienced forced me to question my assumptions, approach research with greater rigor, and become more conscious of the responsibility that comes with designing for others.

It also changed the way I understood the relationship between design and human behavior. I realized that a successful solution does not necessarily have to introduce something entirely new. Sometimes, its greatest contribution is making an uncomfortable conversation easier, helping someone feel more prepared, or creating a sense of understanding where uncertainty previously existed.

On a professional level, the project strengthened my ability to approach unfamiliar subjects, connect information from different disciplines, and translate complex research into accessible design experiences.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson was understanding that, as designers, we do not always need to have the answers. We need to be curious enough to ask the right questions, humble enough to listen, and responsible enough to ensure that our solutions genuinely serve the people we design for.

If there is one thing I would like to emphasize, it is that Maybe… was never just about menstruation. It was about communication, responsibility, and the small moments in which people need guidance but do not always know where to find it.

I believe we often associate innovation with technological advancement, when some of the most meaningful opportunities for design exist in ordinary human experiences that we have simply learned to accept as they are.

Working on Maybe… reinforced my belief that designers have a responsibility to question those experiences, especially when silence, embarrassment, or cultural expectations prevent people from accessing knowledge or asking for help.

I also hope the project encourages other designers to explore subjects outside their personal experiences and areas of expertise. We should approach unfamiliar realities with humility, curiosity, and respect, rather than allowing our own limitations to define the boundaries of our work.

Ultimately, I believe the value of design should not be measured only by what we create, but also by what we make possible for others.

If Maybe… can inspire a father to have a conversation he might otherwise have avoided, then the project has already demonstrated the kind of impact I believe design should aspire to achieve.

My background in art and design has always been closely connected to curiosity and the need to give ideas a physical form. I never really saw design simply as a profession or as a way of making things look good. What attracted me was its ability to translate abstract ideas, emotions, behaviors, and cultural references into objects and experiences.

I did not grow up with a perfectly defined plan to become a designer. It was something I gradually discovered through making things, observing objects, collecting references, and becoming increasingly interested in why certain things feel meaningful while others feel disposable. Over time, that curiosity became a professional practice.

So I would not say that I always knew I wanted to be a designer. I think I always wanted to make, question, and understand things. Design simply became one of the languages through which I learned how to do that.

Monotempo Studio is an independent design and creative practice focused on objects, interiors, visual identity, and cultural projects. I founded it as a space where design could be approached with more freedom, not only as a commercial discipline, but as a way to explore ideas through form, material, symbolism, and experience.

The studio is especially interested in objects that carry a sense of ritual, permanence, and emotional value. We often work at the intersection of contemporary design and references to history, craftsmanship, memory, and everyday behavior. Rather than following trends, Monotempo tries to create work with a strong identity and a certain timelessness.

Our projects can range from product and furniture design to creative direction, editorial work, and conceptual collaborations. What connects them is the same question: how can design make an ordinary interaction feel more intentional, meaningful, or memorable?

For me, Monotempo is less about maintaining a fixed aesthetic and more about building a consistent way of thinking. The goal is to create things that feel considered, culturally aware, and capable of remaining relevant beyond the moment in which they were made.

For me, design is the act of giving intention to things.

It is not only about solving problems or making objects more beautiful. Design is a way of deciding how something should exist, how it should be used, how it should feel, and what kind of relationship it can create with a person.

I am especially interested in the point where function meets meaning. A chair can simply support the body, but design can also make it communicate permanence, intimacy, status, memory, or ritual. The same applies to a book, an interior, a package, or a small everyday object.

Good design, to me, is not necessarily loud or immediately impressive. Sometimes its greatest quality is that everything feels inevitable, as if the object could not have been resolved in any other way.

Ultimately, I see design as a form of culture. The things we create reveal how we live, what we value, and what kind of world we are trying to build.

I am most drawn to objects and spaces that become part of someone’s daily rituals.

Furniture, small functional objects, lighting, and pieces for the home interest me because they live very close to people. They are touched, used, repeated, and eventually become part of memory. I like designing things that can be useful, but that also carry a certain emotional or symbolic weight.

I am also very interested in projects where design can interact with ideas from history, literature, craftsmanship, or human behavior. That is usually where I feel most comfortable: when an object is not only solving a practical need, but also expressing a larger idea.

What excites me most is creating pieces that feel intentional and lasting. I prefer objects that people can develop a relationship with over time rather than things designed only to attract attention for a moment.

My favorite design is usually the next one.

I tend to see each project as part of an ongoing process rather than as a final achievement. Every piece teaches me something, whether about proportion, materials, function, or the way people interact with an object, and I try to carry those lessons into whatever comes next.

There are projects I am very proud of, of course, but I am more interested in what I have not designed yet. The next project always represents the possibility of doing something more precise, more meaningful, and closer to the kind of designer I am becoming.

So, in that sense, my favorite design is still ahead of me.

The first thing I designed professionally for a company was a branding project for a business related to food products, but the client itself was a digital platform.

That combination immediately interested me because it brought together two very different worlds. On one side, there was something tangible, sensory, and deeply connected to everyday life: food, products, packaging, and consumption. On the other, there was a completely digital experience that had to feel clear, contemporary, and easy to navigate.

For me, the challenge was figuring out how to make those two realities feel like part of the same identity. The brand needed to communicate something warm and physical while still functioning naturally in a digital environment.

Looking back, I think that project shaped a lot of the way I still approach design today. I became interested in these points of tension between the tangible and the digital, tradition and technology, emotion and function. I enjoy projects where different worlds have to coexist and design becomes the language that connects them.

I do not think I have a single favorite material or technology. What interests me most is the relationship between them.

I am especially drawn to materials that age well and develop character over time, such as wood, metal, leather, stone, and glass. I like materials that record use, because they allow an object to become more personal rather than simply remain pristine.

At the same time, I am very interested in digital tools and emerging technologies, particularly when they expand the way we can think, prototype, or communicate an idea.

What excites me most is when these two worlds meet: traditional materials and contemporary technology, craftsmanship and digital processes, permanence and experimentation. I think some of the most interesting design happens in that tension.

I feel the most creative when I am slightly outside of routine.

Traveling, walking through an unfamiliar city, visiting a museum, looking through old books or objects, or simply being somewhere that changes the way I normally see things tends to trigger ideas very naturally.

I also find that creativity appears when different references begin to collide. Something from architecture can suddenly connect with literature, an old object, a conversation, or a completely unrelated detail I noticed days before. That moment of connection is usually where a project begins for me.

I do not think creativity comes from forcing ideas. It comes from paying attention, collecting references, and giving them enough space to connect in unexpected ways.

I focus first on intention. Before thinking about form, I try to understand why the object should exist, what it should communicate, and what kind of relationship it might create with the person who uses it.

I am very interested in the anthropological and philosophical side of design. Objects are never completely neutral. They influence behavior, create rituals, reflect values, and often become part of the way we understand ourselves and our surroundings. A chair is not only something to sit on, just as a table is not only a surface. These objects shape habits, conversations, hierarchies, routines, and even memory.

From there, I pay a lot of attention to proportion, materiality, and detail. I like designs that feel resolved without being overworked, where every decision has a reason and nothing feels decorative simply for the sake of decoration.

I also think a lot about experience over time. I am interested in how an object feels when you first encounter it, but also how it behaves after months or years of use. Ideally, the design should become more personal, more familiar, and even more beautiful through use.

So for me, the most important aspect is coherence: the idea, function, material, emotion, and human experience should all feel like they belong to the same object.

Designing makes me feel alive.

There is a mix of curiosity, tension, concentration, and excitement in the process. At the beginning of a project, I rarely know exactly where it will end. There is usually only an intuition, a question, or an idea that needs to be understood.

I enjoy that uncertainty because it forces me to observe more carefully, question assumptions, and make decisions with intention. As the project begins to take shape, everything else tends to disappear for a while. I become completely focused on proportions, materials, details, and the relationship between the object and the person who will eventually use it.

That is probably what I value most about designing: it makes me intensely present. It reminds me that creating something is not only about producing an object, but about transforming an idea into something that did not exist before.

When a design is finally realized, I usually feel a mixture of pride, relief, and a strange sense of distance.

For so long, the project exists only in my head, in sketches, models, references, and endless decisions. Then suddenly it becomes physical. You can touch it, walk around it, use it, and see other people interact with something that once existed only as an idea.

That transition is probably the most rewarding part for me. It feels almost surreal to see an abstract thought become part of the real world.

At the same time, I rarely see a finished project as an ending. The moment it is realized, I immediately begin noticing what I learned from it, what I would change, and what it opens up for the next project.

So there is satisfaction, but also movement. Seeing a design become real makes me proud, but it also makes me want to keep going.

For me, a design is successful when it creates a meaningful relationship between an object, its function, and the person who uses it.

It has to work, of course, but function alone is not enough. A successful design should feel intuitive, coherent, and emotionally precise. It should understand human behavior rather than simply impose a form on it.

I also believe good design has the ability to remain relevant over time. Not necessarily because it looks timeless, but because it continues to make sense, to be useful, and to create value after the initial novelty disappears.

In the end, I think a design succeeds when people make it part of their lives. When an object begins to create habits, memories, attachment, or even rituals, it has gone beyond being simply well designed. It has become meaningful.

The first thing I look for is coherence.

I ask whether the form, function, material, context, and intended experience are all working toward the same idea. A design can be visually beautiful and still feel unsuccessful if those elements contradict each other.

I also consider intention. I want to understand why a decision was made and whether that decision actually improves the relationship between the object and the person using it. Good design should feel deliberate rather than arbitrary.

After that, I look at proportion, materiality, usability, and how the object behaves over time. I am especially interested in whether it respects human behavior, whether it creates unnecessary friction, and whether it has enough depth to remain interesting beyond the first impression.

So I do not judge a design as good or bad based only on aesthetics. For me, good design is when intention, function, emotion, and human experience feel aligned.

I think one of the biggest responsibilities of a designer is to understand that every object we create will occupy space, consume resources, and influence behavior.

For me, materials are a key part of that responsibility, but not simply because they can be labeled “eco” or sustainable. A material should be chosen because it makes sense for the object, because it can perform well, age with dignity, and ideally remain relevant for a long time.

I am much more interested in longevity than in superficial sustainability. An object made from an “ecological” material but designed to be replaced quickly can still be irresponsible. On the other hand, a well-designed object that lasts for decades, can be repaired, develops character, and continues to be valued has a very different relationship with consumption.

Designers also have a cultural responsibility. We shape habits, desires, and expectations through the things we create. So I think we should design with enough intention to avoid unnecessary objects, unnecessary complexity, and unnecessary waste.

Good design should not only ask, “Can this be made?” but also, “Should it exist, how long should it last, and what kind of relationship will people have with it?”

I think the design field is evolving in two very clear directions.

On one side, there will be designers who move toward increasingly technological processes: artificial intelligence, advanced manufacturing, digital environments, automation, and new materials. On the other, I think we will also see a strong return to the human side of design: craftsmanship, tactility, imperfection, local knowledge, and objects that feel made rather than simply produced.

For me, however, the most interesting territory is not at either extreme. It is in the ability to combine both.

I believe the future of design will depend on how well we can bring together the craftsmanship and material intelligence of the past with the tools and possibilities of the future. We should not abandon centuries of knowledge about making, proportion, materials, and human interaction simply because new technologies exist. At the same time, tradition should not become nostalgia.

The real opportunity is to use technology to extend human skill rather than replace it. To create objects that can benefit from advanced processes while still carrying evidence of touch, intention, culture, and craftsmanship.

I think the most relevant designers of the future will be those who can move comfortably between these two worlds: understanding both the hand and the machine.

My most recent exhibitions and public presentations have been more closely related to my book and editorial work, which for me is still deeply connected to design. Even when the final format is a book, I approach it through many of the same ideas that shape my design practice: structure, materiality, visual language, experience, and the relationship between an object and the person interacting with it.

For my next exhibition, I would love to return more directly to objects and product design, ideally with a body of work that brings together furniture, functional objects, and some of the research I have been developing around ritual, materiality, and human behavior.

A place like Museo Franz Mayer in Mexico City would be particularly meaningful to me because of its strong relationship with design, decorative arts, craftsmanship, and contemporary material culture. I think it would be the right kind of context for the type of work I want to develop next: objects that sit somewhere between function, cultural research, and personal expression.

My inspiration rarely comes from design alone.

I find ideas in architecture, literature, philosophy, old objects, craftsmanship, travel, cinema, fashion, and even in small everyday behaviors. I am especially interested in understanding why certain objects, spaces, or rituals remain meaningful over time while others disappear almost immediately.

A large part of my creative process is simply paying attention. I collect references constantly, not always with a specific project in mind. Sometimes an architectural detail, a sentence in a book, an antique object, or the way someone uses an everyday tool stays with me for months before finding its place in a design.

I also feed my creativity by moving between different disciplines. I think the most interesting ideas often appear when two unrelated worlds collide: history and technology, craft and industry, philosophy and function, or something deeply traditional combined with a very contemporary process.

For me, creativity is less about waiting for inspiration and more about building a rich visual and intellectual archive, then allowing those references to connect in unexpected ways.

I would describe my design style as contemporary, but deeply informed by history, ritual, material culture, and a great respect for what came before us.

There is also something almost transhumant in the way I approach design. I am interested in moving between territories, disciplines, periods, and ways of making, carrying knowledge from one context into another. Much like transhumance depends on movement without losing a sense of origin, I believe design can evolve constantly while still remaining connected to memory, tradition, and place.

I am not interested in reproducing the past or turning tradition into nostalgia. I prefer to understand why certain objects, materials, techniques, and proportions have survived for decades or centuries, and then ask how that knowledge can be translated into contemporary life.

That dialogue between past and future is probably one of the strongest characteristics of my work. I am attracted to craftsmanship and inherited knowledge, but also to technology, new manufacturing processes, and contemporary ways of living. For me, innovation becomes more meaningful when it does not erase what existed before it.

Formally, I tend to prefer strong proportions, honest materials, clear gestures, and details that reveal themselves gradually. I like objects that age well, develop character, and become more personal through use.

My approach usually begins with the human being rather than the form. I try to understand the behavior, ritual, necessity, or emotion behind an object first, and then look at what history has already learned about that relationship before deciding what should be preserved, transformed, or reinterpreted.

For me, design is a continuous movement between memory and possibility: culturally rooted but forward-looking, functional but emotional, and always respectful of the people, knowledge, and objects that came before us.

I live in Mexico, and I think the cultural heritage of the country inevitably influences the way I design.

Mexico has an extraordinary relationship with material culture. There is a deep presence of craft, architecture, ritual, symbolism, local techniques, and objects that have been refined through generations. Living here constantly reminds me that design existed long before it was formalized as a profession. People have always shaped tools, furniture, spaces, and objects according to climate, resources, beliefs, and everyday life.

That has influenced the way I think about materials, permanence, and the relationship between people and objects. I am particularly interested in the respect for inherited knowledge and in understanding how traditional ways of making can remain relevant without simply being reproduced.

One of the great advantages of designing in Mexico is precisely that richness. There is access to extraordinary craftsmanship, diverse materials, and very different cultural references within the same country. That gives designers an enormous visual and intellectual vocabulary.

The challenge is that many of these traditions can easily be reduced to decoration or used superficially. For me, the responsibility is to engage with them with respect and understanding, not simply borrow their appearance.

There are also practical challenges in terms of manufacturing consistency, access to certain technologies, and scaling production. But in a way, those limitations can also force better decisions. They encourage adaptation, resourcefulness, and a closer relationship with makers and processes.

I think designing in Mexico teaches you to work between two realities: an incredibly deep cultural past and a very contemporary, rapidly changing present. That tension is something I find extremely valuable.

I usually work with companies as a collaborator rather than simply as a service provider.

I like to begin by understanding the company beyond the immediate brief: its history, values, audience, ambitions, internal culture, and the way it wants to position itself in the world. From there, I try to identify the real design problem, which is not always the same as the problem initially presented.

My process is very research-driven. I look at the cultural context, the market, the user, the materials, and the behavior surrounding the product or brand. Once that foundation is clear, I begin translating those ideas into a visual, physical, or strategic language.

I also value close dialogue with the people inside the company. The best projects usually happen when there is trust and when design is treated as part of the decision-making process rather than something added at the end.

Whether I am working on an object, a brand, an interior, or a broader creative direction, my goal is always the same: to create something that feels specific to that company, coherent with its identity, and strong enough to remain relevant over time.

My first suggestion would be to choose a designer for the way they think, not only for the way their work looks.

A strong portfolio is important, of course, but companies should also pay attention to how a designer understands problems, asks questions, conducts research, and makes decisions. Style can be adapted; judgment is much harder to replace.

I also think companies should look for alignment. The best designer is not necessarily the most famous or the most awarded, but the one whose way of thinking fits the culture, ambitions, and values of the company.

Once that relationship begins, trust becomes essential. Companies should provide context, access, and clear objectives, but also allow the designer enough freedom to challenge assumptions. If every decision is predetermined, then the designer is simply being used as an execution tool.

Good design usually comes from dialogue. The company understands its business, its history, and its audience; the designer brings an external perspective, cultural awareness, and a different way of framing the problem.

So I would say: select designers for their thinking, give them enough information to understand the real problem, and then give them enough trust to propose something you may not have imagined yourself.

My design process is quite natural, but also a little obsessive.

Sometimes an idea appears because of something I read, heard, saw, or simply thought about, and once it takes hold, it can stay in my mind for days or even months. There are ideas I genuinely have difficulty letting go of until I understand them properly or manage to turn them into something real.

From there, the process usually moves between two very different states. Some parts require a great deal of leisure, observation, wandering, reading, collecting references, and allowing connections to happen without forcing them. Other parts require almost the opposite: discipline, repetition, technical decisions, prototyping, refinement, and the patience to keep working on the same detail until it feels right.

I think my personality works well with both sides. I enjoy the freedom of letting an idea develop organically, but I also enjoy the rigor required to actually build it.

Once a project becomes more concrete, I begin researching the human and cultural context around it: who will use it, what behavior or ritual surrounds it, what has existed before, and what can be learned from history, craftsmanship, materials, and technology.

Then I move into sketches, models, prototypes, proportions, and details. The process is rarely linear. I constantly move back and forth between intuition and analysis, freedom and discipline, until the object begins to feel inevitable.

For me, design usually begins as an idea I cannot stop thinking about, and the process ends when that idea has finally found a physical form.

have many different kinds of objects at home, but the ones that matter most to me are usually not only aesthetically interesting. They carry some kind of emotional weight, memory, or personal meaning.

The first would be an Asian folding screen from the 1960s. It is almost entirely about craftsmanship for me. Every time I look at it, I think about the amount of patience, skill, repetition, and human labor that must have gone into making it. I love objects that allow you to imagine the hands and the process behind them.

The second is an abstract painting by a Mexican artist from the 1980s. The mixture of textures, colors, and forms always reminds me a little of how my own mind works: apparently disconnected ideas somehow finding a way to exist together. I like that it feels chaotic and coherent at the same time.

The third is a transparent Murano glass ashtray with red details. I have always had a strange fascination with ashtrays as objects, and I collect them from different places around the world. There is something interesting to me about how such a small and functional object has been interpreted in so many materials, cultures, and periods. I found this particular one at a flea market and immediately fell in love with it.

The fourth is my white Panton chair. It was the first iconic design object I was able to buy for myself, so beyond the design itself, it represents a very specific moment in my life. It was probably one of the first times I felt I was beginning to build the kind of environment I had imagined for myself.

The last one is a small chicken-shaped piggy bank that I bought directly from an Indigenous artisan in a small town in Mexico. I love it because you can clearly see the handwork, the irregularities, and the person behind the object. But it also carries something more personal for me. It connects me to Mexican craft, to heritage, and to a way of making that existed long before design became a formal profession.

I think these five objects explain quite well what I value in design. I am attracted to beauty, of course, but even more to objects that carry evidence of time, craftsmanship, memory, culture, and human presence.

My days are usually very different from one another, but they tend to move between two things I value equally: discipline and pleasure.

I like to start the day slowly when I can. Waking up without immediately rushing into noise, having coffee, reading something, thinking, or simply allowing a little space before the day properly begins.

Exercise is also an important part of my routine. I enjoy going to the gym, training hard, and pushing my body beyond what feels comfortable. There is something very grounding about physical effort and discipline, especially because so much of my work happens in my head.

But I also protect moments of complete leisure. Time without productivity, without a screen, and sometimes without any particular stimulus at all. I think boredom, silence, and doing nothing are surprisingly important. They give ideas somewhere to appear.

Work can mean designing, writing, researching, visiting workshops, looking at materials, or simply following an idea that has become impossible to ignore. Some days are very structured; others are much more instinctive.

And then there is the part of life I probably value most: spending time with people I love. Sharing a good meal, having a conversation that can move from something completely superficial to something unexpectedly profound, laughing, drinking something good, or simply being together without needing the moment to achieve anything.

I suppose my ideal day is not about maximizing productivity. It is about having enough discipline to build something meaningful, enough curiosity to remain awake to the world, and enough pleasure and affection to actually enjoy being in it.

My main advice would be to develop judgment before developing style.

Style changes, trends change, software changes, and technology changes very quickly. Judgment is what allows you to understand why something works, why it does not, what deserves to exist, and what is simply noise.

I would also encourage young designers to study far beyond design. Read history, philosophy, anthropology, literature, architecture, economics, and anything that helps you understand human behavior. Design becomes much more interesting when your references do not come only from other designers.

Learn how things are actually made. Spend time with materials, workshops, craftspeople, manufacturers, and production processes. A screen can hide many bad decisions. Reality is much less forgiving.

Do not rush to find a personal style. Build a personal way of thinking first. Style usually appears as a consequence.

And perhaps most importantly, respect what came before you. Innovation does not require pretending that everything invented before your generation was wrong. Study tradition, understand it, question it, and then decide what is worth carrying forward.

Finally, be obsessive about the things that genuinely interest you. The designers who become interesting are usually the ones who keep following questions long after everyone else has moved on to the next trend.

Create a life rich enough that design is not your only source of ideas. Travel when you can, read, fall in love, get bored, train your body, have long conversations, collect strange objects, and pay attention to ordinary life. In the end, you can only design from what you have learned to see.

One of the best things about being a designer is that you learn to look at the world very closely.

You become sensitive to proportion, materials, behavior, systems, objects, spaces, and small details that many people might pass by without noticing. That way of seeing can make everyday life much richer. You are constantly asking why something exists the way it does and imagining how it could be different.

Design also gives you the privilege of turning ideas into something tangible. There is something deeply satisfying about taking something that existed only in your mind and watching it become part of someone else’s reality.

But I think the negative side comes from the same place.

Once you train yourself to notice everything, it can become difficult to stop. You see the badly resolved detail, the uncomfortable chair, the unnecessary object, the material that will age poorly, or the decision that almost worked but did not. Design can make you more attentive, but also more restless.

There is also a certain frustration in having ideas that are often ahead of the resources, technology, budget, or time available to make them exactly as you imagined them.

So I think being a designer is both a gift and a burden: you develop a heightened sensitivity to the world, and then you have to live with everything that sensitivity allows you to see.

Human first.

Before thinking about aesthetics, technology, trends, or even the object itself, I try to understand the person who will interact with it.

Design should respond to human behavior, needs, emotions, rituals, limitations, and desires. An object can be visually impressive or technologically advanced, but if it ignores the person using it, something fundamental has failed.

For me, the human being is not simply the “user” at the end of the process. They are the starting point.

Everything else comes after: form, material, function, technology, production. Those decisions should support the human experience, not compete with it.

So my golden rule is very simple: human first, always.

I think curiosity is probably the most important skill a designer can have.

A good designer should be interested in far more than design itself. History, anthropology, technology, art, literature, psychology, craftsmanship, business, human behavior: all of these worlds can become material for design.

The second skill is the ability to connect ideas that do not obviously belong together. I think some of the most interesting work appears when a designer can take references from completely different places and synthesize them into something coherent and new. Not simply combining them for novelty, but understanding what each one contributes and why they belong together.

I would also add judgment. Designers are constantly making decisions: what to keep, what to remove, what deserves attention, what is unnecessary, and when something is actually finished. Technical skills can be learned and tools will continue to change, but good judgment takes much longer to develop.

Finally, I think observation and empathy are essential. You need to understand how people actually live, not how you imagine they should live.

So for me, the most important skills are curiosity, synthesis, judgment, and the ability to pay close attention to people and the world around you.

My toolbox is quite mixed because I do not separate technical tools from intellectual or cultural ones.

On the practical side, I use sketching, digital drawing, 3D modeling, rendering, graphic design software, photography, physical models, and prototypes. I like moving constantly between the screen and the physical world because each one reveals different problems. Digital tools are useful for speed and precision, but scale, weight, texture, ergonomics, and material behavior still need to be experienced physically.

But probably the most important part of my toolbox is not software at all.

Books are constantly present in my process, particularly around design, architecture, philosophy, anthropology, art, history, and human behavior. Museums, flea markets, antique stores, workshops, travel, old catalogues, films, conversations, and photography are equally important sources of information.

I also collect objects, which has become a kind of informal design education. Taking an old object in your hands and studying how it was made, repaired, aged, and used can sometimes teach you more than looking at hundreds of images on a screen.

So my toolbox is really a combination of technical tools, craftsmanship, observation, research, and accumulated references. The tools themselves may change, but curiosity and the ability to connect what you find remain the most important ones.

I always feel like I have time to spare, because I am not designing for immediacy.

I do not believe every idea needs to become a finished object as quickly as possible. Some projects need time to mature, to be questioned, forgotten for a while, and then revisited with a different perspective. I would rather give an idea the time it deserves than rush it simply to produce something new.

That does not mean my process lacks structure. Quite the opposite. I am very disciplined when a project enters the development stage. I organize priorities, set deadlines, divide large problems into smaller decisions, and protect specific periods of uninterrupted work.

I also try to distinguish between creative time and execution time. Creativity sometimes requires openness, leisure, reading, walking, or simply allowing the mind to wander. Execution requires discipline, repetition, precision, and knowing when to stop questioning and start making.

Managing my time is really about knowing which state a project requires. I can be very patient with an idea, but once I know where it needs to go, I become extremely disciplined about getting it there.

So I do not try to work faster. I try to give each part of the process the right amount of time.

It can vary enormously.

The fastest project I have designed from beginning to end took around a week and a half. Everything aligned very quickly: the idea was clear, the decisions came naturally, and the object almost seemed to resolve itself.

On the other end, I have projects that I have been working on for years and still do not consider finished. Sometimes the difficulty is technical, sometimes conceptual, and sometimes I simply know the idea has not reached the level it deserves yet.

I do not believe every project should follow the same timeline. Some ideas arrive almost complete; others need to mature slowly, change direction, or even disappear for a while before returning.

For me, the right amount of time is simply the time the object needs to become coherent.

One of the questions I get asked most often is: “How do you know when a design is finished?”

My answer is that I usually do not know because everything has been added. I know because there is nothing left that feels unnecessary.

For me, finishing a design is less about reaching perfection and more about reaching coherence. The proportions, materials, function, details, and human experience have to feel aligned. At some point, continuing to modify the object stops improving it and begins to weaken it.

That judgment takes time to develop. It comes from experience, observation, making mistakes, studying what has endured, and learning when to trust your own eye.

So I think the real question behind “How do you know when it is finished?” is actually “How do you develop judgment?” And that is probably one of the hardest parts of becoming a designer.

My most important professional experience has probably been building my own design practice.

Working independently forced me to understand design beyond the creative part. I had to learn how to deal with clients, production, budgets, suppliers, deadlines, communication, strategy, and all the less glamorous parts that ultimately determine whether an idea can exist in the real world.

It also gave me something even more valuable: the space to develop my own judgment.

When you work on your own projects, there is no one else to blame for a weak decision. You have to learn when to trust your intuition, when to question it, when to compromise, and when not to.

That experience shaped the way I work today more than any single project. It taught me that being a designer is not only about having ideas. It is about taking responsibility for turning those ideas into something real, coherent, and worth existing.

I work with a very diverse range of clients, both private and corporate.

A significant part of my practice involves private commissions, particularly furniture, decorative objects, and pieces developed for specific interiors or personal collections. I enjoy that type of work because it allows for a very close relationship between the object, the space, and the person who will live with it.

At the same time, I have worked with medium-sized and large companies across very different industries, including technology, food, travel, construction, and consumer products. Those projects often involve a broader combination of design, branding, product thinking, and creative direction.

What I find most interesting is precisely that variety. Working with a private client on a very personal object requires a completely different sensitivity from working with a large company, but both demand the same thing from me: understanding the context, asking the right questions, and creating something that feels specific rather than generic.

So my client base is intentionally quite broad. I enjoy moving between intimate, highly personal commissions and larger commercial projects because each one exercises a different part of the design process.

The type of design work I enjoy the most is usually whatever I am most obsessed with at that moment.

Some projects pull me toward the conceptual side of design: research, ideas, behavior, symbolism, and building a larger narrative around an object. Others take me much closer to the manual side of the process: materials, craftsmanship, prototyping, and the physical pleasure of making something with your hands.

I genuinely enjoy both, and I think I need both.

But the projects I enjoy most are the ones that completely take over my attention. When I become obsessed with an idea, I can give it enormous amounts of energy without experiencing it as work. It becomes much closer to play.

That is probably the best state for me creatively: when curiosity becomes obsession, discipline becomes almost automatic, and the project starts pulling me forward instead of me having to push it.

So I would not define my favorite type of design by category. My favorite project is usually the one I cannot stop thinking about.

My future plans are centered on expanding the work I am already developing across design, writing, and cultural projects.

On the design side, I want to continue building a stronger body of objects and furniture, especially pieces that explore ritual, materiality, craftsmanship, and the relationship between tradition and contemporary technology. I am also interested in exhibiting more of this work internationally and collaborating with companies and makers who share that way of thinking.

At the same time, writing has become an increasingly important part of my practice. I am continuing to develop essays and editorial projects that explore many of the same questions I approach through design, but from a different language.

What excites me most is not separating those disciplines too much. I want the next stage of my work to become more integrated: objects, books, spaces, exhibitions, and collaborations that all belong to the same larger conversation.

So what is next for me is growth, but not simply in scale. I am more interested in depth, stronger ideas, better objects, more ambitious collaborations, and creating work that can travel further without losing its identity.

I genuinely enjoy working alone, but I also love working with a team.

There are parts of the design process that I need to do by myself, especially the early stages of thinking, developing concepts, questioning ideas, and defining the direction of a project. I value that solitude because it allows me to understand what I am actually trying to create before introducing other voices.

At the same time, I am very aware that I cannot, and should not, do everything myself.

Some projects require the hands of craftspeople who understand a material far better than I ever could. Others involve philosophical, anthropological, technical, or cultural questions where I prefer to work with people who have real expertise in those fields. I think good design becomes stronger when you know when to bring the right person into the process.

So I see myself both as an individual designer and as a kind of conductor. My role is often to create the central idea, define the direction, and then understand when each specialist should enter, what they can contribute, and how all those different forms of knowledge can work together.

For me, collaboration is not about diluting authorship. It is about making the project more intelligent, more precise, and more capable of surviving the passage of time.

At the moment, I am developing a line of objects that is closely connected to a second book I am writing.

The project explores the idea of reclaiming leisure, slowness, and certain forms of worldly pleasure that contemporary life often treats as unnecessary, unproductive, or even guilty. I am interested in the space between indulgence and excess, ritual and habit, pleasure and self-control.

The objects are not meant to simply illustrate the book. They are another way of thinking through the same ideas, but through materials, function, and physical experience. I am exploring pieces related to domestic rituals, rest, conversation, smoking, drinking, and other small acts that can become meaningful when they are approached with intention.

What interests me most is creating a dialogue between the written and the physical: the book develops the argument, while the objects allow some of those ideas to be experienced.

It is still a work in progress, which is precisely why I am enjoying it so much. I do not yet know exactly where it will end, but right now it is probably the project occupying most of my attention.

For professional inquiries, collaborations, commissions, exhibitions, or editorial projects, people can reach me through the studio’s website or social media. I also use Instagram quite actively, especially to share ongoing work, objects, writing, and parts of the creative process.

I try to keep communication quite direct. If someone has an interesting idea, project, collaboration, or simply something worth discussing, I am usually happy to hear about it.

Mail: hello@peguel.com

Phone:+5212218500271

Ig:@peguel

Perhaps the only thing I would add is that I do not really see design as something separate from the rest of my life.

The way I design is connected to the way I read, travel, collect objects, write, train, observe people, spend time alone, and have conversations. All of those experiences eventually become part of the work. Design, for me, is simply one way of processing the world.

I am increasingly interested in building a practice that is not defined by a single discipline. Sometimes an idea becomes an object, sometimes a book, a space, an exhibition, or a conversation. What matters to me is the question behind it and whether the final result carries enough meaning to justify its existence.

I also believe we are living in a moment where designers have enormous access to tools, references, and technology, but perhaps that makes judgment, curiosity, and humanity even more important. I want my work to remain connected to those things: respect for what came before us, attention to the present, and curiosity about what comes next.

If there is a larger ambition behind everything I do, it is probably to create work that feels deeply human and that can survive beyond the moment in which it was created.