Interviews with Luisa Gonzalez Mijares

I studied architecture, following in the footsteps of my father, who was an architect and an inspiration. To broaden my scope and operational understanding, I completed further studies in health centers management. Later, driven by a deep interest in traditional craftsmanship and functional form, I trained in carpentry and furniture making at Cornwall College in Camborne. This combination of structural thinking, administrative insight, and hands-on making defines my approach to design today.

What motivates me at my core is the challenge of problem-solving—identifying everyday friction and turning it into a seamless solution. Every design problem is an opportunity to improve how we interact with the world around us.

My journey into design began with my father, an architect. Since I was a child, he would sit with me and teach me how to build things—from simple toys to improvised robots. That early experience left a lasting mark. Beyond just making objects, it taught me the power of creative agency: the incredible feeling of imagining an idea in your mind and then bringing it into tangible reality. That passion for turning thought into form has driven me ever since.

I chose to become a designer entirely out of my own passion. As a child, my curiosity pulled me in many different directions—at various points, I wanted to pursue criminology or psychology. Ultimately, I realized that architecture and design allowed me to synthesize those exact interests: understanding human behavior, analyzing complex systems, and creating physical environments that shape how people live. Choosing this path was fully my own decision, and looking back, it remains the best decision I have ever made.

I don't limit myself to a single medium or category. Given my background across architecture, space management, and furniture making, my work spans from structural environments to tactile physical objects.

Ultimately, what defines my portfolio is not a specific type of object, but the degree of the challenge. If a project lacks complexity, it doesn't spark my interest. I am continuously drawn to work that pushes my thinking—designs that force me to solve intricate functional problems, navigate tight real-world constraints, and tackle multi-faceted situations simultaneously. Moving forward, I want to design more projects that demand this level of deep, strategic problem-solving, regardless of the scale or medium.

I also have a passion for transformation, this desire to restore and transform extends directly into how I approach design as a whole. I find immense satisfaction in taking objects or spaces that seem irreparable and rethinking them—giving them new life, purpose, and form.

Whether I am designing something from scratch or restoring a broken object, the core motivation remains the same: taking a complex problem, working through its constraints, and using craftsmanship to turn neglect or failure into functional beauty.

To become a true master of the craft, It must be something you genuinely love doing—a core passion where spending hours at work feels effortless and every minute brings joy. When design stops feeling like a chore and becomes something you live and breathe, the quality of your output shifts dramatically.

My advice to the next generation is simple:

* Find your deep passion: Don't just follow popular trends or safe paths. Look for the specific intersection of design, making, or problem-solving that sparks your curiosity and keeps you completely engaged.

* Build resilience: Passion gets you started, but resilience keeps you going. Design involves constant trial, error, and overcoming complex constraints. You have to push through setbacks without losing your drive.

* Enjoy the process: Focus on the delight of creation, the joy of turning abstract ideas into tangible reality, and the thrill of solving difficult problems.

When you align deep passion with relentless perseverance, excellence and legacy naturally follow.

A good designer creates functional, aesthetically pleasing solutions that meet a brief. A great designer, however, operates with deep ethical responsibility, personal conviction, and an understanding of human impact.

For me, the distinction lies in the weight of responsibility and ethics you bring to your work. A great designer isn't just focused on execution—they hold an unwavering commitment and a deep belief in what they are creating. They look beyond immediate requirements to consider how materials are used, how objects are made, and how their work affects human lives and the environment over time. Ultimately, good design solves a simple problem, but great design creates a lasting, meaningful impact that elevates how people live and interact with the world around them.

A good design becomes a truly great design when every single element—from the choice of materials to the structural details—rows in the exact same direction to serve its core purpose. It is about total alignment. When you deeply understand the final function of an object, every decision you make becomes intentional, ensuring the physical reality perfectly fulfills its intended reason for being.

I evaluate design primarily through function, material intelligence, and coherence rather than pure aesthetics. Aesthetics are inherently subjective; what is appealing to one person might not be to another, but taste alone does not define quality. If an object fulfills its purpose seamlessly and utilizes materials in a way that directly supports that function, it is a success. True design evaluation asks whether the object solves the problem it set out to address with clarity, integrity, and absolute utility.

Good design holds three distinct layers of value: functional, material, and emotional.

The functional value ensures that an object performs its intended job effortlessly, saving time and removing daily friction. The material value reflects durability, quality construction, and thoughtful resource selection, meaning the object is built to last rather than be discarded. The emotional value is the connection it creates—the satisfaction and joy derived from interacting with something well-crafted.

When you invest in good design, you are investing in the research, expertise, and problem-solving required to bring those three values together. You are essentially investing in your own success by choosing a solution designed to serve its purpose reliably and meaningfully, rather than settling for something temporary or poorly considered.

I would design for anyone who comes to me with an interesting, complex problem that truly tickles my brain. I refuse to box myself in or reserve my work for a specific demographic, brand, or elite clientele. An everyday person bringing a deeply nuanced, real-world challenge can spark an idea just as powerful and important as a brief from a famous designer or major corporation.

As for what I would design, the specific object or medium doesn't matter to me. What matters is the nature of the challenge itself. If a project forces me to think differently, push past conventional solutions, and untangle a difficult puzzle—whether it's an architectural space, a piece of furniture, or a complex business—that is what I want to build. I want to design anything that demands deep problem-solving and offers the chance to transform a genuine struggle into something functional, resilient, and beautifully executed.

dream isn't a distant, unrealized goal—it is my everyday reality. Every new project that comes across my desk, every minute I spend working with my hands in the workshop, and every late night spent staring at the ceiling because a new idea won't let me sleep is the realization of that dream.

I don't look at the future waiting for a hypothetical "pinnacle" assignment to come along. The privilege of waking up, facing new challenges, engaging deeply in the creative process, and bringing ideas into physical existence is the dream I am actively living every single day.

Analyzing the true end use of a product and embracing mistakes along the way form the core of great design. Understanding scope grounds the work in real-world constraints and human needs, while treating early failures as necessary discovery keeps the process moving forward. The key to making this work seamlessly is intellectual honesty—holding concepts loosely, leaving ego out of the critique, and immediately pivoting the moment feedback shows a direction isn't serving the ultimate goal.

While I respect the traditional design masters, I deliberately avoid immersing myself in existing designs or visual trends. It is almost impossible to study another designer's work without unintentionally absorbing their solutions, which risks diluting the originality of your own output. My commitment is to keep the creative process honest by relying on what emerges directly from first principles rather than borrowed aesthetics. My true inspiration comes from the raw challenge of the problem itself, the patterns and efficiency found in nature, and an unyielding focus on the final utility of the object.

Beyond individual product designers, I draw immense inspiration from Scandinavian design as a movement, alongside the dynamic world of kinetic art and optical illusion.

The power of Scandinavian design lies in how seamlessly it balances simplicity, the raw beauty of natural materials, and uncompromised human comfort. It proves that functional objects do not need unnecessary ornament to be captivating; when you respect the material and prioritize utility, timeless elegance follows naturally.

At the same time, I am deeply drawn to kinetism, with Venezuelan artist Carlos Cruz-Diez serving as a monumental influence on my perception of form, color, and space. His ability to transform static surfaces into evolving, interactive visual experiences shows how design can invite active engagement from the observer. Combining the serene, grounded utility of Scandinavian design with the vibrant, dynamic energy of kinetic art allows me to approach objects not just as static shapes, but as living interactions.

Every design carries its own distinct value, as each presents a unique problem to solve regardless of scale. A compact, hand-held object can present far greater engineering complexity than a massive installation, proving that true achievement in design is measured by the depth of the challenge rather than physical size.

Currently, the Dutch staircase , a project and concept brought to me by renown Architect Alex de Rijke stands out as a particular point of pride due to its extraordinary technical demands. Because no two components are identical, every single piece requires its own precise calculations, bespoke fabrication, and custom fitting. Overcoming that level of continuous, non-repetitive complexity while maintaining structural integrity and visual harmony makes the process deeply rewarding.

Becoming a better designer comes down to relentless research, unyielding curiosity, and an absolute refusal to accept the first available answer. True growth happens when you push past obvious solutions, test alternative possibilities, and allow yourself the freedom to dream and invent beyond existing constraints. In my own practice, I never settle on the initial concept; I dig deeply into first principles, test assumptions through hands-on experimentation, and treat every iteration as a chance to discover something entirely new. Constantly asking questions, proving ideas in reality, and staying fiercely curious are the only ways to build work that is genuinely original and functional.

I would have become an inventor, which ultimately would have brought me right back to being a designer anyway. For me, the fundamental drive has always been about identifying a problem, discovering how things work, and building novel solutions from scratch. Invention requires the exact same cycle of deep research, experimentation, and accepting mistakes as necessary steps toward a functional breakthrough. Since bringing an invention into reality requires giving it form, utility, and purpose, the path of an inventor and the path of a designer are completely inseparable.

For me, design is purely about identifying a problem or a need and finding a solution for it. It is not just about decorative aesthetics or following temporary trends; it is a discipline of purpose, functional clarity, and problem-solving. Whether addressing a complex engineering challenge, an unmet human requirement, or a physical constraint, design exists to bridge the gap between an existing problem and a working, meaningful outcome.

I was extremely fortunate to have my parents as my primary foundation and supporters early on. As an adult, that role belongs to my wife, who gives me the strength to keep dreaming, pushing boundaries, and going further than I could on my own.

My foundation was built by my father and my professors at the Universidad Central de Venezuela, where I studied architecture. They were extraordinary educators—rigorous, immensely knowledgeable, and strict in their standards—and their teachings remain the pillars of everything I create today. Later in my journey, studying furniture design at Cornwall College in Camborne proved to be the next transformative step. That combination of rigorous architectural discipline and hands-on furniture craft gave me both the structural mindset and the material intimacy needed to excel.

Obstacles are entirely a matter of perception—they exist mostly in our heads. Throughout my journey, whenever challenges or setbacks appeared, my approach was to see them coming, acknowledge their presence, let them go, and keep moving steadily toward my goal. By refusing to let external resistance or temporary failures turn into mental roadblocks, I kept my energy focused strictly on the work, the research, and the continuous push forward.

Every designer should feel complete freedom to present their work in whatever way they choose. The method of presentation is not just a delivery vehicle; it is an active component of the design itself. How you frame, structure, and communicate your concepts becomes an extension of your overall creative philosophy, offering as much insight into your vision and problem-solving process as the final object or art piece itself.

While I have several projects lined up, the only thing you should truly expect from me is to remain joyful, playful, and fully engaged with my work. I hold no rigid expectations for the future, which makes it impossible to predict exactly what form the next creation will take. What I know with certainty is that every new project is a sacred space—a dedicated opportunity to dream, to conduct deep research, and to find happiness in the act of creation.

My ultimate goal as a designer is simply to enjoy the act of creation, grounded in total responsibility and commitment. Whether I am delivering for a client, shaping a private space, or honoring my personal creative philosophy, success means staying true to my core beliefs while bringing genuine passion and integrity to every project I touch.

I surrendered worrying about other people's expectations long ago. What others expect is entirely out of your control, and dwelling on it only creates unnecessary noise. The only person you must set high expectations for is yourself—by staying committed to your standards, remaining intellectually honest, and holding your work to the absolute highest level of integrity.

Design has historically shaped society by tailoring the built world to human needs, from ergonomic tools and efficient workspaces to the deliberate choice of visuals, textures, and materials. When you deeply understand what society requires, design seamlessly integrates with those needs to elevate the overall quality of life and transform how people perceive and experience the spaces they inhabit.

As I touched on earlier, I am currently immersed in the development of a Dutch staircase. It is an extraordinarily complex piece, and what excites me most is how it continually challenges my intellect—requiring constant problem-solving to navigate its unique geometry and technical demands.

The project that stands out most vividly is my architecture thesis, which focused on designing a youth correctional facility. It was an exceptionally rewarding project because the design challenges went far beyond pure architecture and spatial planning. I had to integrate stringent security requirements with psychological considerations, crafting spaces that could foster rehabilitation, offer dignity and privacy, and show young offenders the possibility of a better life. Navigating those complex, deeply human dynamics made the experience extraordinarily profound.

I would like to see a return to true craftsmanship—resuming traditional, proven techniques that are built to last rather than discarded after short-term use. Industry focus needs to shift toward genuine quality and a deep responsibility to the function of an object, prioritizing utility, structural integrity, and purpose over purely sculptural forms that serve no real human need.

The design field is heading rapidly toward AI, advanced 3D printing, CNC machining, and robotic digital fabrication. Artificial intelligence can now generate in seconds what used to require weeks of manual development, drastically accelerating early exploration. While these computational solutions offer unprecedented speed and precision, the future of design will depend on how we balance this technological power with the depth, human intent, and material authenticity of traditional craftsmanship.

There is no fixed timeframe—it varies entirely based on the complexity of the challenge. I have designed and fully built massive office spaces in just three months, while certain furniture pieces or technical art objects might take three to six months to resolve properly. I deliberately avoid imposing rigid timelines on the creative process; the joy of creation, deep research, and iterative problem-solving are directly tied to the final quality and integrity of the work.

I always start with the core need—defining what the project is intended for, who will use it, and its practical demands. From there, I evaluate the economic and material realities, constantly weighing trade-offs like whether adapting a material choice can dramatically improve durability, ease of use, or long-term utility without compromising the fundamental balance of the piece.

Always be true to yourself and to your client. Anything less than total dedication to their needs ultimately works against you, because your reputation, your professional ethics, and your ability to genuinely integrate with the lives of others are tied to every project you deliver.

It operates in both directions—there is no single binary answer. Groundbreaking design pushes boundaries and creates new possibilities that naturally coalesce into broader cultural trends over time. Conversely, macro environmental shifts, technological breakthroughs, and societal needs create new cultural contexts that demand fresh design responses.

For me, the key is to remain disengaged from superficial trend-chasing altogether. Rather than designing for a trend or intentionally trying to start one, the focus must remain strictly on first principles: solving the core problem, respecting the material, and serving the genuine need of the project. When work is grounded in that level of integrity, it transcends temporary cycles regardless of which direction the trend is moving.

Technology is an indispensable partner in my practice. While my core passion remains rooted in traditional craftsmanship and proven techniques, certain complex geometries and precise structural demands simply could not be realized without modern tools. Technology expands the boundaries of what is possible to dream, calculate, and fabricate. However, it remains a means to an end—a powerful companion to human ingenuity rather than a replacement for material intuition and hands-on making.

My digital workflow relies on a focused set of functional tools that map directly to each stage of problem-solving: Magicplan for rapid spatial capture and on-site measurements, AutoCAD LT for precise 2D technical drafting and architectural documentation, and Fusion or SketchUp for 3D modeling, spatial prototyping, and testing complex geometries.

While these software programs accelerate precision and fabrication planning, they remain tools in service of fundamental principles—a digital extension of hand sketching, physical prototyping, and direct material engagement.

Color, material, and ambience together dictate how we experience a physical space or object. Their combination directly shapes our perception: it defines how an object is understood, dictates how a space feels, and fundamentally alters our emotional and physical state within that environment. Color establishes tone and visual weight, materials provide tactile reality and structural truth, and ambience orchestrates light and atmosphere to bring the two together. When these three elements are balanced intentionally, design moves beyond simple utility to create a complete, sensory experience.

I have never given that a second thought. I do not believe in guiding or manipulating what people should ask, feel, or think about my work.

In every interaction, I value complete honesty and spontaneity. Just as I hold myself to strict intellectual integrity in my design process, I want people to engage with my work authentically—asking whatever genuinely comes to mind, reacting without pretense, and remaining entirely true to their own perceptions.

My immediate reaction is a sense of pride and admiration for the creator. Having a very active mind, I constantly analyze how things are built and resolved. Even though experience teaches us that nearly everything has a precedent, I deeply appreciate it when another designer pushes past standard boundaries, overcoming immense technical challenges to produce a truly brilliant idea or spatial transformation. It is inspiring to see someone execute a solution that goes beyond what seemed possible.

I absolutely believe in co-design. Extraordinary strength emerges when two or more minds align around a shared vision, pushing in the exact same direction.

My ideal design partner is a dreamer—someone who refuses to settle for the path of least resistance, who continually searches for ways to refine and elevate the work, and who finds genuine joy and playfulness in the rigorous process of thinking through complex problems.

I intentionally avoid studying external designers or scouring contemporary portfolios, as I want to protect the originality of my creative process and avoid absorbing subconscious influences.

However, two sources of influence were inevitable and foundational to who I am today. The first was my father. Growing up around him, observing his work, and watching how he approached design was a constant part of my upbringing. His impact was natural and unforced, rooted in the joy of simply being near him and absorbing his creative spirit. The second was my professors at Universidad Central de Venezuela. Beyond any specific project or aesthetic they produced, what shaped me was their rigorous pedagogy. They taught me how to think critically, how to question fundamental assumptions, and how to approach design from first principles with total intellectual discipline.

I have always been prone to getting easily distracted when reading books, so after a long time of trying to force myself through text, I completely gave up. I realized that my learning and creative inspiration don't come from consuming written theory, but from direct observation, physical engagement with materials, and hands-on spatial problem-solving. Accepting this allowed me to rely on my own sensory experiences and rigorous experimentation rather than external literature to guide my work.

Developing my skills as a designer has come down to constant, relentless research and an absolute refusal to be complacent with the first solution that comes to mind. True mastery is built by continually pushing yourself beyond the obvious answer, exploring multiple iterations, and digging deeper until you uncover the most refined and effective solution. It is a lifelong commitment to continuous research, rigorous studying, and never settling for what is merely easy or immediate.

Regardless of time and space, I would want to sit down and talk with Oscar Wilde. While I have struggled to get through complete books, I have always been deeply captivated by documentaries about his life and, above all, his brilliant quotes. Wilde saw the world through a uniquely sharp lens, challenging anything that lacked logic or authenticity with peerless wit and intellectual fearlessness. Whenever I think of his perspective on life and society, it never fails to bring a smile to my face.

I recently heard a quote from a Venezuelan actress, Hilda Abrahamz that captures this distinction perfectly: fame and success are entirely different things. Fame is fleeting—here today and forgotten tomorrow. Success, on the other hand, is built through years of hard, intentional work.

Sustaining true success is inherently challenging. It carries a heavy weight of professional commitments, requiring you to manage interviews, share your expertise, and maintain rigorous discipline, all on top of executing the design work you actually love. While balancing these demands can be demanding, those moments of recognition ultimately serve as a meaningful reward for the dedication poured into the craft.

None of those preferences have a static answer for me, as they evolve over time. Years ago my favorite color was red; today it is orange, even though I rarely wear or use it directly in my work. My favorite place has nothing to do with geography—it is simply wherever I am with my family, my wife, and my cat. As long as we are together, that is where I want to be.

When it comes to food, my tastes shift continuously, though I always appreciate simple, quality staples like a well-prepared steak with rice. I find joy in all four seasons equally, as each brings a distinct atmosphere, pace, and creative inspiration. Finally, I hold no deep attachment to physical objects or specific brands. I evaluate an item purely on its intrinsic quality, craftsmanship, and design, completely independent of the label stamped on it.

This happened quite recently while working on the complex Dutch staircase project. After spending months refining every angle, verifying dimensions, and ensuring every single length matched perfectly, I decided to produce a full-scale dummy model to test the assembly before cutting into expensive final materials.

When the test pieces finally arrived from production, I walked past the pile and genuinely thought it was a heap of useless scrap wood waiting to be thrown in the skip. It took a long, hilarious second glance to realize that those strange, disjointed timber cutouts were actually the physical realization of months and months of my own meticulous mathematical and spatial design. Seeing your high-level engineering look like workshop debris before it comes together is definitely a humbling and funny reminder of the gap between 2D planning and physical fabrication.

What makes my day great as a designer is facing a genuine, complex challenge—having a real problem to solve and knowing someone is trusting me to deliver an elegant solution. The process of testing different paths and wrestling with spatial or structural puzzles is what keeps me up at night and pulls me out of bed early in the morning. Motivation isn't something I have to force; it comes naturally the moment I head into the workshop, roll up my sleeves, and get my hands directly onto the work.

It may not have been immediately obvious in the way it is with some child prodigies, but the trajectory was set very early through my environment. Every day after school, my father spent time with me, showing me how to build, construct, and think through physical structures. Spending those formative years inside his workshop and watching him invent brought design into my life naturally. That hands-on upbringing silently shaped my perspective and built the foundation for everything I do today.

I deliberately avoid spending time dwelling on things completely outside my control. I cannot know what will happen a thousand years from now, nor do I try to predict it. The past is already behind us and the future is inherently uncertain, so I see little point in speculating about distant horizons. My focus rests entirely on the present—on the physical materials in front of me, the immediate challenges to solve, and making the absolute best of the work I am doing right now.

Every individual approaches design from a unique perspective and has different interests, so I would rather leave that open to them. I prefer to honor their curiosity and welcome whatever honest, spontaneous questions they want to ask.

My introduction to the world of design happened long before I ever entered a classroom. I grew up in a household where design wasn't just a profession; it was a lifestyle. My father, Oscar Gonzalez Bustillos, was a prominent architect who served as my earliest and most profound inspiration. Watching him work, I learned to view design through a unique lens. I eventually followed in his footsteps to formally pursue Architecture, learning how to channel creative ideas into structured, functional spaces. My background is built on that exact intersection: the freedom of artistic invention paired with the rigorous problem-solving of architectural design.

What truly drove me to become a designer was witnessing the impact of my father’s work. He took architecture incredibly seriously, viewing it not just as the act of building, but as a powerful problem-solving tool to enhance the human experience. He had a beautiful way of integrating natural elements into homes and workspaces to improve people's daily lives. Seeing how a thoughtfully designed environment could genuinely transform how people feel and interact made me realize the profound responsibility and power a designer holds. I wanted to possess that same ability to solve complex problems and elevate the ways people live and workLooking back, I think it was inevitable. Since I was a little kid, my father would sit down with me after school, and together we would design and build these little inventions. He showed me how to look at the world and constantly ask, 'How can we make this better?' His mind never stopped creating, and I realized early on that mine didn't either. So, yes—design has always been my sidewing. I’ve been looking at the world through the eyes of a designer for as long as I can remember.

I operate an independent studio out of a converted garage. While it’s a compact space, I’ve intentionally designed it to maximize efficiency and comfort. Honestly, navigating the spatial constraints keeps me on my toes—it forces me to be incredibly creative with how I organize my workflow and solve daily design challenges.

Wood is absolutely the queen of my studio; it's the central element of my work and the space itself. Because precision matters so much in what I do, I’ve even custom-designed the floors with cushioning to protect my tools and pieces from damage if they drop. It’s a highly functional, incredibly cozy environment that completely reflects my design philosophy of turning constraints into beautiful solutions.

For me, design is the ultimate problem-solving tool. It’s not just about making things look beautiful; it's about making things work better. True design sits at the intersection of empathy and functionality. It requires you to look at a challenge—whether that’s a small, constrained workspace, a chaotic room, or a complex user experience—and figure out how to streamline it to enhance the human experience. Ultimately, design is intent made visible. It’s the process of turning chaos into order and constraints into opportunities

The work I enjoy most is defined by the complexity of the challenge rather than a specific medium. I specialize in turning constraints into breakthroughs. In architecture, that means reviving structures that have been written off as unrecoverable. In product and furniture design, it means taking a piece of broken furniture—and healing the 'broken heart' of the owner who thought their favourite item was gone forever.

When it comes to new pieces there is always something laying somewhere out there to be thrown away that for some reason jumps into my eye whispering ideas of what to do with it into my brain!

It’s honestly impossible for me to pick just one, because I don't look at my designs as standalone piece—I look at them as solutions. Every single project I take on is designed to solve a completely different problem for a completely different person. Because of that, every outcome is unique.

For me, a design becomes my 'favorite' the moment the problem is successfully solved and I see the client’s reaction. Whether it’s a revived piece of architecture, a restored family heirloom, or a small space made functional, if it improves the client's life and brings them joy, that project becomes my favorite.

My very first major design project actually came directly from my undergraduate thesis right after graduating as an architect from the Universidad Central de Venezuela. During the presidency of Rafael Caldera, I was contacted by INAM—the National Institute for the Attention of Minors—to design a Young Offender Institution.Because this was such a critical project, I based my entire investigation and design framework on HMP YOI Feltham in the UK, which at the time was considered the premier role model for youth institutions in Europe.

It was an incredible challenge for a young architect because it required balancing high security with genuine human rehabilitation. I had to study how spatial layouts, natural light, and therapeutic environments could positively impact the psychology and recovery of these minors. It was a true trial by fire, but it perfectly set the tone for my career, proving to me early on that architecture is a powerful tool for social problem-solving on a global standard.

If you asked me this five years ago, my answer would be completely different than it is today—and it will likely change again five years from now. I am driven by a deep curiosity, which means I am constantly shifting through different materials, platforms, and technologies.

For me, the technology or the material is just a vehicle for the idea. Whether I am using digital design software, researching international architectural models, or working with raw timber in my garage, the thrill is the same. My favorite tool is simply the one that gives me the freedom to innovate and bring a broken or unrecoverable concept back to life.

I am constantly creating in my head—ideas just spark out of the blue, at any time of day. While that might sound like the ideal state for a designer, it actually comes with a unique challenge. Because my mind never stops, I often find myself generating dozens of different solutions for a single challenge.

Sometimes, that abundance of ideas can cause a bit of analysis paralysis when it comes to decision-making. To overcome this, I rely heavily on the project's practical constraints. I use the client’s budget, the physical limitations of the space, or the timeline as a filter to weed out ideas. It forces me to narrow down the field and focus on the single most effective solution

I focus on three core pillars: functionality, aesthetics, and enjoyment. For me, these three elements have to work in perfect harmony.

Functionality is the foundation—if a design doesn't solve the problem or work seamlessly, it has failed. Aesthetics are crucial because beauty invites people in and creates a sense of harmony. But enjoyment is the ultimate goal. I want the person using a space, a piece of furniture, or an object to feel a sense of joy, comfort, or delight when they interact with it. By balancing all three, a design moves from being merely useful to being truly memorable.

Designing triggers a whole spectrum of emotions for me, and they usually arrive in stages. At the beginning of a project, I feel a profound sense of freedom and excitement—the thrill of a blank canvas, a new problem to solve, and endless possibilities.

But as I dig deeper into the constraints, frustration inevitably steps in. I actually welcome that frustration because it means I’m pushing up against a real challenge and forcing my brain to think outside the box. Finally, when the pieces start to click, the problem is solved, and the execution is clear, a deep sense of peace settles in. It’s a beautifully complex emotional cycle, but it’s exactly what keeps me passionate about this work.

When a design is finally realized, it brings a profound sense of satisfaction and achievement, but that feeling is only truly unlocked when I see the client’s expression.

Watching someone react to a finished space or a new or restored piece of furniture is the best part of my job. It translates all the hard work, the tight garage constraints, and the creative challenges into real human happiness. Seeing them happy is the ultimate reward, and it’s exactly what fuels me to move on to the next challenge.

For me, the definitive measure of a successful design is its alignment with its final purpose. Every project comes with a specific mission. If you are reviving an unrecoverable house, the success is in its livability. If you are restoring a piece of broken furniture, the success is in its resilience and sentimental preservation.

To hit that mark, you have to leave personal ego aside. You cannot let your own preferences override what the project actually needs to succeed. When the design functions exactly as it was intended to, honors its aesthetic goals, and serves the client rather than the designer's pride—that is true success.

Because of my background in architecture and hands-on making, my criteria for judging design are very practical. I start at the high level: Does the concept align with the intent? I need to see that the designer truly understood the problem they were trying to solve. Then, I look at the physical reality. I evaluate if the materials are adequate and inspect the quality of the make. Lastly, I test its utility: is it functional or clumsy?

I focus on these structural and functional aspects first because judging a design purely on aesthetics is incredibly superficial and inaccurate. While I certainly appreciate and am drawn to strong visual aesthetics, taste is highly subjective. Beauty cannot mask a poor build or a clumsy user experience. Good design isn't a fragile object meant only to be looked at; it is a resilient, seamless solution built to survive its purpose.

As designers, we bear a profound responsibility because we are actively shaping the physical world that future generations will inherit. We can never forget that we come from nature. Because of that, our primary responsibility is to honor the environment and integrate it seamlessly into our lives, rather than trying to conquer it.

Loving the natural world and maintaining its balance is the only true legacy we can leave behind. Through our designs—whether it’s the architecture of a building, the layout of a space, or the materials we choose for furniture—we have the unique power to keep this vital relationship alive. A successful design shouldn't alienate us from the earth; it should serve as a constant bridge back to it.

Design has always been the past, the present, and the future. I don't see it as a single shape that progresses in a strict, linear evolution. Instead, design evolves purely out of human needs, available materials, and new technology. It expands outward in all directions, constantly changing—and yet, in some ways, not changing at all.

Archetypal designs—like the wheel or basic tools—never truly disappear. They simply evolve in their manifestation. A tool designed millennia ago is still used today, just re-imagined through modern manufacturing or sustainable materials. For me, the future of design isn't about chasing the newest trend for the sake of it; it’s about being agile enough to apply timeless problem-solving principles to the rapidly changing landscapes of technology and environment.

My last exhibition was at Cornwall College for a year in 2024-2025. It was not a formal exhibition but because I made the piece during my studies there they asked me if they could have it in display for the students of the following year. I have not though about the next one.

There isn’t a single, straightforward source for my inspiration; it’s an active, daily practice of observation. Sometimes, it’s completely spontaneous—a discarded piece of material ready to be thrown away will suddenly spark the muse, and I’ll instantly see its hidden potential. Other times, my creativity is fed by the abstract world: the interplay of shadows, geometric shapes, or the organic patterns found in nature.

But just as often, inspiration comes from frustration. I’ll encounter a sudden practicality or a minor friction point in my daily experience, realize there is absolutely nothing at hand to fulfill it, and a new design is born out of that immediate necessity. I feed my creativity by keeping my mind completely open and allowing the ordinary world to constantly suggest extraordinary solutions.

My style is rooted in minimalist and Scandinavian aesthetics, characterized by clean lines and the practical, dedicated use of wood. I find that focusing entirely on timber allows the grain, texture, and form of the material to take centre stage.

Beyond the visual aspect, my process is heavily influenced by Japanese design philosophy, particularly their refined wood assembly techniques. I focus on these traditional joinery methods because they offer incredible structural integrity without relying on unnecessary hardware. My approach is to let the natural characteristics of the wood guide the project, focusing entirely on durability and utility rather than temporary design trends.

I currently live in coastal Looe, Cornwall, UK, having spent the majority of my life in Caracas, Venezuela. I absolutely believe that a region's cultural and geographical heritage affects design, and it does so positively if you choose to embrace it. Problems only arise when a designer tries to fight against the nature of a place. For example, practicing architecture in Caracas meant working with brick, mortar, and concrete—those were our holy grails because they were locally produced, and because Venezuela is an earthquake-prone area where structural calculations must strictly adapt to those variables.

Moving to Cornwall shifted my entire landscape. Here, granite, slate, stone, lime, and wood are the centerpieces of every structure to respond to the unique coastal climate and history. Ultimately, I don't see geographical shifts as a source of 'pros and cons.' The beauty of being a versatile designer is that you learn to adapt to the local environment, turning the specific constraints of any location into a distinct strength.

I work with companies as a strategic partner. My process begins with deep discovery to understand their brand goals and constraints. From there, I establish clear communication milestones, present iterative design concepts, and collaborate closely with their internal teams to ensure the final execution aligns perfectly with their business objectives.

When selecting a designer, companies should look for responsibility, critical thinking, and problem-solving, but most importantly: the ability to listen.

Creatives naturally have strong ideas, but if those ideas only function in the designer's world and not the client's, they fail. A highly skilled designer who refuses to listen will only create team friction.

True success comes from finding a designer with the willingness and humility to listen first. That is the person who can understand the company's real needs and help navigate everyone toward the right solution.

I start by carefully analysing the client's brief and the project's rigid constraints

Because my mind generates multiple ideas rapidly out of the blue, I immediately filter my initial concepts against the project's true intent. If a sketch does not directly solve the primary problem, it is set aside to avoid choice overload and keep the project moving forward. Next, I select suitable materials preferably in line with the environment, focusing heavily on the raw beauty and performance. Finally, I move to the physical build, focusing entirely on the quality of the make. I strip away anything superficial until only clean, minimalist lines remain. The process is complete when the final piece or space is realized, meeting its intended purpose with elegance and utility.

I did not realise how hard this question would make me think. Maybe, because in many of the options comfort and beauty are divorced and this strongly impacts the meaning of the word favourite. Favourite In which sense? We would need to ask. The one object I think ticks both boxes is a self-made industrial round dining table: A rustic wood-top dining table with a height-adjustable cast iron crank mechanism that I built myself after realising that not all dining tables make a good height for also working, or playing cards.

Some of the other objects I can think about that tick the aesthetics are a rare Encol Bullhorn Armchairs: A pair of rare vintage Ercol Caw-horn chairs featuring sculptural, organic silhouettes, an indoor Hammock: A suspended indoor hammock that introduces fluid, unconventional seating into the layout, a pair of modular Thai Mats: Traditional Thai folding mats that can easily transform into multiple seating and lounging configurations, and a Drop-Arm Chesterfield Sofa: A classic two-seater Chesterfield sofa featuring a rare mechanical drop-arm mechanism.

I actually try to avoid a rigid routine, because I find too much predictability kills spontaneity and dries up my inspiration. Instead, I treat every single day as a brand-new opportunity to absorb life and find fresh perspectives. My approach is about fluid prioritization: I am deeply disciplined about fulfilling my commitments and hitting my targets, but I leave the space between those milestones open to curiosity and inspiration. For me, a successful day isn't about following a strict schedule—it's about successfully balancing productivity with creative freedom.

My biggest advice to up-and-coming designers is to reframe how you look at failure: mistakes are not drawbacks, they are valuable opportunities to forge a problem-solving mind and develop critical, creative thinking.

In design, a mistake can actually lead to your best work. It is often the unexpected brush of an unknown force showing you a completely new and different way of making something. Don't over-sanitize your process with rigid routines or fear of getting it wrong. Embrace the accidents, stay curious, and let those unexpected moments guide you to deeper innovation

From a place of pure enjoyment and creation, there are absolutely no negatives to being a designer. It is a grand way to experience the world. However, from the perspective of how design is appreciated today, there is a challenge. With the rapid introduction of new technologies, the understanding of traditional methods and true craftsmanship is slipping out of sight. As Oscar Wilde beautifully put it, 'Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.'

The negative isn't the work itself; it's the modern struggle to make people appreciate the time, soul, and heritage behind how things are actually made.

My golden rule is simple: If you enjoy it, it's right. If you don't, it isn't. Design should never feel like a purely clinical or robotic process. If there is no joy or passion in the creation of a piece, it will lack soul, and the end user will feel that emptiness. True design comes from an authentic connection to the work, your instinct and your enjoyment are the ultimate compass.

For me, the most critical skills a designer can possess are observation and empathy. You have to truly see the world and understand the people you are designing for. Beyond that, a designer must have adaptation to purpose and flexibility, the ability to pivot and evolve a concept without losing its core intent. Underpinning all of this is an absolute commitment to quality and ethics. It’s not just about making something beautiful; it's about making something well, making it responsibly, and standing behind the integrity of your work.

My toolbox depends entirely on the scale and complexity of the project. For straightforward pieces, I often jump straight into working with the material itself, keeping the design purely in my head because a project does not always need to be drawn to be made. For medium-complexity work, I might sketch out ideas on paper, but when a project scales up and requires strict precision or formal client approval, I transition to digital tools. I rely on SketchUp for quick 3D spatial layouts and client visualizations, and Fusion 360 or AutoCAD for detailed parametric modeling and manufacturing prep.

Design is a very time-consuming task, and if you are a perfectionist, there is no way to avoid that. It's completely unpredictable. Sometimes you come up with so many ideas for a challenge that your time gets spent on the very hard task of just having to make a decision. Design is a naughty process with a personality of its own—it can’t be forced to flow, so you constantly have to negotiate with it to keep that relationship healthy and flowing in the right direction to meet all the deadlines.

There is no magic formula that can answer this question. Every object is different and comes with its own unique challenges. The range is wide, depending entirely on your relationship to that object. If it is something that comes from your imagination alone, the design can happen in a matter of hours. But if it comes as a commission, it can take days or weeks. You first have to filter the information given to you, get to know your client’s expectations, and understand tastes that often do not mirror your own. This requires time to hear, observe, comprehend, and adapt. For small objects, that collaborative process might take days, but for larger architectural projects, it can easily take months.

The most frequent question I get is simply: 'Do you really think this can be done?' Because I work across both design and the actual material making, clients or collaborators often bring me ideas that seem somehow impossible or visually daring. My job in that moment isn't just to say yes or no, but to figure out the bridge between the vision and reality. If the design is in my head, I know how to make it work; if it comes from a client, it becomes a process of engineering and negotiation to prove to them that, with the right approach, it absolutely can be done.

I truly believe that all of my job experiences have brought something important to my life, and leaving any of them out would be neglecting the fact that I learned something big from each one. No matter how small a role might have been, it is a crucial part of what allows me to perform better today.

That being said, the most defining leap in my career, being so young at the time, was to have been commissioned a Young Offender’s Institution. Suddenly, I went straight from university classrooms to sitting in a room with the president and ministers to handle such a big, complex project. It forced me to grow up overnight. That experience completely reshaped my perspective on accountability and what I am capable of delivering, giving me the confidence to take on any complex project that comes my way.

Back when I lived in Caracas, Venezuela, and founded my architecture studio and building company alongside my partner, Gustavo Luis Legorburu, we handled all sorts of clients. We designed for the government, private schools, private residential clients, the gas industry for their office buildings, and global technology companies like Cisco Systems. Later on, as an entrepreneur, I expanded into highly specialized commercial projects, designing specialized dental clinics, veterinary practices, and pilates studios, among others. It taught me how to adapt to the highly specific, technical needs of completely different industries.

I most enjoy spontaneous design ideas and the process of researching and experimenting with them. Along with that, I love the challenge of taking a space or an object that the client feels has no hope left. There is something incredibly rewarding about looking at a problem that someone else has written off, finding the hidden potential within it, and using a mix of intuition and research to bring it back to life.

I am a big believer in focusing on the present, and I am not a fan of making rigid, long-term plans because the future is never certain. This doesn’t mean I don’t plan things at all, but rather that I prefer to stay entirely open to the changes life brings and the opportunities that arise from them. My main focus is to always be open to new challenges that push my skills forward. What is next for me is to stay in a place where I can channel my experience into meaningful work today, knowing that if you do great work in the present, the future tends to take care of itself.

Since the beginning, design ideas have come to me naturally, and I’ve never been afraid to implement them—so I am very comfortable in the driving seat. However, those ideas are nothing without a team. Having a good team is just as important as the idea itself; depending on the complexity, they cannot exist without each other. After many years as an entrepreneur building and leading multidisciplinary teams, I’ve recently taken the time to look within and refocus on my own creative core. I’ve spent years managing and giving my energy to others, and now I am looking to bring that wealth of leadership experience back into a collaborative environment where I can focus purely on executing great design alongside a strong team.

Right now, I am working on an incredibly interesting and challenging Dutch staircase, alongside several smaller personal projects that I am using as a form of active research. Staircases are fascinating because they are pure geometry and precision; they require you to balance structural engineering, safety, and ergonomics within a very tight aesthetic framework. These projects are my way of constantly experimenting with materials and joinery, keeping my hands and my mind sharp.

Lugomi70@icloud.com

Nothing That I can think of at the moment

I’ve never been a fan of 'dust-collectors'—objects that exist purely to be stared at and cleaned. For me, the real thrill lies in functional art. I love the challenge of creating something that is visually striking but deeply integrated into your daily routine, proving that aesthetic pleasure doesn’t stop at the surface.The breakthrough for The First One Nightstand came when I stopped looking at the teak slats as individual components and started seeing them as an ecosystem. I realized that by manipulating the spacing, I could make the wood do three things at once: provide a grip for the hand, create a graphic rhythm for the eye, and use light and shadow to trick the mind into seeing a floating object.Adding light, shadow, and movement to an inanimate object completely changes its dimension. It turns a static piece of furniture into an interactive experience.I owe that way of thinking entirely to my father, Oscar A. Gonzalez Bustillos. He was an exceptional architect who was deeply committed to his clients and the environment. He taught me how to read the trajectory of the sun, how to harness the wind, and how to respect nature's rhythms. He showed me that design isn't about adding 'extra' things; it's about making the essential elements work harder. That education is practically under my skin now, and it’s exactly how those teak slats went from a simple structural choice to the multi-sensory heartbeat of the entire piece.

Choosing reclaimed materials completely redefines the design process. When you work with salvaged wood, you don't have the luxury of a flawless, infinite supply. You can't just impose your will onto the material; instead, you have to learn to listen to it.For me, designing The First One Nightstand wasn't a solo act—it was teamwork between myself and the wood. You have to stop, gaze, and inspect the material carefully. The salvaged teak and birch plywood essentially dictate the design, whispering: 'If you want the best of me, these are the few paths we can explore.' That limitation is incredibly freeing. It strips away the analysis paralysis of 'anything is possible' and forces you to collaborate with the history already etched into the grain. That interaction is precisely where the piece finds its character and unique texture.As for the story it carries? Like any piece of art, an object only tells the story the observer is willing to hear. By using reclaimed materials, we aren't just lowering our ecological footprint—we are leaving the door open for the user to connect with the past life of the wood, allowing the nightstand to tell a deeper, quieter story in whatever space it ultimately inhabits.

Carlos Cruz-Diez, along with Alejandro Otero and Jesús Soto, are titans of Venezuelan kinetic art. Their work has always amazed me, and trying to translate their monumental philosophies into furniture design is no small challenge—but it is a deeply personal one.At its core, Cruz-Diez’s work proves that color, light, and perception are fluid. Light isn't just what leaves a lightbulb; it’s a chain reaction. It’s about how surfaces catch it, reflect it, and manipulate it. In The First One Nightstand, the birch plywood acts as a luminous, light-colored canvas specifically chosen to receive and accentuate the shadows cast by the warm teak slats.The physical experience changes with the viewer's movement. When you look at the nightstand from a corner, the slats compress into a seemingly solid mass. But as you walk past it, they open up, rhythmically revealing the birch underneath. The shadows move like a pendulum across the canvas, shifting the perception of the object with every step and creating the optical illusion that the piece is defying gravity and floating.Bringing these fine art traditions into an everyday object adds a completely new dimension to furniture. For me, it is a humble way to honor the profound blessing of growing up with the influence of these master Venezuelan artists, proving that their revolutionary ideas about movement and perception don't just belong on museum walls—they belong in our lives and spaces we inhabit.

I would say all three share a seat at the exact same table; you really can't separate them.The material exploration—using reclaimed and salvaged wood—inherently limited my options and forced a completely unique originality. Because the material had its own history and strict availability, the design had to be entirely distinct; it couldn't just copy standard, mass-produced trends.But that raw material and original concept would mean absolutely nothing without meticulous craftsmanship. When you are working with salvaged wood to create precise kinetic optical illusions, the margin for error is zero. The craftsmanship is the glue that allows the material and the originality to actually function. For The First One Nightstand, the three dimensions don't compete—they rely on each other to exist.

As a designer, I truly believe that you can transform anything into something beautiful, as long as you come to terms with its nature and its purpose. You can’t force things. You don’t need to like it because it is seldom about what a piece tells from its surface; it’s about understanding it and what you can make of it. Imposed restrictions always become an advantage because they force you to think outside the box. They train your brain to work harder, pushing you past easy answers and strengthening your critical thinking.For The First One Nightstand, the strict mandate of fixed proportions, a single drawer, and a single door felt heavy and rigid at first. But pushing against that rigidity taught me that many constraints are just imaginary borders. By injecting kinetic art, light, and shadow into those fixed dimensions, I was able to break the rules without breaking the mandate. It proved to me that visual lightness and deception can completely dissolve physical limitations. Ultimately, it taught me that with a bit of imagination and strategic risk-taking, you can make a rigid box cast movement and appear to float.

Designing for Cornwall's intense coastal climate meant that wood movement wasn’t just a possibility—it was an absolute certainty. The material and joinery choices for The First One Nightstand were entirely engineered around mitigating that risk.The choice of reclaimed teak was crucial. Teak is naturally oily and highly water-resistant, but more importantly, because this wood had been beaten and battered by the elements for decades, it had already done its moving and contracting. It has reached a level of stability that newly cut, green timber simply cannot match. It still breathes, but its reaction to moisture is minimal.Pairing that with birch plywood was a deliberate structural calculation. While plywood isn't completely immune to humidity—in fact, if you cut your pieces at different times under minimal tolerances, you will find yourself in trouble—its engineered, crisscrossed grain pattern makes it vastly more dimensionally stable than solid wood.Finally, traditional joinery like dovetail and marriage joints bridges these two materials together safely. These joints aren't just for aesthetics; they maximize surface-area contact. This gives the nightstand a dual advantage: a powerful mechanical lock through physical compression, reinforced by high-performance adhesion. Together, they create a unified structure that won't loosen or warp over time under the constant tension, friction, and humidity of a coastal environment.

I intentionally wanted to spark a question mark in people’s minds when they approach the piece. I love playfulness, mystery, and blurring the borders of the obvious. My goal is always to challenge the user's mind, allowing them to actively discover and experience the design rather than just handing them a predictable object.Watching people interact with the nightstand on display has been incredibly satisfying. It generates a genuine sense of awe. At first glance, its function isn't obvious; some people have even asked if it’s a musical instrument. Most people walk slowly toward it, trying to decode what their eyes are seeing. Their attention travels to the slats, followed by the classic questions: 'What is it?' and then, 'How do you open it?'Choreographing that moment means letting them find the hidden grip themselves. When they touch the slats and pull open an unexpected drawer with traditional dovetails, or reveal the hidden door, you can actually watch them cycle through multiple emotional stages in a matter of seconds. It always makes me smile—it feels a little cheeky, like performing a magic trick. I hope that first kinetic encounter leaves the user feeling a sense of wonder, and playfulness, reminding them that everyday functional objects can be more than just that.

Everything I learned and applied during the process of making The First One Nightstand is entirely universal. These principles can be applied to almost any future project, regardless of its scale or nature.Learning how to work alongside strict constraints and turn them into your allies, how to embed true sustainability into a design, and how to constantly adapt, re-adapt, and think outside the box—this is the exact toolkit required when creating projects for a community.When co-leading CreativeLooe, every community project we face comes with its own unique limitations, budgets, and challenges. In those moments, creativity isn't just an aesthetic choice; it is the only viable answer. While creating beautiful, functional art for public spaces will always be part of the plan, the bigger scope is about the mindset. It's about showing our community that limitations don't have to compromise quality or vision. By approaching community design with the same rigor, sustainability, and playful curiosity that built the nightstand, we can transform ordinary local spaces into interactive, meaningful experiences that people feel proud to inhabit an be part of.

The depth and spacing of the slats were calibrated entirely *in situ* through physical trials in the workshop. I am very much a hands-on, field person rather than someone who relies on 3D modeling, so the process was intensely practical. This was a high-stakes challenge because the reclaimed teak was scarce—wasting even a single piece wasn’t an option. I constantly tested the depth of the housing and the spacing of the slats using a phone torch and workshop lights, shifting things by millimeters to see exactly how the shadows fell in real time.While the exact kinetic shadow behavior emerged through that hands-on fabrication process, the tonal contrast was highly intentional from day one. I knew that to make this optical illusion work, I needed a dark, warm element to cast distinct shadows over a starkly lighter background. That calculation is what directly dictated the material selection of the dark teak slats against the pale birch plywood. It was a balance of careful planning from the start and real-time, physical research at the workbench.

Getting stuck is a natural part of any creative process. Frustration and negative first reactions are bound to happen, and as designers or artists, we have a heightened sensibility that means we react even deeper to these constraints.My advice for dealing with this is simple: listen, observe, and acknowledge exactly what those constraints are making you feel—and then let that emotion go. Come back to the brief later, completely stripped of the emotional frustration, and analyze exactly what it is you don’t like about the restrictions. One by one, force yourself to look at each limitation from a different angle. That is exactly what creativity is for.If you feel trapped because the mandated shape looks clunky or disproportionate, don't just fight the box. Use geometry, light, shadow, and your materials to trick the eye. Turn the restriction into the canvas. Once you stop looking at a constrained brief as a prison and start looking at it as a puzzle to solve, you find your voice. Your job isn't to change the rules of the brief; it's to use your imagination to completely redefine how those rules look in the physical world.