Sinem Halli

I've always been drawn to seeing things from unexpected angles—even as a child. Small moments, like playfully wearing glasses upside down, were more than jokes—they reflected an early instinct to challenge perspectives. That curiosity stayed with me and evolved into a deep passion for design. Studying at Robert College was a turning point. It gave me the intellectual freedom to question, explore, and eventually realize that design wasn’t just about creating things—it was about understanding people. My travels abroad, especially my time at Politecnico di Milano, enriched this perspective further. Italy offered a rich cultural context and strong aesthetic traditions, and while there, I became more aware of how design and marketing interplay. It pushed me to think critically—not just about how something looks, but why it’s meaningful and for whom. For me, becoming a designer meant developing the ability to observe people quietly, to notice what even they might not articulate—and then turning those silent needs into thoughtful, intentional solutions. And always, with an eye toward sustainability: using resources wisely, reducing impact, and designing in a way that balances beauty, function, and responsibility.

My design practice moves between research, education, and collaboration. Rather than a traditional design studio, I operate as an independent designer and researcher with a strong focus on sustainability, material culture, and meaningful product experiences. Through my website—sinemhalli.com—I share insights from my academic work, collaborative projects, and personal reflections on design and culture. I use it as a blog as well, to articulate thoughts and questions that shape my process. It gives visitors a broader view of who I am—not just through finished work, but through the thinking behind it. I often work at the intersection of industrial design, communication strategies, and user behavior—especially in contexts where sustainability and cultural heritage meet. This means working not only on objects, but also on systems, narratives, and long-term value. I also teach and mentor emerging designers, which I see as an extension of my own learning process. At its core, my practice is about design that listens before it speaks—design that respects the environment, understands people, and aims to be quietly transformative rather than loud and fleeting.

For me, design is a way of listening—carefully, quietly, and curiously. It’s about observing people and their habits, and noticing the things that go unnoticed—the unspoken needs, the daily frictions, the emotional gaps. Design, in that sense, is not just about problem-solving, but about meaning-making. It’s also about responsibility. We live in a world of limited resources, so every design decision is also an ethical one. I believe good design balances emotional satisfaction, functional clarity, and environmental awareness. It doesn’t shout; it makes space. It doesn’t overwhelm; it fits. In short, design is not just what we make—it’s how and why we choose to make it.

I’m most drawn to designing things that carry meaning—not just function. Whether it’s a product, a system, or even a communication tool, I’m interested in how design can shift behavior gently, question consumption patterns, or tell a story that resonates. I enjoy projects where design becomes a bridge—between people, between disciplines, between moments. I especially enjoy working in areas where sustainability intersects with everyday life—like food experiences, decorative objects, or sensory elements in interior spaces. These are often overlooked, but they have powerful potential to influence habits and values. I also love projects that involve cultural narratives or local crafts, where design becomes a bridge between past knowledge and contemporary needs. In short, I enjoy designing things that live quietly in people’s lives but leave lasting impressions.

That’s a hard question—because I have two favorites, for very different reasons. The first is a pair of cufflinks I designed out of meerschaum for a design competition early in my career. It was a very personal project—just me, the brief, and full creative freedom. I incorporated elements of Turkish traditional crafts like a special silverwork and meerschaum carving and played with structure by hollowing out the center of the stone. The pattern was inspired by historical motifs of Phrygia, and the entire process gave me a deep motivation to pursue design professionally. It wasn’t just about the object—it was about trusting my own voice as a designer. The second would be a self-watering flowerpot I designed during my time at Nude Glass. It’s both functional and aesthetic, and I still use it at home—my plants are thriving! It rethinks a common object through simple innovation and material awareness, and it also received two international awards, which helped me gain visibility internationally. That project represents not just personal satisfaction, but also real-world impact—and that’s a balance I always aim for in design.

The first thing I ever designed for a company was during my undergraduate years—a set of accessories for kitchen appliances like refrigerators, ovens, and stovetops for the BSH Group. It was a group project, but it was also the first time I experienced what it meant to design for real production. Some of the concepts we worked on were even patented, which was a big moment for me as a design student. It gave me a first glimpse into the seriousness of design beyond the classroom—how an idea could become something officially registered and potentially mass-produced. Later on, the first projects I actually earned money from were exhibition stand designs. Those experiences taught me a lot about fast-paced decision-making, spatial storytelling, and balancing aesthetic ambition with logistical reality. In a way, both projects—one in corporate product development and one in commercial space design—helped shape the flexibility I still carry in my practice today.

Rather than a single material or technology, what excites me most is designing things that become part of daily life—things I can hold, use, gift, or share. I’m drawn to tangibility. I love working on designs that don’t just live on a screen or in a portfolio but actually find a place in the world—on a table, in someone’s hand, or as part of a small ritual. That’s why I enjoy materials and platforms that support this kind of real-world presence. Whether it's packaging, food, or small-scale products, I love that moment when a design becomes something you can interact with, own, or even give to someone else. In that sense, my "favorite" material or platform is always the one that allows design to be lived with—not just looked at.

Honestly? Probably when I’m doing something completely unrelated to work—like showering, walking, or just letting my mind wander. Some of my best ideas have come to me in those in-between moments—when the pressure’s off and my brain is free to roam. I think creativity often shows up when we stop chasing it. That said, I also believe in preparing the ground for it—by staying curious, observing carefully, and feeding my mind with ideas. But the spark? It usually comes when I least expect it. And yes, sometimes even in the bathroom.

I focus most on meaning, context, and how the design will live in someone’s life. Rather than isolating form or function, I try to understand the layers behind why something should exist at all. Who will use it? In what setting? How will it feel, sound, or even smell? I think about the story it tells, the behavior it invites, and the values it reflects. That said, I also care deeply about the sensory experience—how materials, proportions, and details come together to create something both intuitive and emotionally engaging. For me, a successful design is not just something that works—it’s something that makes sense and leaves a trace.

At the beginning, I often feel a wave of excitement—like, “This is a great opportunity, I can create something truly original.” There’s this spark, a sense of possibility. But then I dive into research, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed: “Oh, that’s been done. So has that. What’s left for me to say?” It can be disorienting, even a little panicky. But I’ve learned to sit with that discomfort. After the storm settles, the path starts to reveal itself. Things begin to flow. It’s like water finding its way—quietly, naturally. That’s when I feel most grounded in the process. So yes, my emotions while designing move from excitement to doubt, and eventually to clarity. And I’ve come to appreciate that entire emotional arc. It means I’m fully present.

The moment a design comes to life, I feel an overwhelming sense of joy—like watching something I love deeply take its first step into the world. Each design feels like a part of me, almost like a child. And when it finally becomes real—when I can see it, touch it, or even buy it—I get genuinely emotional. My heart races, I get excited, and I want to be there for it, to witness every little moment of its “life.” Sometimes I even rush to the store just to buy it myself, to hold it in my hands and feel that it really exists. It’s a beautiful mix of pride, attachment, and pure happiness. No matter how many times it happens, that feeling never fades.

For me, a design is successful when it creates a connection—when it means something to someone. It’s not just about looking good or functioning well (though those matter too). A truly successful design gently shifts behavior, tells a story, or becomes part of someone’s everyday ritual. I also think a successful design is one that ages well. It doesn’t just respond to a trend or moment—it carries values, respects its context, and stays relevant over time. Sometimes the success is quiet: a person uses it daily without even noticing how much it shapes their habits. That, to me, is the most beautiful kind of success.

At first glance, I look for clarity—does the design communicate well? Is it honest, intentional, and appropriate for its context? But beyond that, I try to understand the bigger picture. Who is it for? Does it solve a real problem or meet an unspoken need? Does it respect the environment and the user’s time, attention, and emotion? A good design, to me, is not just about beauty or innovation. It’s about coherence—when form, function, and meaning align. And a bad design? It often tries too hard to impress, but fails to connect.

I believe designers have a deep responsibility—not only to shape products, but also to shape values. We don’t just create objects; we create choices, habits, expectations. That’s powerful. And with that power comes the responsibility to think critically about what we put into the world. Environmentally, this means being aware of materials, production, and waste—but also questioning if something really needs to exist in the first place. Socially, it means being inclusive, respectful of cultural contexts, and mindful of the long-term impact of our ideas. For me, design is not neutral. It either contributes to a more thoughtful, responsible world—or it adds to the noise. I try to choose the first.

Design is moving beyond objects—and toward systems, behaviors, and values. I believe the future of design lies in integration: between disciplines, between technology and tradition, between global problems and local insights. We’re no longer designing just things—we’re designing relationships between people, products, and the planet. The rise of AI, climate urgency, and social transformation are all pushing us to rethink the role of the designer—not just as a maker, but as a connector, translator, and ethical thinker. I see design becoming more invisible yet more influential—embedded in daily rituals, shaping choices silently, and hopefully guiding us toward a more thoughtful way of living.

I haven’t had a solo exhibition yet, but I’ve been part of collective and institutional showcases. The most notable one was around 2016, during my time working on the Omnia project from Pasabahce Stores. I was involved not only as a designer, but also as the organizer—overseeing production, coordination, and the overall presentation of the exhibition. It was a comprehensive experience that taught me a lot about the relationship between design, narrative, and spatial communication. As for the future—I would love to hold a solo exhibition when the concept feels right. I’d want it to reflect not just individual pieces, but the way I think about design as a bridge between people, materials, and meaning. Hopefully soon!

My inspiration often comes from everyday moments, cultural rituals, and overlooked details—but I also feed it intentionally through multidisciplinary learning. I travel often, not just to see new places but to observe how people live, make, and relate to their environments. I read across fields—from child development to branding and, most recently, artificial intelligence. I’m currently studying child development as a second degree, and I’ve already done a master’s in brand communication. In the future, I’d love to explore cultural heritage more deeply through both research and practice. I try not to stay in the “design bubble.” Instead, I bring elements from different disciplines and cultures into my process. Sometimes, that makes it hard for others to categorize my work—but I’m okay with that. I’d rather be expansive than easily labeled. Inspiration, for me, isn’t a spark—it’s an ongoing, open conversation with the world.

I wouldn’t describe my style in visual terms—because I don’t aim for a signature look. What I care about is the mindset behind the work. My approach is context-driven, sensory, and human-centered. I try to create designs that are thoughtful rather than loud—things that may seem quiet at first glance but leave a deep impression over time. I’m especially drawn to multidisciplinary thinking—where design meets behavior, culture, memory, and even technology. That’s why I work across different fields like food, decorative objects, and communication. I like to connect ideas that aren’t usually combined, and I want the end result to feel personal, grounded, and subtly poetic. If there’s one thing that defines my work, it’s the desire to create meaning—not just objects.

I live in Istanbul—a city where history, chaos, tradition, and innovation all exist at once. Its layers have shaped how I observe the world: always looking for hidden meanings, contrasts, and unexpected harmonies. But my inspiration isn’t limited to just one city. I travel frequently within Türkiye, and each region offers its own materials, techniques, stories, and ways of seeing. From the colors of the Southeast to the crafts of Central Anatolia, the country is a mosaic of micro-cultures—and as a designer, it’s like living inside a never-ending archive of inspiration. This richness is a gift, but also a challenge. Sometimes the hardest part is choosing where to focus—because everything around you is so full of meaning. Another challenge is navigating the local design ecosystem, which can sometimes be unpredictable or limited in resources, especially for independent creatives. Still, the diversity, depth, and resilience of this place have taught me to stay curious, adaptable, and deeply rooted in context. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

I approach collaborations with companies through both experience and empathy. Having worked for years as an in-house designer in the private sector, I’ve seen how design operates inside organizations—with all its layers, limitations, and opportunities. That experience taught me not just how to design, but how to listen: to brand values, internal cultures, and communication challenges. My master’s degree in brand communication was a deliberate choice. I wanted to better understand how different companies express themselves, what they value, and how design can align with that. That training allows me to adapt my design thinking to different brand voices—not just aesthetically, but strategically. When I work with companies today, I don’t jump straight into solutions. I begin by asking questions: Who are you really trying to reach? What do you want to change? What do you value most as a brand? I try to uncover both the spoken and unspoken layers of the brief, and build a design strategy that reflects not only the company's vision, but also its culture and long-term goals. Now working independently, I offer project-based collaborations and creative consultancy. I’m especially drawn to projects that allow room for dialogue, experimentation, and shared meaning-making. I’m currently based in Istanbul, but open to international collaborations as well. You can always reach out via my website, www.sinemhalli.com, to start a conversation.

The best collaborations happen when companies see designers not just as executors, but as thinking partners. My first suggestion is: involve the designer early. A good designer can help shape the problem—not just solve it. When we’re part of the conversation from the beginning, we can bring much more value than just “making it look good.” Secondly, don’t just choose a designer based on their portfolio. Look at how they think. Ask how they approach challenges, how they listen, how they adapt to different brand voices. A good designer isn’t someone who only has a style—but someone who can read context and respond with clarity. And finally, trust is key. Give the designer room to explore and push boundaries. Design is not just a service—it’s a relationship. When both sides are open and curious, that’s when real innovation happens.

My design process starts long before I sketch anything. I begin by observing—people, habits, environments, and sometimes even silences. I ask questions like: What’s missing here? What’s being taken for granted? I try to uncover emotional and behavioral patterns that might not be immediately visible. Once I understand the context, I begin exploring connections—between materials, meanings, functions, and feelings. I read, map, test, sometimes walk away and come back with new eyes. I also enjoy bringing in perspectives from outside design: psychology, branding, cultural history, even AI. Then comes the more tangible phase: prototyping, refining, and simplifying. But even in the final outcome, I want the design to carry traces of the questions it started with. For me, the process is not linear. It’s a loop—of listening, translating, and distilling meaning.

I don’t own any iconic designer pieces—good design isn’t always accessible where I live. But I do surround myself with objects that are meaningful, functional, and quietly smart. Here are five of my favorite design items at home: My self-watering "Roots" flower pots—these are actually my own designs, and they’ve become essentials. I never have to worry if I’ve forgotten to water my plants, and they’ve genuinely changed how I care for greenery at home. My coffee machine—not a capsule one, but a bean-to-cup machine. It brings a sense of ritual to my mornings, and I love the balance between convenience and manual involvement. A rug I designed for a competition—inspired by mosaic forms, it brings together tradition and playful geometry. It’s one of my favorite pieces not just because I made it, but because it reflects a sense of cultural fusion. My L sofa—incredibly comfortable, versatile, and beautifully simple. I can work, rest, or nap in them—which is all I ask from furniture. My robot vacuum—not glamorous, but incredibly helpful. It gives me time and space to focus on other things. And honestly, isn’t that what great design is supposed to do? These aren’t flashy objects, but they make daily life more thoughtful, enjoyable, and intentional. That’s the kind of design I believe in.

There’s no such thing as a “typical” day in my life—and I’ve made peace with that. Some days are filled with teaching, research, writing, and mentoring. Others are quiet, reflective, and open to creative thinking. And some days are simply chaotic, where nothing goes as planned. I’m also a mother to a young child, which means time is never truly mine. I work in the hours when he’s at school—or after he goes to bed. That has taught me to be very intentional with my time. Every hour counts. Even with these limits, I’m doing my PhD, teaching, taking on individual design projects, and collaborating with companies. Whenever possible, I add travel between cities, attend cultural events, exhibitions, or fairs—anything that feeds my creative and intellectual energy. It’s a lot to juggle, and yes, it can be exhausting at times. But I’ve learned how to create a rhythm that works for me, and I’m proud of how I carry it all. My days aren’t always perfect, but they’re full of purpose and curiosity. And that’s enough for now.

My most heartfelt advice to young designers is: apply to as many design competitions as you can. Not necessarily to win, but to explore. Try designing for furniture, jewelry, footwear, AI-integrated systems—anything outside your comfort zone. This will help you expand your portfolio, develop diverse ways of thinking, and most importantly, discover which areas truly excite you. With exploration comes clarity—and often, unexpected successes. The more you try, the more likely you are to find your voice. I always tell my students this, too: seek out as many work and internship experiences as possible. Don’t hesitate to work on real design tasks, even if they’re unpaid in the beginning. You might dream of working at a certain company or sector, only to discover that it doesn’t fit you—or the opposite might happen. Also, if possible, pursue international experiences, even during your studies. Travel widely. Engage with different fields. Learn from outside design. All of these will shape you—not just as a designer, but as a thinker.

One of the more challenging aspects of being a designer—especially in contexts where design culture is still developing—is the lack of awareness about what design actually involves. People often think design is just the final touch, or something they can handle themselves. That can make it harder to communicate the real value of the design process: research, iteration, thinking, and strategy. As designers, we frequently find ourselves not only creating, but also explaining why design matters. Another challenge is internal: there’s always the feeling that something could be better. Design invites constant reflection and refinement. But we also work under time constraints, which means we have to learn when to stop—when to say, “this is the best possible outcome within these conditions.” That balance takes time and experience. On the positive side, the emotional reward is powerful. Seeing your ideas become tangible objects, and knowing you helped bring something meaningful into the world—it’s hard to describe. In design, you can be recognized for the things you create in a very direct and human way. That’s a privilege, and something I’m deeply grateful for.

Design should quietly make sense—emotionally, functionally, and contextually. If it doesn’t speak to a real need, if it doesn’t live well in its environment, or if it only exists to impress—it loses its purpose. My golden rule is: Don’t design to decorate. Design to connect.

In my view, the most important skills for a designer today are not technical—but perceptual. It’s not about how well you can draw anymore. We live in the age of AI and advanced digital tools—execution is easier than ever. What matters now is what you notice. How you observe. What kind of questions you ask. I believe a good designer is a quiet observer—someone who sees the tiny details others miss, and then builds a whole world from them. It’s about sensing nuance, making unexpected connections, and understanding human behavior on a subtle level. AI can analyze patterns at scale. But a designer can take one unnoticed moment—one ordinary gesture—and transform it into something meaningful. That, to me, is irreplaceable.

My design toolbox includes both digital tools and analog habits—and a strong dose of curiosity. Technically, I work with software like SolidWorks, Illustrator, Photoshop, and KeyShot, depending on the nature of the project. I also benefit quite a bit from AI tools—especially during early concept development or when I want to visualize ideas quickly. They don’t replace my thinking, but they accelerate and expand it. Beyond tools, I rely heavily on visual research. I often say one of the best parts of being a designer is that flipping through design or decor magazines counts as work. I love scanning Pinterest or a magazine page with no specific goal in mind—sometimes that’s where the most unexpected ideas come from. I read a lot—mostly related to UX, branding, sustainability, psychology, and child development, since those areas connect with my research and ongoing projects. I also take great inspiration from travel: not just the places themselves, but the reading and cultural context I explore beforehand. Sometimes, the most powerful tool is just stillness—watching people, absorbing a space, or letting your mind wander without pressure.

Time is the most limited and most valuable resource in my life—so I’ve learned to design my time as carefully as I design objects. As a mother of a young child, my work hours are short and highly focused. I usually work when he’s at school or after bedtime, which means I need to be very intentional about what gets my time and energy. Over the years, I’ve learned how to prioritize, how to let go of perfection when necessary, and how to say “no” to things that don’t align with my values or direction. I block out time for deep work, I take notes constantly, and I try to group similar tasks so my mind can stay in flow longer. That said, some of the best ideas still come when I’m not working—when I’m walking, cooking, or doing something completely unrelated. So I try to leave room for mental wandering too. In short, I don’t just manage time—I try to curate it.

It really depends on the nature and scope of the project—but for me, the thinking often takes longer than the making. If it's a conceptual design, I might spend days or weeks just researching, observing, and outlining the context before even sketching anything. Sometimes the core idea comes in a flash, but developing it into something meaningful and feasible takes time. Physical objects with prototyping and production stages can take anywhere from a few weeks to several months—especially if materials, suppliers, or manufacturing processes are involved. On the other hand, smaller-scale or visual communication tasks might be much faster. I’ve learned that time isn’t just about how long something takes to create—it’s also about how long it needs to become right. And sometimes, you just have to pause, step away, and come back with fresh eyes.

Honestly? The question I get asked most often is: “When will it be ready?” And I completely understand—it’s natural. But it’s also a funny reminder that while design looks creative from the outside, it’s deeply tied to time management, deadlines, and production timelines. Another question I often hear is: “Is this something you can design?” or “Does this fall into your area of work?” It reflects how broad and sometimes misunderstood the design field can be—people are still trying to figure out what exactly a designer does. I don’t mind explaining—it opens the door for more meaningful collaborations. But yes, “when will you deliver?” is the one I hear the most. :)

One of the most important periods in my career was during my time working with Sisecam and projects like Glass Is Tomorrow and Omnia. These experiences gave me the chance to work closely with international designers, lead production and design management processes, and represent the company on global platforms. I had the opportunity to attend international award ceremonies, win several design competitions, and see my work spread across the world. It gave me confidence, visibility, and a deep understanding of both the creative and strategic sides of design. But equally important is the chapter I’m currently in—where I’m building something from scratch. After years in the corporate world, I’ve shifted toward independent work, research, and self-discovery. For the first time, I’m responsible for my own marketing, my own network, my own direction. I recently entered a competition again—after years—and handled everything on my own, from concept to funding. Doing this while also raising a young child and working on my PhD is not easy. But this moment is teaching me something the corporate world never could: how to find my own voice, on my own terms.

I’ve worked with a variety of clients across different fields—from food and decorative products to packaging, eyewear, and brand identity. My role often goes beyond just product design; I’ve also contributed to the development of brand strategies, visual identities, and social media presence for some of the brands I’ve collaborated with. In earlier years, I was part of international design initiatives under Sisecam, where I contributed both as a designer and in the coordination of collaborative projects with international creatives. While those collaborations weren’t “client” relationships in the traditional sense, they gave me insight into global production, storytelling, and cross-cultural design. I now work independently and selectively—mostly on project-based collaborations where I can bring value through interdisciplinary thinking and a context-driven approach. You can find a selection of my work at www.sinemhalli.com, under the "Designed For" section.

I enjoy working on design projects that live in people’s everyday lives—but in subtle, meaningful ways. That might be a food-related object, a decorative item, or something functional like packaging. What matters to me is not just what it looks like, but how it makes someone feel, how it fits into their routines, and whether it quietly reshapes their behavior or awareness. I’m also deeply drawn to projects where I can combine different disciplines—where a single object carries cultural meaning, sensory experience, and smart functionality at once. For example, a self-watering flower pot isn’t just a product; it’s a way to care, to remember, to coexist with nature—effortlessly. I think I enjoy this kind of work because it allows me to connect big ideas to small moments—and because it lets design be both thoughtful and accessible.

In the coming years, I want to shape a design practice that’s truly aligned with how I think, live, and create. While I enjoy teaching and engaging with academic research, I feel most energized when I’m working with my hands, developing real objects, and collaborating across disciplines. My long-term vision is to establish a platform—perhaps a brand lounge or a curated collection space—where my work can live not just as ideas, but as experiences. I’m also exploring more critical approaches to design through my PhD project, which focuses on rethinking the value of already-produced goods from a sustainability perspective. Rather than contributing to endless cycles of production and consumption, I’m interested in how design can help us re-evaluate, reframe, and reconnect with what already exists. I’d like to continue collaborating with thoughtful brands, co-creating meaningful products, and expanding my independent design voice. I also want to keep sharing what I learn—through teaching, writing, or mentorship—but always staying close to tangible, lived design. In short, my future is about designing as a way of being: shaping a life, a brand, and a dialogue—through form, story, and responsible thinking.

I usually develop my designs independently—but I never think in isolation. While I handle most of the design work myself, I actively seek out conversations with people from different disciplines. I often consult with engineers, psychologists, or people from other fields to gain perspectives I wouldn’t have on my own. I believe the best ideas often come from unexpected intersections. Even though I’m the one shaping the final product, the thinking behind it is often enriched by input from others. That interdisciplinarity helps me stay grounded, curious, and open to new ways of solving problems.

Yes, I’m currently working on a few things that I’m really excited about. One is chocolate project—not focused on packaging, but on the food product itself. I’m exploring how form can enhance the sensory experience: how a small shift in shape or structure might change the way we interact with taste, touch, or rhythm while eating. I’m also developing a new series of decorative objects—simple, material-driven forms that reflect everyday rituals and emotions. But the most intensive work I’m doing right now is through my PhD. It’s not just academic—it’s a process of rethinking how we relate to existing products and their life cycles, and how design might offer new ways to interpret and extend value, rather than just adding more to the world.

The easiest way to contact me is through my website: www.sinemhalli.com You can find my email and other contact information there, as well as selected works and thoughts around design and culture. I also occasionally share updates on Instagram (@sinemhalli), but I keep things more curated there. For real conversations or collaborations, reaching out via the website is definitely the best way.

I think the questions have already covered a lot—but I’d like to add one thing: I’m currently in a phase of rebuilding—both personally and professionally. As a dedicated designer, a mother, and someone reshaping her independent path, I’m always open to meaningful design collaborations. I believe in thoughtful, responsible design—and I’m eager to work with people, brands, and institutions who value the same. If anything in this interview resonated with you, I’d truly love to connect.

I’ve been immersed in design for over 17 years—since well before university, when I was sketching furniture for our home and exploring how things could be made better. I studied Industrial Design at university, later completed a master’s in Brand Communication, and today I continue to expand this journey with a PhD focused on sustainability in design. For 8 years, I worked in the corporate world—mainly with Paşabahçe (Şişecam Group)—where I took on roles that bridged marketing, branding, and product design. That experience gave me the chance to understand not only how things are designed, but also how they’re positioned, produced, and communicated. I’ve also contributed to international design programs like Omnia and Glass is Tomorrow, not only as a designer but also helping coordinate and curate cross-cultural collaborations. Today, I work independently as a designer and researcher, collaborating with various clients across sectors—from food and furniture to packaging and decorative objects. I also teach at the university level, which keeps me continuously learning while helping others find their voice in design.

I think I didn’t really become a designer—I was always one. Even as a child, I was constantly drawing, questioning how things could be different, or better. I remember sketching furniture ideas before I even knew the word “industrial design.” I used to wear my glasses upside down just to see the world differently. That curiosity never left me. What shaped me more consciously was my time at Robert College. It gave me a broader way of thinking and the confidence to follow unusual ideas. Studying Industrial Design at university was a natural step after that, and from the very beginning, I was drawn not just to form or aesthetics, but to function, meaning, and how design connects with human behavior. I later pursued a master's degree in Brand Communication to better understand how design fits into systems—how it communicates, how it builds value. Now, as a PhD researcher working on sustainability, I find myself circling back to the same questions I asked at the start: how can we create thoughtfully, responsibly, and beautifully? There was no single person who pushed me into design. It was more of an internal compass—an urge to observe, make, and solve. And design, to me, is the most powerful and subtle way to do that.

Every project begins with curiosity and observation. I try to understand the people, the context, and the deeper purpose before anything else. From there, I move between intuition and iteration. I don’t follow a rigid method—I adapt my process depending on the nature of the project. Sometimes I start by writing or sketching ideas in a way only I can decode. Sometimes I jump into digital modeling or even ask AI to help me explore visual directions. And when it makes sense, I prototype—physically or virtually—until the idea takes shape. If there’s one thing consistent across my work, it’s the desire to make things that are not just functional or beautiful, but also quietly intelligent—designs that respect people’s habits, attention, and time.

Designing often feels like a rollercoaster of emotions for me. At the very beginning, I usually feel a rush of excitement—there’s that spark where I believe I might create something truly meaningful. But as I start digging deeper, doing research, exploring what’s been done, a kind of panic sets in: “Has everything already been done?” That moment is tough—but necessary. Because once I move through it, I usually find a path that feels both personal and original. The most fulfilling part is when things start to flow—when the idea begins to breathe on its own. It's like solving a puzzle that no one else knew existed. I enjoy those moments when intuition and logic start working together. But nothing compares to seeing the final piece come to life. There’s a quiet joy in seeing an idea go from a thought to something tangible—something that exists in the world and interacts with people. That’s when I feel a deep sense of purpose and calm. Design isn’t always easy, but it’s always rewarding. It keeps me grounded, curious, and connected.

I believe some of the most important skills that shaped me as a designer weren’t directly about design. Being curious, observant, and reflective have probably helped me more than any software ever could. My background includes not only industrial design and brand communication, but also studies in child development, sustainability, and now, AI. These seemingly unrelated fields helped me design with more empathy, cultural depth, and foresight. For example, my experience in brand strategy gave me the ability to see design beyond the object—to understand its role within a larger system. My academic research taught me how to ask the right questions, and my work with cross-disciplinary teams taught me how to listen. I’ve also been a long-time traveler, and the cultural contrasts I’ve experienced have deeply influenced my aesthetic instincts and values. If I had to name one influence, it would be life itself—being a mother, a researcher, a mentor, and an independent thinker. These roles continuously feed into each other, creating a design perspective that’s both analytical and intuitive. In short, design for me is less about “making things” and more about making sense of things—connecting ideas, values, and people in thoughtful ways.

Right now, I’m in a phase of rebuilding—both professionally and personally. After years of working within large organizations, I’ve stepped into a more independent, exploratory mode of design. My goal is to build a practice that allows for both creative freedom and meaningful impact. I want to continue designing across disciplines—products, systems, experiences—and I especially want to grow in areas where design intersects with culture, sensory experience, and sustainability. My PhD project explores how we can rethink consumption and value through new lenses, and I hope to turn that into something practical—perhaps even a platform or a business model. In the future, I’d love to have a space of my own—a studio, maybe even a brand lounge—where my collections can live physically and tell their stories. A place that’s not just a showroom, but a hub for collaboration, learning, and experimentation. My dream project? Something that brings together material innovation, cultural narratives, and emotional design. A product or system that quietly transforms habits without shouting for attention. More than anything, I want to be remembered as a designer who listened deeply, created responsibly, and brought beauty and intention into everyday life.

My biggest advice to young designers would be: don’t wait for the perfect opportunity—create it. Try everything. Participate in as many design competitions as you can, even outside your comfort zone. Try designing a chair, a piece of jewelry, a food experience, a digital interface—just try. You’ll discover not only your strengths, but your true interests. Also, don’t underestimate internships and hands-on work experiences—even the unpaid ones. They teach you what textbooks never can: how to deal with constraints, collaborate with others, and respond to real-world briefs. Another thing I always say to my students: design is not just about how good you are technically. It’s about how well you can observe, think, adapt and communicate. Read across disciplines. Travel. Talk to people outside your field. The more lenses you gain, the better your design intuition becomes. One of the best pieces of advice I’ve received was: “You don’t need to be the loudest in the room. Just be the one who truly sees.” That still guides me. Success doesn’t come all at once—it builds with every honest effort, failure, and insight. So be patient with your path, but committed to your growth.

If I could share one key reminder with fellow designers, it would be this: don’t fall in love with aesthetics alone. Especially in early career stages, it’s easy to chase visual beauty without questioning function, efficiency, or necessity—I’ve been there myself. A design isn’t better because it does more—it’s better when it does just enough, beautifully and effectively. Simplicity isn’t minimalism for its own sake—it’s about clarity and purpose. Also, narrowing the scope often helps. Instead of designing for everything, focus on designing something well within clear boundaries. That’s where true creativity thrives: within limits.

My days start early—mostly because I have a young child. That means my actual “working hours” are often defined by his school schedule. Once I get to my desk, I usually begin with my to-do list and a strong coffee. I check emails, ongoing project updates, and set priorities for the day—whether it’s a collaboration, a research task, or content for my blog. I try to keep some time each week for conceptual exploration—gathering references, observing trends, and visually wandering through new ideas. Pinterest, design blogs, and even exhibition archives often spark unexpected connections. These moments help me zoom out and reconnect with the “why” behind what I’m doing. When the day gets too dense, small things lift me up—a well-resolved detail in a project, discovering a clever form solution, or just spending a few quiet minutes editing visuals while listening to something inspiring. Even with all the shifting roles, I find joy in the balance—designing, thinking, mentoring, and staying curious.

I don’t design to follow trends, but I don’t ignore them either. Trends are interesting when they reflect real shifts in culture, behavior, or values. I pay attention to those—not the short-lived aesthetic waves, but the deeper movements that tell us something about where people’s attention is going. That said, I try to avoid designing for “this season.” I’m more interested in creating pieces that carry meaning over time—products or collections that can live quietly, yet persistently, in people’s lives. I keep up with trends in my own way: I observe how people behave, what they value, what feels new in how they live or consume. I also browse design platforms, art archives, and exhibitions—not to copy, but to connect dots across disciplines. Inspiration for me rarely comes from what's popular. It comes from what feels layered, relevant, and honest. And I believe good design outlives trends when it’s rooted in thoughtfulness.

For me, a good design is one that doesn’t scream—it simply makes sense. It serves its purpose with clarity, respects the user, and doesn’t try to be more than it needs to be. It might not grab attention at first glance, but it earns appreciation over time. I often ask: Is it intentional? Is it necessary? Is it quietly smart? If the answer is yes, then I consider it good design. One common mistake I see is over-designing—adding more features, more shapes, more statements—until the essence gets lost. Good design knows when to stop. It’s not about impressing; it’s about resolving. I also value designs that consider sustainability—not just in materials, but in emotional durability. Will people keep this object for years? Will it still feel relevant and useful? Ultimately, a good design feels right without needing to explain itself.

Deciding when a design is ready isn’t just a technical decision for me—it’s often relational. When I work with clients or collaborators, I pay close attention to their reactions—not just what they say, but what they don’t say. A pause, a slight change in tone, or a choice of words often tells me more than a formal brief ever could. Many times, the real feedback isn’t verbal. It’s about reading between the lines and translating their unspoken needs into design. When I feel I’ve captured that—when the design reflects both their intentions and my own standards for clarity and function—I know it’s time to let go. I tend to work quickly, so deadlines don’t usually force my hand. But I always respect the timeline. My internal signal is when I feel I could defend every choice I made, while also seeing that the client feels safe, understood, and excited. That’s when I say: it’s ready.

If I’m being honest, my biggest design work right now is my own life. After years of working in the corporate world, becoming a mother, going through a global pandemic, and shifting into academia and independent practice—I'm redesigning everything from the ground up. It's about building a new rhythm, a new voice, and a new kind of creative identity. And just like any meaningful design, it’s iterative, imperfect, and deeply personal. That said, in terms of products, two projects hold special meaning. One is a cufflink I designed early in my career using meerschaum and silver—a tribute to traditional Turkish craft with a contemporary soul. It helped shape my sense of design authorship. The other is Parawood Verso—a modular wall piece developed with zero-waste logic, now internationally awarded by the A’ Design Award. It represents everything I’ve been working toward: sustainable thinking, visual subtlety, and poetic function. But yes—my real masterpiece is still in progress: a life designed with intention.

I’m not someone who follows names religiously—whether it’s designers, academics, or even music artists. What inspires me isn’t who made something, but why and how they made it. I’m drawn to works that are thoughtful, context-sensitive, and quietly clever—regardless of fame. Sometimes I’m moved by a centuries-old craft technique; sometimes by a small object in a local market; sometimes by a silent gesture in a public space. Those are the moments that stay with me. So rather than having a list of favorite designers, I keep a collection of favorite thoughts, forms, and feelings—and I let those shape my work.

I live in Istanbul—a city that’s never just one thing. It’s chaotic, poetic, layered, and full of contradictions. But I also travel frequently within Turkey, and each region carries its own textures, materials, and stories. This cultural richness quietly shapes my design perspective. Music isn’t always part of my process, but rhythm definitely is—whether in form, space, or visual composition. I often look for that balance between tension and calm. Design, to me, is deeply cultural. It's not just about solving problems; it's about recognizing values, rituals, and identities. In my own life, design has helped me simplify, observe more deeply, and think long-term. Even small choices—like designing a self-watering planter or creating a slower morning routine—become design interventions when done with intention. I believe good design helps society not by being flashy, but by being thoughtful. When we design with empathy, context, and care, we shift behaviors, create belonging, and—sometimes—bring a little more beauty into the everyday.

I work independently, but I rarely work alone. My design process is often enriched by conversations—with engineers, psychologists, craftspeople, or just thoughtful observers. I believe in interdisciplinary exchange, and I value curiosity, clarity, and mutual respect in any collaboration. Is it easy to work with me? If you're open, honest, and willing to think deeply—yes. I’m adaptable and communicative, but I also have a strong sense of direction. I like to understand not just what a partner wants, but why they want it. Having worked both in corporate settings and as a freelancer, I’ve learned to listen to brand values, understand user needs, and translate abstract ideas into tangible, elegant outcomes. My business philosophy is rooted in three things: integrity, intention, and insight. I don’t design just to decorate—I design to reveal, connect, and resolve. A good designer, in my view, should be observant, empathetic, and relentlessly curious. Trends will fade, tools will change, but those traits will always matter.

As a designer, I strongly believe in giving back—not just through objects, but through opportunities, ideas, and cultural continuity. I regularly mentor students and emerging designers, both through academic roles and personal support. I encourage them to explore competitions, interdisciplinary thinking, and reflective practice—things that shaped me early on. Beyond that, a large part of my design and academic focus is centered on social and cultural sustainability. I explore how traditional crafts, local materials, and historical narratives can be reinterpreted with a contemporary mindset. To me, preserving culture doesn’t mean freezing it in time—it means helping it evolve meaningfully. I also contribute to collaborative or educational projects where design plays a role in connecting people, preserving identity, or addressing environmental needs. If the intention is clear and the cause is meaningful, I absolutely consider pro bono work. I see design not only as a tool for innovation, but as a bridge between past and future, people and ideas. Because at the end of the day, good design is not just about what we create—it’s about who we uplift, what we preserve, and how we shape what comes next.

Participating in the A’ Design Award has been a meaningful turning point for me. After a long pause from design competitions, this was my return—and winning reminded me not just of what I can do, but why I do it. One of the most positive experiences was feeling seen—not just for aesthetics, but for the mindset behind the work: sustainability, material logic, and poetic simplicity. The visibility that came with it, both locally and internationally, opened new conversations, new collaborations, and renewed confidence. Three key benefits of joining a design competition like this are: Clarity – It pushes you to articulate your design with precision and purpose. Visibility – You reach new audiences beyond your existing circles. Validation – It reinforces your belief in your approach—especially when your design is recognized by a global, professional jury. Being named “Designer of the Day” was both exciting and humbling. It’s a moment of spotlight, yes—but more importantly, it’s a reminder that consistent, thoughtful work resonates when it comes from a place of integrity. I believe design competitions matter because they challenge us, connect us, and remind us that design is not just about function—it’s about meaning.

I studied Industrial Design at Istanbul Technical University, where I built a strong foundation in both creative thinking and technical execution. Even before university, I was already curious about how things are made—I used to sketch furniture for our home or reimagine everyday objects just for fun. During my undergraduate years, I also spent a semester at Politecnico di Milano, which offered valuable international exposure. While it was a challenging experience, it helped me reflect more critically on design education and cultural perspectives—especially regarding marketing and communication. Later, I pursued a Master's degree in Brand Communication, allowing me to understand how design aligns with storytelling, identity, and consumer behavior. Now, I’m working toward a PhD focusing on sustainable design strategies and design thinking in cultural and social contexts. My design journey has included in-house work with large corporations like Sisecam Group (Pasabahce), freelance collaborations, and academic teaching. These diverse roles gave me a holistic view of how design can function not only as form-making, but also as a cultural and strategic tool.

I’ve always been drawn to observing people—how they move, what they need, and especially what they don’t even realize they need. That quiet layer of unmet expectations always fascinated me. Design became my way of responding to those moments—not just with ideas, but with tangible, thoughtful outcomes. Even as a child, I was constantly building, sketching, modifying things around me. I was curious about alternative ways of doing ordinary things. I loved reversing perspectives—sometimes literally, like wearing my glasses upside down just to see how the world would look. Design felt like the most natural extension of this mindset. It combined curiosity with empathy, creativity with problem-solving. What still motivates me today is the chance to turn small insights into meaningful, physical experiences—ones that respect both people and resources. Design isn’t just my job; it’s how I think. It’s how I connect with the world.

Growing up, I was naturally drawn to colors, composition, and visual thinking. I had a strong sense for aesthetics and loved expressing ideas through images and forms. But at the same time, I was also quite analytical—which meant people around me assumed I’d pursue something “more practical” or “safer” for the job market. In fact, I was gently (and sometimes not-so-gently) pushed away from design. I was told it might not be sustainable, that I’d be better off in another field. But I resisted—because I knew deep down that the only way I could thrive was by doing something I truly loved. So no, I wasn’t forced into becoming a designer. If anything, I was pressured not to become one. But I chose it anyway—and I’ve never regretted it.

I design across disciplines—primarily within product and experience design. My work ranges from decorative objects and homeware to packaging and food-related design. I’m especially drawn to projects that engage the senses and offer more than visual appeal. In the past, I focused heavily on glass, which still influences my material thinking. Recently, I’ve been exploring edible design and tactile experiences—like a chocolate series I’m currently working on, where form, ritual, and taste come together. What I wish to design more of are projects that blend disciplines and cultures, that tell a story and invite emotional connection. Whether it’s a daily object or an interactive experience, I want it to feel intentional, rooted, and quietly surprising. I’m also deeply interested in systems thinking—rethinking not just the object itself but the process, context, and behavior around it.

“Legend” might be a bit too generous—but if I were to offer advice to young designers, I’d say this: Try everything. Join as many competitions as you can. Design furniture, a wearable, a toy, a digital app—step outside your comfort zone. Every brief will stretch your thinking in a new direction, and each experiment brings you closer to your voice. Get real-world experience early. Intern, collaborate, freelance—do whatever it takes to see how design actually lives in the world. Sometimes the company you admire from afar may not feel like a good fit when you’re inside it—and that’s okay. You’re learning. Observe quietly and ask big questions. The best designers don’t just draw—they notice. They look where no one’s looking. They ask, “Is this necessary?” or “Could this be more human?” And above all: Design because you care. Not just about form, but about impact.

A good designer solves problems. A great designer notices them before anyone else. Great designers see what’s not said, what’s not obvious. They don’t just respond to a brief—they question it. They listen before they act. And they don’t get attached to their own ideas too early. What separates a great designer is often invisible: empathy, curiosity, and clarity. It’s the ability to observe quietly, to connect the dots across disciplines, and to simplify without losing meaning. Also, great designers know when to stop. Not because the design is perfect—but because it’s meaningful enough to live in the world.

A good design looks good and works well. But a really good design does something more: it quietly changes behavior. It makes people feel something. It adds value without adding noise. It respects both the user and the environment. It doesn’t try too hard—but it doesn’t disappear either. For me, great design is intentional. You can feel that every detail was considered—not just aesthetically, but emotionally, functionally, and ethically. Good design creates clarity, not confusion. It solves, simplifies, and sometimes surprises. Also: it lasts. Not just physically, but in memory.

Good design isn’t about luxury—it’s about lasting relevance. Take the classic BIC ballpoint pen. It hasn’t changed in decades. It’s simple, affordable, mass-produced—and still, nearly perfect for what it’s meant to do. That’s the value of good design: it becomes invisible in the best possible way. It slips into people’s lives so naturally that they stop noticing it—until they miss it. Everyone should invest in good design not because it’s trendy or expensive, but because it creates quiet efficiency, emotional ease, and long-term trust. From a business perspective, good design pays off. You may earn through scale, not premium pricing. And you win loyalty, not just attention. Design doesn’t have to be expensive. But it has to be thoughtful.

If I had more time—or better yet, the right ecosystem—I would focus on bringing my PhD project to life, not just as a theory but as a functional system. It’s a project that explores how we can evaluate and manage existing products more mindfully—shifting focus from constant production to responsible re-evaluation. It’s not about creating more, but about creating clarity around what already exists. I believe we need design tools that help companies, institutions, and even consumers pause, reflect, and clean the shelf—ethically, sustainably, and intentionally. This project could be a first step in that direction.

If I had the time—and the space—I would love to travel city by city, exploring traditional materials, local crafts, and region-specific techniques, and turn them into thoughtful, contemporary design collections. Each collection would be deeply rooted in its place—reflecting its textures, colors, forms, and stories. Not for nostalgia, but to keep cultural heritage alive in a modern, relevant way. Türkiye has an incredibly rich and diverse craft culture, but we rarely communicate its depth through today’s design language. My dream is to become a bridge between past and present—quietly preserving, respectfully translating. This wouldn’t be about designing for trends or mass production. It would be about creating pieces that deserve to be kept, used, and remembered.

I think my “secret ingredient” is actually quite simple: I listen before I design. I pay attention to the unspoken needs, the overlooked details, and the quiet signals people give when words aren’t enough. That’s often where the real brief is hiding. Then I try to create something that doesn’t scream for attention—but settles into life gently and stays there. Also, I don’t believe in forcing creativity. I believe in living with a question long enough that the answer slowly begins to shape itself. So if there’s a recipe, it’s this: Observe quietly. Design respectfully. Deliver meaningfully.

Of course I admire global designers like Naoto Fukasawa, whose subtle attention to everyday behaviors inspires me, and Ilse Crawford, who places human wellbeing at the heart of her design language. But if I’m being completely honest, the person who has influenced me most—both professionally and personally—is Dr. Oya Akman. She’s been a mentor, a role model, and a true design leader in every sense: not just through her patents and awards, but through her commitment to education, her hands-on approach, and the integrity she brings into everything she does. In a world where titles and fame often overshadow substance, her way of working reminds me what meaningful design really looks like.

I don’t fall in love with designs I’ve only seen in books. Admiration, for me, comes from experience—from touching, using, living with a design. I love designs that make you smile in daily life. Sometimes it’s a clever packaging from the past, a tea glass shaped just right, or a public object that does its job so well, you don’t even notice it. Those are the ones I respect most. It’s not always about aesthetic perfection or high-end innovation. It’s about usefulness, timelessness, and the feeling that someone truly cared when designing it. I admire design that doesn’t need a caption to prove itself.

My greatest design so far is the Parawood Collection, not just because it won an international award—but because it reflects everything I believe in as a designer. It’s a modular wall piece with a circular logic—each unit is designed from the offcuts of the previous, forming a self-sustaining system. It’s a quiet object, but layered with meaning: waste-conscious, rhythmically structured, and emotionally calming. But if I zoom out, I’d say the greatest design I’m working on is my life itself. After years in the corporate world, I’ve shifted into an independent path where I teach, design, collaborate, and raise my child. Rebuilding that ecosystem—financially, emotionally, and creatively—might just be my most complex design to date. In both cases, what makes a design “great” to me is not just how it looks, but what kind of life it makes possible.

To become a better designer, I believe you have to step outside of design. I’ve always learned the most when I reached beyond my own discipline—studying brand communication, diving into child development, even experimenting with AI tools. These experiences gave me new ways of seeing and thinking, not just new skills. Observation is another key: not just seeing objects, but understanding people, behavior, culture. Being a quiet observer has taught me more than any software ever could. Design isn’t just about creating; it’s about connecting. So to improve, I keep asking questions—about context, relevance, and responsibility. That’s what keeps me evolving.

Honestly, I can’t imagine not being a designer. It wasn’t a role I chose—it was simply the only way I made sense of the world. Even when I explored other disciplines like psychology or marketing, it was never to shift direction. I studied them to become a better designer—to understand people, to read behaviors, to navigate systems. They were tools, not destinations. If I had to imagine a life without design, maybe I’d be traveling the world, collecting stories and textures—somewhere between a researcher, a storyteller, and a wanderer. But even then, I’d still be curating, combining, and creating something meaningful. So the truth is: I would always end up designing—whether I called it that or not.

For me, design is not just about solving problems—it’s about asking the right questions. It’s the act of noticing what others overlook, and responding in a way that’s respectful to both people and the planet. Design is a language I use to connect: between disciplines, between cultures, between the past and what’s next. Sometimes it’s about beauty, sometimes function. But above all, it’s about intention. A good design listens before it speaks. That’s what I try to practice in every project.

If I had to name two people who truly shaped and supported my path, they would be my mother and Dr. Oya Akman. My mother, though no longer with us, was the one who encouraged me to follow my heart—even when the world suggested I take safer, more conventional routes. Her faith in me still echoes in my choices today. And Dr. Oya Akman has been more than a teacher—she’s been a compass. I find myself walking a path she once carved, sometimes knowingly, sometimes by beautiful coincidence. Her approach to design, her way of mentoring, and her presence in the field continue to inspire how I work, teach, and think. Of course, I’ve had other teachers and colleagues who offered guidance, especially in my academic journey. But these two women stand at the heart of who I am as a designer. I hope I can carry their legacy forward in my own way.