Author Archives: Ida Torres

BEAMS Just Turned a $60 Floppy Disk Into Your Next Wallet

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If you grew up in the ’90s or early 2000s, the floppy disk was basically part of your personality. You carried those little squares everywhere. You stressed over how many kilobytes were left on them. You wrote your name on the paper label with a Sharpie because it was, obviously, yours. And if you lost one that contains important information and documents, then you might as well say goodbye to it.

Now, BEAMS and Nik Bentel Studio have gone ahead and turned that deeply specific nostalgia into a leather wallet, and I genuinely cannot decide if that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all week or the most inspired. It’s probably both, and that’s exactly the point.

Designers: BEAMS x Nik Bentel Studio

The Floppy Disk Wallet is, in the most literal sense, a wallet shaped like a 3.5-inch floppy disk. The Brooklyn-based Nik Bentel Studio took the original form apart, component by component, and restructured it in leather, modifying the actual design by only 5%. That means the square shape is intact, the label window is still there, and the hardware detailing reads exactly like the real thing. Except instead of storing a few hundred kilobytes of data, it stores your cash, cards, and whatever else you can fit into its single interior compartment. The metal door lifts off and doubles as a money clip, which is either the cleverest detail of the year or just the most on-brand way possible to carry loose bills. Probably both, again.

It comes in black, beige, and orange. At $60 a piece, it’s priced like a thoughtful design object rather than a novelty tchotchke you’d find at a museum gift shop. That distinction matters to me. This wallet sits in that rare category of things that are both genuinely funny and genuinely well-made, and it pulls that balance off without seeming like it’s trying too hard.

What makes the whole thing more interesting than the obvious nostalgia play is who made it. Nik Bentel Studio isn’t a brand that slaps retro imagery on products and calls it a day. Bentel has described his work as storytelling through objects, and that philosophy shows up consistently across everything his studio releases. He’s the same designer who turned a Barilla pasta box into a handbag, reimagined the Mendl’s patisserie box from Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel as a carry-all, and built a purse that’s actually a remote-controlled car. Every piece has a concept baked into it from the start, not layered on afterward for aesthetics. The floppy disk wallet isn’t just fun to look at. It’s a meditation on how beautifully designed everyday objects can be when they’re shaped entirely by their constraints.

The BEAMS partnership amplifies that story in a way that feels earned. The Japanese retailer has long operated at the intersection of fashion, culture, and considered design through its bPr line. Bringing Nik Bentel Studio into that fold doesn’t feel like a brand collab for collab’s sake. It feels like two creative sensibilities that already speak the same language finding a natural reason to collaborate.

I’ll be honest: I have complicated feelings about nostalgia as a design strategy. It gets used so lazily and so often that it’s hard not to be skeptical when something leans into it. Cassette tapes on tote bags. Pixelated graphics on hoodies. That kind of thing loses its meaning fast. But the Floppy Disk Wallet sidesteps that trap because it isn’t just referencing an old object. It is the object, rebuilt in a better material. The nostalgia isn’t decorative; it’s structural. You’re not looking at a picture of a floppy disk. You’re holding one, in your pocket, every single day.

Whether you’ll use it as your primary wallet is a separate conversation. It’s compact by design, and minimal in terms of storage. If you carry a thick stack of loyalty cards and old receipts, this isn’t for you. But for someone who keeps things lean and wants their everyday carry to actually say something about them, this one says quite a lot. The black and orange colorways are already sold out on the studio’s site. That probably tells you everything you need to know.

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A Stool With Six Legs Just Made Four Feel Outdated

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The humble stool has barely changed in centuries. Four legs, a flat seat, done. It exists in every cafe, classroom, kitchen island, and co-working space on the planet, reliably doing its one job and nothing else. So when a designer comes along and asks what happens if you add just one more leg, the answer should probably be “nothing interesting.” And yet here we are, talking about SQOOL.

SQOOL is a 2025 personal project by Liam de la Bedoyere of Bored Eye Design, a UK-based independent studio that describes itself as creating work that’s anything but boring. At first glance, the stool reads almost like a creature. Six curved legs splayed outward with little rounded feet, a compact circular seat on top, and that one rogue arm reaching upward and curling into a hook. It looks like a cheerful yellow squid that decided to get into the furniture business, and I mean that entirely as a compliment. The photographs make it look alive. Depending on the angle, it shifts between dog, bug, and some friendly unnamed species you’d encounter in an animated film.

Designer: Liam de la Bedoyere (Bored Eye Design)

The concept is deceptively simple. Five legs provide complete stability, the same geometric logic you’d get from a traditional four-legged stool, just with an added sense of security and visual rhythm. The sixth leg is the interesting one. Freed from any load-bearing duty, it becomes something else entirely: a handle for carrying the stool, a hook for a bag or jacket, a rest for your coffee cup, a cradle for a book. The images show it doing all of these things casually, as if the stool has always known it could.

What makes SQOOL feel genuinely considered rather than just whimsical is how that extra function was thought through. The sixth arm doesn’t just stick out awkwardly. It curves deliberately, creating a shape that invites the hand to reach for it. People apparently do this instinctively, discovering its utility through touch rather than any printed instruction. That kind of design, where the object teaches you how to use it without saying a word, is harder to pull off than it looks.

The stacking detail is also worth noting. Getting six legs to nest cleanly on top of each other is a real engineering puzzle, and de la Bedoyere solved it by shaping each leg with enough taper and spacing to allow the stools to slide into each other gracefully. Seen stacked in a column, they look spectacular. Like a sculpture you’d walk past in a gallery and immediately photograph. Which means SQOOL is doing double duty even when no one is sitting on it.

The color choices lean fully into the stool’s playful register. The saturated yellow is hard to miss, and a soft lavender variant appears in some renders, equally confident. These aren’t accent tones chosen to recede politely into a neutral interior. They’re chosen to assert presence. SQOOL isn’t trying to disappear into a corner. It wants to be part of the room, part of the conversation, maybe even part of your grid. That’s not a criticism at all. Personality in furniture is genuinely underrated, and design objects that commit fully to their own character tend to age better than the ones trying to be neutral.

Bored Eye Design’s portfolio shows a consistent interest in objects that are curious and approachable, things that reward a second look and feel good to handle. SQOOL fits neatly into that sensibility. It’s playful without being infantile, practical without being dull, and memorable without leaning on novelty for novelty’s sake. The name alone, a blend of “stool” and something else entirely, already tells you what kind of designer de la Bedoyere is.

The question with any concept project is always whether it would survive production. I think SQOOL could. The logic holds up. The form has already been thought through with stackability in mind, which is usually where playful concepts fall apart. A stool this considered, this expressive, and this genuinely useful deserves more than a render portfolio. It deserves a production run.

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Alessi Just Built an Espresso Maker Shaped Like a Screw

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The trash or scrapyard is probably the last place you would look for inspiration when trying to come up with a design for food or drink-related products. But apparently, the new Vite espresso maker from Alessi did just that. Designer Philippe Malouin used his Scrapyard Works process to develop the concept for this coffee maker, drawing inspiration from an unexpected item: the screw. In fact, this approach is completely unprecedented in the history of Alessi, making the Vite one of the most conceptually bold things the brand has released in years.

Vite literally means “screw” in Italian, and the coffee maker looks exactly like what it’s named after. It is apparently what caught Malouin’s attention as he sifted through metal fragments, pieces that could be brought to new life through recomposition and reinterpretation. What you get is a coffee maker with a distinct industrial feel that can still deliver one of the best cups of fresh espresso you can get from a stovetop brewer.

Designer: Philippe Malouin

London-based industrial designer Philippe Malouin is no stranger to turning bold concepts into beautifully functional objects. Born in Laval in 1982, he founded his studio in 2008 and has since built a reputation for work spanning furniture, lighting, objects, and installations. He has taught at prestigious institutions like the Royal College of Art in London and ECAL in Lausanne, earning international recognition through awards from Wallpaper*, Archiproducts, and Dezeen. With the Vite, he brings that same thoughtful, concept-driven approach to your morning coffee ritual, and honestly, your kitchen counter will never look the same.

The Vite is made from die-cast aluminum, which gives your espresso a rich, rounded, full-bodied flavor. That choice of material is not just aesthetic, as aluminum has long been favored in traditional Italian coffee making for exactly this reason. The boiler is shaped to echo the form of a screw, a nod not only to the name but also to the physical gesture of twisting or screwing the two halves of the device together to brew your perfect cup. It’s a rare case where the name, the form, and the function all tell exactly the same story.

The small flared base of the boiler mirrors the head of a screw, keeping the theme consistent from top to bottom. This section is crafted from thermoplastic resin, and the color variants were actually sampled directly from the machinery and tools inside the Alessi workshop, meaning what sits on your stovetop is literally a piece of Alessi’s factory floor translated into design. Available shades include Sage Green and Brown, among other workshop-inspired options. It’s a small detail, but it’s exactly the kind of thoughtful decision that Alessi collectors tend to fall in love with. If you’d prefer a cleaner, more minimalist look, there’s also an exclusive natural aluminum version available only on alessi.com and in select Alessi stores.

Beyond its striking looks, the Vite is impressively practical. It brews three cups of espresso at a time and is compatible with all types of cooktops, including induction. That’s a major win for anyone who has had to retire a beloved moka pot simply because of a kitchen upgrade. At just 17 cm tall and 10 cm in diameter, it’s compact enough to tuck away but distinctive enough that you’ll probably want to leave it on permanent display.

And that’s really what sets the Vite apart in a crowded market of coffee makers: it’s as much a collectible as it is an appliance. Alessi has always walked the line between industrial design and art, and the Vite is a near-perfect example of that philosophy in action. Whether you’re a design collector, a devoted espresso lover, or simply someone who believes your kitchen deserves beautiful things, this screw-shaped little brewer is worth every bit of the attention it’s getting. Sometimes, the best ideas really do come from the scrapyard, and this one just happens to make a really great cup of coffee too.

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The Anello Chair Is 3 Design Eras in One Piece of Wood

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The Anello chair by Kiritsu Mokko does not shout for attention. It sits quietly with a circular backrest that seems to float around a sculpted wooden seat, looking like a piece slightly out of time. Not in a dated way. More like it arrived from a place where three very different design traditions decided, once and for all, to stop competing and just become one thing.

Kiritsu Mokko has been making furniture in Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan, since 1949. That is a long time to study wood. And the Anello, which loosely translates to “ring” in Italian, is a direct expression of that accumulated knowledge. The circular back is not a simple ring slapped onto a base. It is constructed by carefully joining pieces of solid wood, with the grain matched so deliberately that the joints nearly disappear into the form. The result is a curve that looks almost impossible in wood, as though someone forgot to tell the material what it could and could not do.

Designer: Kiritsu Mokko

The design language is genuinely hard to place, and I think that is the entire point. From certain angles, the Anello looks like it belongs in a 1960s living room, all rounded forms and quiet futurism, the kind of chair Kubrick might have placed in a scene just for its shape. From another angle, it reads as straightforwardly Danish Modern, with clean proportions, warm wood tones, and that particular kind of seated elegance that Scandinavian design spent decades perfecting. And then you look at the joinery, the patience baked into every curve, and it becomes unmistakably Japanese. Not Japanese in a superficial, “inspired by” way, but in the deeper sense of a culture that treats materials with a respect that borders on reverence.

The seat swivels. That detail is easy to miss because Kiritsu Mokko was careful to hide the mechanism, keeping the chair’s silhouette completely uninterrupted. No visible hardware, no break in the form. You can rotate in place and the chair still reads as a single, continuous object. That kind of restraint is its own design philosophy, the idea that if a feature does not serve the visual integrity of a piece, it should be invisible. This is not a new concept in Japanese design, but seeing it executed this cleanly is always a reminder of how much the rest of the furniture world is leaving on the table.

It comes in walnut and oak, which matters more than it might seem. These are not just material options. They are two entirely different emotional experiences of the same chair. The walnut version has a richness that pulls the Anello toward something more intimate and sculptural. The oak reads lighter, more architectural, almost Scandinavian by default. Either way, the solid wood construction means this is not a piece designed to be replaced in five years. It is made with the assumption that you will still have it in thirty.

I will admit that the Anello is the kind of chair that makes me think about how little faith the mainstream furniture market has in its customers. Most of what fills showrooms today operates on a kind of planned impermanence, pieces designed to look good in a photograph before you buy them and mediocre in a room after you do. The Anello is the opposite of that. It is a chair that probably photographs well but is genuinely intended to be lived with.

A piece of furniture that synthesizes Space Age optimism, Scandinavian warmth, and Japanese precision without feeling like a design school exercise is genuinely rare. The Anello pulls it off not because it was trying to be three things at once, but because Kiritsu Mokko has been doing this long enough to trust the materials to speak for themselves.

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The French Tiny House That Put the Bedroom on the Ground Floor

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The tiny house world has a habit of recycling the same design logic: loft bedroom up top, living area below, ladder in between. It works, and nobody really argues with it. But every once in a while, a designer asks “what if we did this completely differently?” and the result is something you can’t stop thinking about.

That’s the Véronique, a compact towable home crafted by France’s Lou Tiny House, and its most quietly radical choice is this: the bedroom is on the ground floor, and the loft is the living space. Upside down by tiny house convention, but somehow, on second thought, completely obvious.

Designer: Lou Tiny House

At just 5.80 meters (19 feet) long and set on a double-axle trailer, the Véronique is small by any standard, tiny house included. It’s clad in spruce wood on the outside and topped with a metal roof, which gives it a clean, almost Scandinavian edge despite its French origins. The whole thing was built for a musician named Véronique, yes, the house is named after its owner, who planned to park it in the mountain region of Cantal, a place known more for rough winters than beachside ease. Lou Tiny House, whose workshop sits at the foothills of the Pyrenees, knows that climate well, and it shows in how thoughtfully the home was built to handle it, including a passive heating system designed to keep things comfortable without running up an energy bill.

The decision to flip the layout isn’t just an aesthetic quirk, it’s a practical one. In a conventional tiny house, climbing into a loft bedroom is fine when you’re in your twenties and don’t mind a ladder at midnight. But it’s a different story when the space needs to work long-term, or when you simply want to get in and out of bed like a normal person. Putting the bedroom on the ground floor solves that problem entirely. The bedroom gets a double bed, a generous row of windows for light and air, and a sense of calm that feels genuinely restful rather than squeezed-in.

The loft, meanwhile, becomes the social hub: a sofa, a coffee table, some greenery, and enough breathing room to feel like a real living space rather than an afterthought. It’s the kind of setup that could just as easily serve as a reading nook or a quiet place to work. The design also handles storage needs through the custom loft layout, which matters more than ever now that so many people are working from wherever they happen to be parked.

I’ll admit I have a personal bias toward tiny house designs that treat the bedroom as a sanctuary rather than a sleeping shelf. The climbing-a-ladder-in-the-dark routine has always felt more like a dorm room compromise than a deliberate design choice, and the Véronique is a refreshing pushback against that. The upside-down layout reframes the whole idea of what “small” can feel like. It doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. It feels considered.

Lou Tiny House has built a reputation for custom, handcrafted interiors that lean into natural materials and honest craftsmanship, and the Véronique carries that aesthetic throughout. The warm wood interior, the raw textures, the way everything seems to have been placed with intention rather than squeezed in as an afterthought: it all reads as deeply French in the best possible way. There’s a quiet refusal to apologize for the size of the space, and instead a firm insistence that good design can make even 19 feet feel generous.

The tiny house movement has always been as much about philosophy as it is about square footage. The Véronique fits that spirit, but it brings something extra: a willingness to question conventions that have become so standard in the space that most people don’t even realize they’re conventions anymore. It was built for one specific musician in one specific climate, and that specificity is exactly what makes it feel universal. Good design usually works that way.

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Konel Just Built a Bag That Slows Your Heart Rate While You Wear It

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We are all carrying more than just our belongings these days. The mental load, the relentless calendar, the low-grade hum of stress that follows you from your morning commute to your desk to your couch at night. Wearable tech was supposed to help with that. Instead, most of it just gives you more numbers to feel bad about, more data to scroll through while your cortisol levels do exactly what they want anyway.

That’s what makes the Pulse Pack, a translucent wearable bag by Japanese creative company Konel, feel like such a refreshing left turn. It debuted at Milan Design Week 2026, and the concept alone is worth pausing on. The bag measures your heartbeat in real time and then responds with a physical pulse of its own, timed at exactly half the frequency of what it detects. When your heart is racing, it hums back at you slowly and steadily. And over time, your body follows.

Designer: Konel

The science behind it is called entrainment, the process by which the nervous system synchronizes with a steady external rhythm when that rhythm is slower and more regular than its own. You’ve probably experienced it without realizing it. A slow drumbeat at a concert that settles you into your seat. A rocking motion on a long train ride. A repeated vibration against your palm. These things pull you down, not because they distract you from stress, but because the body literally adjusts its own pace to match them. Konel built the Pulse Pack around that mechanism entirely, and it’s a smarter premise than most wellness gadgets can claim.

What makes the design clever, beyond the concept itself, is where the haptic pulse actually lands on the body. Most wearable devices place their feedback at the wrist or fingertips, the places we are constantly paying attention to. The Pulse Pack positions its pulse against the spine and shoulder blades instead, areas that are far less consciously monitored. That feels intentional in the best possible way. Konel suggests that contact with the back is less intrusive and more grounding than stimulation at the extremities, and that logic holds up when you think about how a hand placed firmly on someone’s back can calm them in a way that a tap on the wrist rarely does.

Konel is also the company behind the ZZZN, a puffer jacket that doubles as a sleeping system with a built-in headpiece and red light therapy, designed for napping pretty much anywhere. So if you’re sensing a theme, you’re reading it correctly. This is a studio genuinely interested in designing objects that support the body’s quieter needs: rest, calm, recovery, rather than feeding the dopamine loop that most consumer tech seems structurally incapable of resisting. It’s an interesting design niche, and a necessary one.

The Pulse Pack is still a prototype. The version on display at Via Palermo 11 during Milan Design Week is not something you can order yet, and it’s fair to wonder how the technology translates into an actual production piece. The translucent material is striking in photos, beautiful and a little otherworldly, but bags live a rough life. The gap between a design week prototype and a durable everyday object is real and wide, and that’s a challenge Konel will have to solve if this ever ships.

Still, I keep coming back to the core premise. We have spent years watching tech companies try to solve stress by throwing more information at us. More graphs, more scores, more nudges, more optimizations. The Pulse Pack takes the opposite approach completely. It doesn’t tell you anything. It doesn’t suggest anything. It just slows itself down and quietly invites your body to do the same. Whether or not the Pulse Pack ever makes it to your back, it shifts the conversation about what wearable technology could actually be doing. Not louder. Not smarter. Just calmer. That’s a design philosophy I’d like to see a lot more studios take seriously.

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The Tray That Knows You Eat in Bed

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Most of us don’t eat at the dining table anymore. Not really. The pandemic accelerated something that was already quietly happening: meals migrating from the kitchen to the living room, the bedroom, the desk, the floor. We eat while watching something, while scrolling something, while half-working and half-resting. The dining table still exists, sure, but as a concept, it has become more aspirational than actual.

And yet, the tools we use to manage the air around our food haven’t moved with us. Range hoods are bolted to the ceiling above a stove. Portable air purifiers sit in corners, doing their best from across the room. Even the newer tabletop options ask you to position them just right, or carry them separately, adding friction to something that should feel effortless. For a culture that has fully embraced eating anywhere, the air solutions available to us are still very much designed for eating in one place.

Designer: Junho Han

Junho Han’s Notrace:Null addresses this with a level of clarity that makes you wonder why no one thought of it sooner. The concept is simple: instead of building a separate device that you need to carry alongside your food, the air purification system is built directly into the tray. You pick up your food, and the solution comes with it. No extra steps, no reconfiguration, no reminder to bring the device. The tray is the device.

Visually, Notrace:Null makes almost no noise about what it does. The design is quiet and off-white, with a flat surface that opens to reveal an internal filter system underneath. A small button sits flush against the side, the only visible sign that this tray does anything beyond hold a bowl of ramen. The fine venting grid along the underside is equally understated. That restraint feels deliberate, and it is the right call. The best-designed things tend to look like they were always supposed to exist, and Notrace:Null has that quality.

What strikes me about this concept is that it doesn’t try to change behavior. It slots into the routine that already exists. You grab the tray, put your food on it, carry it to wherever you’ve decided to eat tonight, and that’s it. The air filtration happens as a byproduct of your usual movement. Han describes this as “the most natural solution,” and the framing holds up. Good design doesn’t demand that users adapt to it. It adapts to users instead.

The project also makes a quiet cultural observation worth sitting with. The rise of single-person households, convenience foods, and personalized streaming content has fundamentally changed where and how people eat. We don’t just eat in the kitchen anymore. We eat throughout the entire home, and that shift has real consequences for air quality. Food odors that once stayed contained now travel freely. Bedrooms carry the memory of last night’s dinner. Living rooms hold the ghost of lunch. Notrace:Null is designed around this reality rather than around the home we’re told we should have.

It’s still a concept, and that’s worth noting. As a Behance project, Notrace:Null exists in that productive space between idea and product, where the thinking is fully formed but the execution remains hypothetical. The concept feels mature enough to be producible, though. The form factor is practical, the use case is real, and the need is clearly there. If it ever makes it to market, it would fill a gap in the air quality space that nobody has managed to articulate this well before.

Design concepts like this remind me why speculative design matters. Not everything needs to ship immediately to be valuable. Sometimes a well-considered idea just needs to exist, to put the question on the table and make it harder to ignore. Notrace:Null asks a simple question: if how we eat has changed, shouldn’t the tools that support it change too? The answer is obvious. The solution, it turns out, was hiding in a tray.

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The Red Cabin Sitting Alone on a 1,000-Year-Old Island in China

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The first time I saw images of the Red Bridge Cabin, I spent a good five minutes just staring at them. Not scrolling. Not clicking through. Just staring. A small red structure sitting on a quiet island, reflected in the water around it, surrounded by the stillness of a thousand-year-old heritage park in Zhengzhou, China. It looked like something out of a dream someone had while reading ancient poetry. It makes me want to spend a few hours in it. That’s the kind of thing good architecture can do to you.

Designed by Wiki World and the Advanced Architecture Lab, the Red Bridge Cabin is the 138th entry in Wiki World’s ongoing “Wild Home” series, a collection of experimental small-scale dwellings that push back against conventional ideas about what a home needs to be. At just 79 square meters, the cabin sits within Yuancheng Cultural Park, a free-admission heritage park built around the Yuanling Ancient City Site in the Zhengzhou Airport Economy Zone. The site is a nationally protected cultural landmark that integrates historical preservation, ecological landscapes, and family-friendly leisure all in one place. Parking a bold red wooden cabin in the middle of that requires either tremendous confidence or a very specific kind of audacity. I’d argue it requires both.

Designers: Advanced Architecture Lab, Wiki World (photos by Arch Exist)

The name comes from the bridge. You reach the cabin by crossing a narrow, translucent bridge over the water, which immediately sets the tone. This isn’t a building you stumble into. You approach it, and that approach is already part of the experience. The designers describe it as a place where “comfort and wilderness, engagement and detachment, become indistinct, like longing itself, beautifully blurred.” I know that reads a little poetic for a press release, but I think they actually meant it, and looking at the photographs, it’s hard to argue against it.

Inside, the cabin incorporates two courtyards and a large skylight, which together create what the designers call “a landscape within the living space itself.” That phrase sounds abstract until you see it in practice. Natural light moves through the interior differently at different times of day. Translucent screens blur the surrounding views into soft silhouettes while carefully placed windows frame specific sightlines outward. It’s a small space that feels intentionally porous, as if the boundary between inside and outside was always meant to be negotiable.

The construction method deserves its own moment. The entire structure is built from glued laminated timber, with every irregular component and joint digitally designed and custom-fabricated for full prefabricated assembly. Small metal connectors link the timber elements, and the whole thing can be disassembled and reassembled without permanently altering the site. The designers frame this as a feature, not a workaround, and for a cabin sitting on protected heritage ground, it’s the only approach that makes any sense. The cabin belongs to the landscape without claiming it.

Wiki World has been building this kind of experimental wilderness dwelling for years, and their consistency is a big part of what makes the Red Bridge Cabin feel interesting rather than just pretty. They’re genuinely working through a set of ideas about small-scale living, about what it means to be physically close to materials, about how reducing space can make a person more sensitive to their surroundings. Their phrase, “small brings us closer to the material,” sounds like design philosophy, but it also sounds like something that could apply to how most of us live, if we let it.

The cabin is painted a deep, saturated red, which at first feels like a deliberate provocation against its natural setting. But the more you look at it in those photographs, reflected in still water against muted greens and ancient earth, the more it starts to feel inevitable. Like it was always supposed to be there. Like the landscape had been waiting for something to mark it. I’m not entirely sure if that’s great design or great photography. Probably both. Either way, I keep returning to those images, and that feels like its own kind of answer.

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What Happens When You Stop Fighting the Rain and Design With It

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Most architects treat rain as an obstacle. Drain it. Redirect it. Keep it away from the interior at all costs. Australian architect Steven Chu had a different idea entirely, and it just earned him the Grand Prize at the NOT A HOTEL DESIGN COMPETITION 2026.

His winning entry is called Sound of Rain, a proposed villa on Yakushima, a densely forested island off the southern coast of Kyushu, Japan. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site known for its ancient cedar forests and, predictably, a lot of rain. Rather than treating that rain as a logistical problem to solve, Chu built his entire design around it.

Designer: Steven Chu (Artefact Architects)

The concept is beautifully straightforward. A broad, bowl-shaped rooftop sits above the structure, collecting rainfall and releasing it slowly along the roof’s perimeter. Water traces a continuous line around the building’s edge, creating a living curtain that shifts and moves depending on the weather. That boundary between inside and outside isn’t a wall or a window. It’s water.

Circulation paths, sheltered zones, and open terraces are all arranged around the movement of that water. It’s the kind of design thinking that sounds almost obvious in hindsight but rarely gets executed with this much commitment. Chu didn’t just reference the climate in a mood board. He made it load-bearing.

Inside, the approach stays consistent. Materials are restrained and surfaces curve gently, guiding movement without feeling prescriptive. Glass openings frame the surrounding forest and coastline. A bedroom sits along the perimeter, positioned specifically to receive filtered light and the ambient sound of rain falling outside. The atmosphere in every room is meant to shift throughout the day as weather changes, because in this house, weather isn’t background noise. It’s the whole point.

A circular outdoor space anchors the main living area, with a sunken fire element at its center. It’s a pairing that works precisely because neither element announces itself. The contrast between the water perimeter and the fire core feels like it’s pulled directly from the island’s own logic: rain on the outside, warmth on the inside. As a design gesture, it’s earned rather than decorative.

The competition itself adds weight to the win. NOT A HOTEL, the Japanese luxury hospitality brand, opened the 2026 edition to architects under 40, asking them to design a hybrid between a private residence and a boutique hotel on Yakushima. Sound of Rain was selected from 1,058 entries submitted across 112 countries and regions. That’s a significant shortlist to come out on top of, and the scale of the competition makes Chu’s win feel genuinely meaningful, not just for him, but for a generation of architects rethinking what place-responsive luxury design can be.

The restraint of this project is remarkable. It would have been very easy to over-design a property on an island as visually rich as Yakushima. The temptation to layer in dramatic architectural gestures must be significant when your backdrop is ancient cedar forest, rugged coastline, and a UNESCO-protected landscape. Instead, Chu did the quieter, harder thing. He listened to what the site was already doing and made that the architecture.

Sound of Rain fits into a broader conversation about how design can respond to climate without trying to conquer it. So much of contemporary architecture is still fundamentally about control, about managing and minimizing natural elements rather than working alongside them. This project offers a different model, one that treats the environment as a collaborator instead of a variable to be resolved. It’s a building that knows where it is and what that means, and it doesn’t pretend otherwise.

Whether the villa ever gets built is another question, but as a competition entry, it’s already doing something valuable. It’s expanding the conversation about what a high-end retreat can look like, and what the relationship between a building and its environment should be. Sometimes the most sophisticated thing a designer can do is step back and let the rain do some of the talking.

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The 2-Person Rocking Bench Made From 55kg of Plastic Waste

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Most furniture tells you exactly what to do with it. A chair says sit. A table says set things down. A bench says sit, maybe share the space. The X Bench Swing, the latest from Rotterdam-based studio The New Raw, has a slightly more interesting ask: sit, rock, and do it facing the opposite direction from whoever’s sitting next to you.

That setup sounds strange until you see it. The bench seats two people, but the clever part is that both sitters face opposite ways while sharing a single rocking motion. Think of it less like a traditional bench and more like a kinetic sculpture that happens to be incredibly functional. The form is defined by two intersecting volumes that create a sculptural, sturdy X-shaped structure. It’s the kind of piece that makes you want to walk around it before you sit down.

Designer: The New Raw

The New Raw describes the design’s intent with quiet confidence: “X Bench explores movement as a design principle.” That could easily read as throwaway design-speak, but when you look at the object itself, it actually lands. The rocking motion isn’t just a feature. It’s the whole point of the bench. The movement is built into the geometry, encoded in the alternating orientation of the seats, and made possible by a curved base that lets both sitters sway in rhythm even while facing away from each other.

And yes, it’s 3D printed, but not the kind of 3D printing you might be picturing. The New Raw works with industrial robotic arms to fabricate their pieces layer by layer from recycled polypropylene (rPP), plastic waste that would otherwise not have much of a future. Each X Bench uses 55 kilograms of recycled plastic and saves an estimated 143 kilograms of CO2 compared to conventional manufacturing. The studio sources materials from local recyclers in Rotterdam, prints on demand, and uses no adhesives or mixed materials, which means every piece can be fully recycled at the end of its life. The sustainability story here isn’t bolted on as an afterthought. It is the manufacturing philosophy.

The result is a bench that looks nothing like recycled plastic is supposed to look. The surface texture has a tactile, almost geological quality. The layered printing process turns what could be a visual liability into a genuine aesthetic. It reads as warm and handcrafted even though a robot arm built it. That tension between industrial process and sensory finish is, arguably, The New Raw’s most consistent signature across their body of work.

At 70 x 140 x 76 cm, the X Bench isn’t small, but it’s sized for real use. It works indoors or out, which makes it an easy fit for public spaces, gardens, lobbies, or any room that can absorb a statement piece without turning into a gallery. The studio describes it as suited for spaces “with an open-hearted character,” which I’d translate as: don’t put this in a minimalist white box and expect it to whisper quietly in the corner.

The social dimension baked into the design is where the piece gets genuinely interesting. Sitting across from someone on a bench is one kind of dynamic. Sitting back to back while you both rock is another kind of conversation entirely. It invites a sideways glance, a shared rhythm, an awareness of another person without the weight of direct eye contact. For a piece of furniture, that’s a lot to offer.

A lot of sustainable design right now carries a slightly apologetic quality, as if the environmental credentials are meant to compensate for aesthetic compromise. The X Bench doesn’t do that. It’s confident, a little playful, and the fact that it’s made from waste plastic feels like a bonus rather than a burden. The New Raw has been quietly making that argument with their work for years. With the X Bench Swing, they’re making it more clearly than ever.

The post The 2-Person Rocking Bench Made From 55kg of Plastic Waste first appeared on Yanko Design.