Author Archives: Ida Torres

The Smartest $9 Pet Accessory Is Just a Bottle Cap

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The best design ideas tend to be the ones that make you stop and think, “why hasn’t anyone done this before?” Gaenim’s silicone bottle cap water dispenser for dogs is that kind of idea. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t connect to an app. It doesn’t have a rechargeable battery or a minimalist unboxing experience. It’s just a small silicone piece that snaps onto a standard water bottle and folds out into a bowl for your dog to drink from. And yet, it’s the kind of thing that, once you’ve seen it, you can’t believe wasn’t a standard item in every pet owner’s bag already.

The premise is almost embarrassingly simple. You screw the silicone cap onto any regular water bottle in place of the original lid. When your dog needs a drink, you tip the bottle and the silicone portion unfurls into a shallow drinking tray. Your dog drinks, you tip the bottle back, the excess drains back in, and off you go. Korean e-tailer Gaenim designed it for hikers with dogs, but it’s equally useful on a city walk, a road trip, or a park visit. Basically, any time you’re out with your dog and a water bottle, this thing earns its place.

Designer Name: Gaenim

What makes it genuinely smart isn’t the mechanism itself. It’s the materials thinking behind it. Silicone is flexible enough to fold flat and snap back into shape, durable enough to survive being tossed in a bag, and food-safe enough that you don’t have to think twice about what’s touching your dog’s water. It also cleans easily. You’re not carrying around a rigid plastic contraption or a separate collapsible bowl that inevitably ends up with mildew in the seams by week three. The Gaenim cap sidesteps all of that because it’s essentially one single piece of material doing all the work.

Pet accessories have long had a habit of being either over-engineered or underwhelming. You’ve seen the products: complicated dispensers with buttons and reservoirs, squeezable bottles that require a very specific squeeze-to-pour ratio, or collapsible bowls that never actually fold up small enough to be genuinely portable. They all solve the same problem, but they do it by adding more stuff. The Gaenim cap goes the other direction entirely. It’s a replacement lid. That’s the whole thing. It adds almost no bulk to what you’re already carrying, and it requires no learning curve whatsoever.

That said, it’s fair to acknowledge a small design puzzle that a few people have already noticed. When the cap is screwed on and you’re mid-hike, the surface that your dog licks is facing outward. It’s not a dealbreaker, and depending on how you carry your bottle, it may never be an issue. But it’s the kind of thing a second-generation design might address, maybe with a cap-over-cap configuration or a simple protective cover. The bones of the idea are solid enough that a refinement or two wouldn’t hurt.

It’s also worth pointing out that this isn’t trying to replace a purpose-built dog water bottle. If you’re doing long, high-exertion hikes in summer heat with a large dog, a dedicated bottle with a proper bowl attachment is still probably the smarter choice. What the Gaenim cap offers instead is frictionless everyday utility. It’s the thing you grab because you didn’t plan to walk as far as you did, or because your usual dog bottle is still drying on the dish rack.

Pet design has quietly become one of the more interesting spaces to watch right now. Dog owners are thoughtful consumers, and they’re done tolerating clunky, ugly, or needlessly complicated products. The fact that a Korean brand produced something this stripped-back and practical, and that it’s now getting attention from the design community, suggests the rest of the category should probably take notes. A small piece of silicone. A water bottle you already own. A dog that stays hydrated. Sometimes the math really is that simple.

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A Design Student Just Imagined the Perfect Vinyl Turntable

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Sungwoo Choi is an industrial design student with one question: what if Nothing made a turntable? The answer is Turntable (1), a personal concept project with no official ties to the brand, and it’s been circulating online as exactly the kind of render that makes you briefly annoyed it doesn’t actually exist.

If you’ve spent any time in the vinyl revival conversation, you know most turntables fall into two camps: the warm, retro-wood-and-brass kind that lean hard into nostalgia, or the cold, purely utilitarian kind that audiophiles swear by but would never put on display. Very few designs ask the question that good industrial design should always ask. Can this be both beautiful and functional, without being precious about either? Choi’s concept does exactly that, in a visual language drawn directly from Nothing’s aesthetic, and it reads more resolved than many products that actually ship.

Designer: Sungwoo Choi

The design is clean in a way that reads as deliberate rather than sparse. The chassis is white with silver-tone aluminum accents, flat and rectangular with gently rounded module insets that divide the deck into distinct functional zones. The platter is rimmed in a transparent acrylic ring that catches light in a way that makes the whole unit feel alive without being showy. The tonearm is machined and substantial, seated on a circular mount encircled by concentric transparent rings, a detail that looks pulled from a scientific instrument. Nothing has built its entire reputation on making the internal visible, on transparency as both a literal and conceptual design choice, and Choi translates that language fluently into a format where seeing the mechanics only deepens the ritual of listening.

The control layout is where the concept gets genuinely interesting. Size (7/12) and Speed (33/45) dials are housed in a recessed rounded module, labeled with a matter-of-fact clarity that feels more like precision calibration than consumer product design. The volume knob is large and satisfying, surrounded by a clear acrylic trim ring and a small dot-matrix display panel marked “MUSIC-AR,” presumably a nod to some form of augmented reality integration. A flush-mounted speaker sits directly in the deck surface, making Turntable (1) a genuinely self-contained system. A Play/Stop button and a power button occupy the front-facing panel with quiet authority, like the designer knew exactly which controls needed physical presence.

The naming is the detail that does the most work quietly. Turntable (1). Choi borrows Nothing’s signature naming convention deliberately: Phone (1), Ear (1), Ear (stick). The convention carries a specific kind of promise. The (1) implies a (2). It implies a roadmap, a lineage, a commitment to return. By applying it here, Choi isn’t framing this as a one-off fan exercise. He’s imagining an entire product category for a brand that has already proven it can take commoditized consumer electronics and make people genuinely want to look at them.

The vinyl market argument practically makes itself. Records have been in cultural resurgence for well over a decade now, and the market is robust enough to support a premium, design-forward turntable aimed at people who care as much about what sits on their shelf as what comes out of their speakers. Nothing’s core audience, younger buyers who are design-literate and culturally engaged, are the exact crowd that has been rediscovering vinyl. The overlap isn’t a stretch. In retrospect, it feels like an obvious move for the brand.

Choi’s Turntable (1) is a concept, not a product, and carries no official connection to Nothing. That distinction matters. But the best concepts are the ones that make you slightly resentful they don’t exist yet. The work is confident, cohesive, and rooted in a genuine understanding of both the format and the brand he chose to draw from. It’s built on the logic of Nothing’s identity rather than just borrowing its aesthetic surface. It isn’t the spectacle of the render that earns attention. It’s the quality of the thinking behind it. Someone at Nothing should be paying attention.

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Omnibite’s Screwless Joint Wants You to Build With Raw Branches

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Most design projects start with the finished object. You picture a chair, sketch it out, source the materials, and figure out how to put it together. It’s a logical sequence that’s worked for centuries. Omnibite, a joint system by Milan-based designers Eugenio Costa and Nicolò Tallone, quietly dismantles that sequence and puts something far more interesting in its place.

The premise is almost stubbornly simple: before you build anything, you go and find your wood. Not the pre-cut, pre-sanded, pre-dimensioned kind that arrives neatly bundled from a supplier. The raw kind, the kind that still has its bark and its irregularities and its own particular opinions about what shape it wants to be. A branch picked up, turned over in your hands, considered. Only then does construction begin.

Designers: Eugenio Costa, Matok Lab, nicola tallone

What makes Omnibite work is the joint itself, a precisely engineered three-axis connector with a quick-locking mechanism that holds irregular branches together without screws, adhesives, or any of the usual industrial hardware. It stabilizes intersecting elements from multiple directions, which means it can accommodate the natural variation of found wood rather than demanding that the wood conform to a predetermined plan. You’re not fighting the material. You’re working with it, on its own terms.

I find that genuinely refreshing. So much of contemporary design is obsessed with precision and replicability, with making sure every unit coming off a production line looks exactly like the last. That’s not inherently a flaw, but it does mean that variation gets treated as error rather than character. Omnibite inverts that logic entirely. The irregularity of a branch, its knots and curves and asymmetry, becomes part of the design language rather than something to be corrected or worked around.

The project grew out of research into local wood species in Lombardy, with Costa and Tallone treating the surrounding landscape as both a material resource and a knowledge base. Each wood type carries its own structural properties, and understanding those properties changes how you approach selection and use. The construction process, in this framework, doesn’t begin in the workshop. It begins the moment you start looking at the trees around you with intent.

That shift in starting point is where the real design thinking lives. The joint itself is elegant and well-resolved, but the bigger idea is that Omnibite asks you to read your environment differently. A fallen branch isn’t debris. A stand of young timber isn’t scenery. It’s potential. Having a tool that lets you act on that potential, without a factory supply chain in between, changes the relationship between maker and material in a way that feels genuinely meaningful rather than just conceptually tidy.

The practical applications are modest, and that’s appropriate. You can build chairs, tables, small-scale structures, the kind of things you might want to assemble in a garden or a studio and take apart later without damaging anything. Disassembly and reconfiguration are built into the system from the start, which aligns naturally with circular design principles. Nothing is wasted, nothing is permanently fixed, and the materials move on to their next life when the current structure no longer serves its purpose.

Omnibite also sits at an interesting intersection. It’s not purely furniture design, and it’s not quite architecture either. It occupies a productive space between those categories and feels more like a building philosophy given physical form through a single, precisely engineered component. A joint that doesn’t just connect things, but proposes a genuinely different way of thinking about what making something actually means.

Whether this becomes a widely adopted system or stays a compelling design experiment, it points at something the field genuinely needs more of right now. Not more objects, but more frameworks. Not more finished things, but more intelligent starting points. Omnibite doesn’t hand you a product to sit on. It hands you a method to think with, a different lens for the landscape you move through every day, and a genuinely compelling reason to look up from your screen and notice what’s already there.

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LEGO Just Built the E.T. Every 80s Kid Always Wanted

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If you’re of a certain age or generation, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial is probably part of your childhood (or adulthood). It’s one of the most popular sci-fi movies to this day, and E.T. itself is one of the most beloved aliens in movie history. There has been renewed interest in it lately because director Steven Spielberg went back to his alien roots with his latest movie, Disclosure. So now is probably the perfect time to release a new LEGO build featuring our favorite big-eyed extra-terrestrial who just wants to phone home.

What started out as a fan-born creation from LEGO Ideas is now produced by LEGO. E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (21370) is a 1,226-piece alien figure designed primarily for adults, though there’s nothing stopping you from enjoying the build alongside your kids. It is a highly posable figure and comes with iconic accessories to help you re-live some of the classic scenes from the movie, or come up with your own scenes to let out your inner alien creativity. In other words, it truly is a set that the whole family can enjoy together.

Designer: LEGO

After you’ve finished building your very own E.T., you will be able to move its head up and down and even rotate it 360 degrees. You can also open and close its mouth and adjust its arms, wrists, and fingers, moving it whichever way you like. And of course, how can we not have that iconic forefinger pointing pose? There’s also a switch at the back for the light brick so you can make E.T.’s heart glow, just like in the movie.

The details of this build are particularly interesting, as you can see the wrinkles all over his body, and he has those distinctively long and spindly arms. Even the face is remarkably expressive, thanks to the clever use of offset curves and the printed eyes. The set also comes with a pot of sunflowers so you can recreate some of the most iconic scenes, including the tearjerking moment of him returning to his home planet, holding the pot as a fond remembrance of his time on Earth.

When it comes to size, this figure is no small feat. The finished build stands over 9.5 inches (24 cm) tall, 8.5 inches (21 cm) wide, and 6 inches (15 cm) deep, making it an impressive centerpiece worthy of any shelf, bookcase, or display cabinet. With 1,226 pieces packaged across nine bags and a 142-page instruction manual, the building experience itself is just as rewarding as the finished product. LEGO also offers step-by-step 3D building instructions through the LEGO Builder app, where you can zoom in, rotate the model, and track your progress as you go. Whether you’re a seasoned brick builder or a complete first-timer, the process is designed to be immersive, enjoyable, and surprisingly therapeutic.

What makes this set even more special is its origin story. Like all LEGO Ideas sets, this one started as a fan submission, dreamed up by a passionate LEGO enthusiast, voted on by the global community, and then brought to life by the LEGO design team. That community-driven journey gives this set an extra layer of heart, which feels incredibly fitting for a tribute to one of cinema’s most emotional characters. And since E.T. hasn’t appeared in LEGO form since 2016, this release is a long-awaited celebration that collectors absolutely won’t want to miss.

Whether you’re a lifelong E.T. fan, an avid LEGO collector, or simply searching for a meaningful and nostalgic gift for yourself or a loved one, the LEGO Ideas E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (21370) is worth every penny of its $139.99 price tag. It’s part toy, part art piece, and all heart, quite literally given that glowing chest. This is the kind of set that doesn’t just sit on a shelf; it sparks conversations, brings back cherished memories, and reminds you why you fell in love with that little alien all those years ago. E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (21370) launches on August 1, 2026. Don’t miss your chance to finally bring him home.

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Kodak Just Dropped the $35 Y2K Camera Collectors Can’t Stop Chasing

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Cutesy analog-inspired cameras that also serve as keychains are probably all over your feed, if it’s anything like mine. And just when you thought you might be satisfied with the one you already have (if you actually have one), they go ahead and release new designs that make you want to replace what you have, or finally succumb and get one.

The Kodak Charmera line is one of the most popular devices in this segment, and now they have released a new series that will scratch the Y2K itch within you. The Kodak Charmera Keychain Digital Camera – Millennium Edition brings this line into the future-past, stepping away from the “portable retro” look of the original 1987 Kodak Fling-inspired Charmera. Riding on the current wave of Y2K nostalgia, Kodak is branding this new line as “the ultimate lo-fi futurist accessory.”

Designer: Kodak

Just like the previous Kodak Charmera cameras, this one is a Blind Box edition, so you never know which of the seven designs you’re going to get. There are six standard colorways: silver, black, green, orange, pink, and metallic, plus a chrome-like secret mirror variant, which you have a one-in-48 chance of getting. The original Charmera features a classic retro look, while this edition gives you a new high-gloss metallic Y2K finish. Think bedazzled flip phones, candy-colored Discmans, and the iMac G3. That’s the exact energy the Millennium Edition is channeling.

In terms of hardware, everything is more or less the same as the original. You have a 1.6MP 1/4-inch CMOS sensor, a 35mm F2.4 fixed lens, an image output of 1440 x 1080, and 30fps video recording. This is still in keeping with the lo-fi nature of what you’ll get from these keychain cameras, so don’t expect sharp or crisp images and videos. The intentionally grainy, pixelated results are all part of the charm. Lo-fi is a feature, not a flaw. After all, you’re not buying this camera to replace your phone. You’re buying it for the vibe.

What is new in this edition is the software and aesthetic overhaul. In photo mode, you get access to 4 retro-futurism frames, 7 color-rich pixelated filters, and a date stamp, all designed to give your shots that unmistakable early-2000s digital soul. The camera also comes with a dual zone focus system that distinguishes between subjects closer than eight feet and those farther away, giving you a little more control over your shots than you might expect from something this tiny.

The Charmera Millennium Edition is pocket-sized, literally. It measures just 58 x 24.5 x 20mm and weighs only 30 grams, making it one of the most carry-friendly cameras around. It charges via USB-C, which is included in the box, and runs on a built-in 200mAh rechargeable battery. You will also need to bring your own microSD card (up to 128GB supported), as one is not included. Each blind box also comes with a keyring, a CHARMERA ID card, and an A5 leaflet.

Now, about that blind box format. It truly is half the fun. You pay $34.99 and get one random design out of seven. For collectors, this is both the thrill and the torment. You might land the silver on your first try, or you might end up with four oranges before you see the one you actually want. Kodak also offers the whole set for those who simply need them all, and yes, you know who you are.

The Kodak Charmera Millennium Edition is available for $34.99 per single blind box on the official RETO Pro website and on Amazon. Whether you are a longtime collector of the Charmera line, a devoted Y2K aesthetic enthusiast, or just looking for the most fun $35 you will spend this year, this tiny camera delivers exactly what it promises. No more, no less, and honestly? That is exactly the point.

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GANG Studio’s Flip Chair Was Born From a Sheet of Korean Craft Paper

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You know that double-sided colored paper, one side red, one side white, the kind you’d fold into cranes and fortune tellers as a kid? Seoul-based GANG Studio turned that memory into a chair, and somehow it works completely.

The Flip Chair, a 2026 artisanal project by designer Kikang Kim, takes its core concept directly from 색종이, the double-sided colored paper that’s a staple of Korean childhood craft. The idea is simple: a sheet that reveals a completely different color depending on which way you look at it. Applied to furniture, this translates into metal sheets where the front face and the back face carry contrasting hues, so the chair literally changes character depending on the angle you’re viewing it from. The name isn’t just clever. It’s the whole point.

Designer: GANG Studio

What makes this genuinely interesting, and not just Instagram-interesting, is how deliberate the idea is. Good furniture design usually asks you to look at it from one preferred angle, the hero shot that ended up on the mood board. The Flip Chair refuses to cooperate with that logic. It doesn’t have a wrong side or a right side. You get two chairs for the price of one visual experience, depending on where you’re standing in the room. For anyone who’s ever turned a piece around and liked the back better, that feels quietly radical.

Kikang Kim leads GANG Studio out of Seoul with the kind of quietly confident focus that makes you pay attention. The studio’s philosophy centers on weaving stories into everyday objects, from furniture and decorative items to consumer electronics. That mission statement could easily sound generic, but the Flip Chair is proof it means something in practice. The story isn’t buried in a press release. It’s right there, written into the object’s surface.

Korean design has been having a real moment internationally, and it’s not hard to see why when studios like GANG are pushing this kind of thinking. The country’s design culture has always carried a sophisticated relationship with materiality and craft, from traditional lacquerwork to contemporary lighting, and what’s emerging right now feels less like trend-chasing and more like a design community that has genuinely found its own voice. The Flip Chair sits comfortably inside that story without having to announce it.

The artisanal classification matters here too. This isn’t a piece designed for mass production, and you can feel that intention in the concept itself. A factory-scaled version of this chair would probably flatten its meaning, turn it into a gimmick, a color-block moment for a hotel lobby. Made by hand, the dual-color metal sheet carries weight, both literally and metaphorically. The idea of someone deliberately choosing which side faces outward begins to feel like a quiet conversation between maker and owner.

I’ll be honest: the childhood reference hits. Design that reaches into universal memory without tipping into sentimentality is genuinely difficult to pull off. The best of it makes you feel like the designer found something you’d forgotten you knew. The Flip Chair does exactly that. You don’t need to have grown up folding 색종이 to immediately understand what it means to have something that looks completely different depending on how you hold it. That’s a deeply human experience, and a clever one to build a chair around.

It also raises a question that more furniture designers should probably be asking: what happens to an object’s meaning when its appearance shifts with perspective? Most furniture is designed to be consistent, predictable, fully resolved. The Flip Chair introduces a small, deliberate amount of ambiguity into a category that rarely invites it. And that’s the kind of move that tends to stay with you long after you’ve scrolled past the renders.

GANG Studio isn’t trying to reinvent the chair. It’s doing something harder: giving a familiar form a genuine idea to carry. The Flip Chair is the kind of piece you’d want in a corner of a room not just because it looks good, but because it keeps making you look again.

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The Medical Fridge That Borrowed a 3,000-Year-Old Idea

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Korean industrial designer Yongwon Kim just posted a concept on Behance that made me stop my scroll completely. It’s called EVAPOT, and it’s a medical fridge. But the way it works is what makes it genuinely remarkable.

EVAPOT is an evaporative medical fridge, meaning it uses the natural physics of water evaporation to maintain cool temperatures. No compressor hum. No refrigerant gases. No power grid dependency. Just water, air, and a design principle that humans have been quietly exploiting for thousands of years.

Designer: Yongwon Kim

The technique EVAPOT draws from is ancient. The pot-in-pot cooler, also known as a zeer pot, dates back to civilizations in ancient Egypt and Persia who understood that when water evaporates, it pulls heat away from whatever it surrounds. The very basic version: put a smaller clay pot inside a larger one, fill the gap with wet sand, and the inner pot stays significantly cooler than the ambient air. No electricity. No moving parts. In the 1990s, Nigerian teacher Mohammed Bah Abba revived and scaled the concept, earning him a Rolex Award for Enterprise and changing food storage for thousands of rural families. What Kim has done with EVAPOT is take that foundational logic and redirect it toward one of the most pressing, underserved areas in global healthcare: medical cold storage.

Cold chain failure is a problem that doesn’t get nearly enough attention in design conversations. Vaccines, insulin, blood products, certain diagnostic samples: all of them require refrigeration at specific temperatures to remain viable. And when the power goes out, or when clinics operate in areas where the power never reliably came on to begin with, those materials are compromised. The pharmaceutical industry is estimated to lose billions of dollars annually due to temperature-related failures. The human cost of that, measured in spoiled vaccines and interrupted treatments, is harder to quantify but far more significant.

That’s the space EVAPOT is designed to occupy. A cooling unit that doesn’t depend on electricity to stay functional. Visually, the renders on Kim’s Behance are striking. The form carries a clean, sculptural quality that doesn’t look like what you’d normally associate with medical equipment. Most clinical refrigerators look like they belong in a break room. EVAPOT looks like it belongs at a design fair, which is probably what will get it in front of the right eyes.

Kim’s concept is a smart synthesis of two things the design world talks about constantly but rarely manages to connect: ancient ingenuity and contemporary need. The materials suggested, the form factor, the application to medical storage rather than food, these are all choices that feel deliberate and considered. It signals that the designer wasn’t just playing with an interesting visual, but was genuinely thinking about where this gap exists in the world and who it serves.

I’ll be honest: the concept is exciting, and it also deserves serious critique alongside the applause. Evaporative cooling works best in dry climates. Humidity is its natural enemy, and many of the regions most in need of off-grid medical cold storage are tropical or coastal, where ambient moisture in the air significantly reduces the efficiency of evaporative systems. That’s a real engineering challenge that any production version of EVAPOT would need to solve if it’s going to be more than a beautiful idea. But beautiful ideas have started more revolutions than fully engineered ones, and this is still a concept stage.

What Kim has done is put a compelling, well-rendered proposal into public conversation, and that has value. Sometimes the job of a designer at the concept phase is not to answer every question but to ask a better one. The question EVAPOT poses, whether ancient, low-tech cooling logic can be reimagined for modern medical use, is absolutely the right one. It’s the kind of thinking that comes from looking sideways at a problem instead of straight at it. And maybe that’s where the most interesting design is always living. Not in the obvious upgrade, but in the unexpected detour through history.

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A Craftsman Just Turned Dead Car Engines Into One-of-a-Kind Guitars

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I’ve been thinking about this one for days. A Slovenian craftsman named Vlado Plateis is turning discarded car engine heads into fully playable electric guitars, and every time I look at the photos, I still can’t decide if I’m staring at a musical instrument or a sculpture. Maybe that’s exactly the point.

The design logic here is deceptively simple: take the engine head as the body of the guitar, preserve its raw industrial form, and build around it rather than in spite of it. Nothing is polished away, sanded smooth, or disguised. The cast metal arrives with its own surface history of machined edges, bolt holes, and combustion chamber cavities, and all of it stays. The visible scars and geometry of the original part become the visual language of the finished instrument. That restraint is a design decision, and it’s a brave one. Most makers would be tempted to refine. Plateis resists that impulse entirely.

Designer: Vlado Plateis

What makes the objects so visually arresting is the tension between their two identities. The pickups, tuning pegs, and strings are all standard guitar hardware, clean and purposeful. Set against the rough, irregular topography of the engine casting, they create a contrast that reads as almost confrontational. One material is mass-produced and precise. The other is heavy, asymmetrical, and marked by mechanical life. Together, they don’t clash so much as they hold a conversation, and that conversation is what you keep looking at.

Each engine head also brings an entirely different geometry to the design, which means every guitar has a silhouette that could never be repeated. A guitar built from a Toyota Corolla head looks nothing like one built from a Mitsubishi Colt. The donor car determines the form. The bolt pattern, the fin arrangement, the overall mass and proportion are all inherited rather than designed, which paradoxically makes the final object feel more authored, not less. Plateis isn’t imposing a shape. He’s discovering one that was already there.

The weight is part of the design too, and I think it matters more than people initially consider. These are dense, substantial objects. You don’t pick one up and forget what it’s made from. That physicality communicates something about permanence that most contemporary design actively avoids. We’re so conditioned to lightweight, minimal, and frictionless that an object with genuine heft feels almost transgressive. It asks you to be present with it.

I also want to talk about what Plateis doesn’t do, because restraint is underrated in design. He doesn’t paint the metal. He doesn’t add decorative elements that aren’t structurally necessary. He doesn’t try to make the engine head look like something it isn’t. The honesty of the material is the aesthetic. That’s a philosophy rooted in the same tradition as Shaker furniture and Braun electronics, the idea that a thing should look exactly like what it is and nothing more. Applied to a guitar made from automotive scrap, it produces something genuinely unexpected.

Upcycling in design is popular right now, often to the point of feeling performative. Brands slap the word “reclaimed” on something and call it sustainable, but the object itself is forgettable. Plateis sidesteps all of that because the material isn’t incidental to the design. It is the design. Because every engine head has a different geometry, every guitar is structurally and visually unique. You cannot order the same one twice. The scarcity isn’t manufactured. It’s inherent to the process.

As someone who pays close attention to design, I think Plateis Guitars represents something genuinely interesting happening at the intersection of material culture, craft, and form-making. It’s a reminder that the most compelling design doesn’t always come from the biggest studios or the most advanced technology. Sometimes it comes from someone in Slovenia, a scrapped engine head, and a very considered eye for what already exists inside a piece of discarded metal.

Whether or not you play guitar, whether or not you care about cars, these objects deserve your attention. They are proof that constraints can be generative, and that found form, treated with patience and respect, can produce something completely new.

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Fire, Memory, and the Design That Wants to Keep Both Alive

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Every year during the Ghost Festival, millions of people across East Asia stand at street corners, in parking lots, or on sidewalks, setting fire to paper offerings for their ancestors. It is one of the most intimate acts a person can perform in public. It is also, increasingly, a problem for the cities around it. The smoke is real. The fire hazard is real. And the tension between a deeply rooted cultural practice and modern urban living is just as real. That is the space where the Peace Urn was born.

Designed by a team of five students, Hao Qian, Xiyue Yang, Zetong Song, Chenchen Du, and Yichen Fan, the Peace Urn is a clay vessel built specifically for burning joss paper in dense urban environments. It took home a Student Notable in the Lifestyle Accessories category at a 2026 design awards program, and while the recognition might sound understated, the thinking behind the project is anything but.

Designers: Hao Qian, Xiyue Yang, Zetong Song, Chenchen Du, Yichen Fan

What the designers understood, and what I think gets missed in a lot of conversations about modernizing tradition, is that the goal was never to replace the ritual. It was to protect it. Burning joss paper is an act of grief and connection, a way of sending material offerings through fire to ancestors in the afterlife. You do not solve that by eliminating the fire. You solve it by giving the fire somewhere better to live.

The Peace Urn does exactly that through airflow. The geometry of the vessel is engineered so that air moves through it in a specific pattern, slowing ash as it rises and drawing it back down rather than letting it scatter across streets and neighbors’ windshields. Smoke is managed similarly. The result is a contained burn that still looks and feels like a burn, which matters more than it might seem.

The designers were deliberate about keeping the visual experience intact. Flames remain visible through openings in the vessel because that visibility is not decorative. It is the whole point. Watching the offerings transform is part of the ritual itself. A closed, purely functional container would have technically solved the problem while emotionally gutting it. The Peace Urn refuses to make that trade.

The material choice is worth noting too. The urn is made from unglazed heat-resistant clay, chosen for its thermal stability, affordability, and cultural familiarity. But the choice goes beyond practicality. As the urn ages and accumulates soot, heat marks, and residue from repeated use, it becomes a record of the rituals performed in it. The surface changes. It holds memory in a tangible way, which feels entirely fitting for an object designed to help people honor the dead.

There is also a structural proposal embedded in the design: moving the practice from informal street corners into designated public spaces. The urn is not just a personal object. It is part of a system, a piece of infrastructure that allows the practice to be relocated into designated spaces, improving safety and spatial order while maintaining the privacy and emotional intimacy of the ritual. That shift from “this is someone’s private act happening in public” to “this is a supported civic practice” is, I think, quietly significant. It is an argument that tradition deserves planning, not just tolerance.

The geometry carries one more layer of meaning. The circular form of the urn references the traditional practice of drawing a circle on the ground when burning joss paper, where the boundary defines sacred space and the opening represents the direction of spiritual transmission. Translating that into the vessel’s shape is the kind of detail that separates thoughtful design from clever design. The circle does not just look good. It means something.

The Peace Urn will not end up in a museum as an object of aesthetic appreciation, and it is not trying to. It is trying to show up every Ghost Festival, on a designated corner somewhere, smelling like smoke and doing its job. That restraint is admirable. Not every design needs to be timeless. Some just need to be useful at the right moment, for the right people.

The post Fire, Memory, and the Design That Wants to Keep Both Alive first appeared on Yanko Design.

Five Years, One Bowl, and a Woodturner Who Refused to Quit

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Most of us abandon a project after a few weeks of frustration. Olivier Gomis sat on one for five years, then came back and finished it. The Bowl Curved Pursuit is Gomis’s latest release, a handcrafted woodturning that looks, at first glance, like it was generated by some algorithmic design software rather than made by two hands in a workshop. The curves twist and rotate in a way that feels almost mathematically precise, each wood segment following the one before it in a pattern that spirals elegantly around the bowl’s body. It’s the kind of object that makes you look twice, then a third time, trying to work out how it was actually made. That’s kind of the point.

Gomis, a French woodturner and furniture maker, has been building a reputation for designs that sit right at the edge of what woodworking is supposed to look like. His work doesn’t whisper “rustic” or “farmhouse.” It says something closer to “sculpture” and means it. His portfolio spans coloured pencil vases, massive segmented bowls, and geometric pieces that wouldn’t look out of place in a contemporary design gallery. But the Curved Pursuit feels like a moment of arrival, a design he clearly couldn’t let go of until he got it right.

Designer Name: Oliveri Gomis

The process is deceptively methodical. Gomis built the bowl by gradually stacking and rotating wood pieces before cutting them on a table saw, then mounted the entire structure on a lathe and carved it into its final form. That sequence, stacking, rotating, cutting, turning, sounds simple enough until you consider how much precision is required at every stage. A miscalculation in the rotation angle and the whole pattern collapses into something ordinary. The five-year gap between conception and completion makes a lot more sense once you understand those margins.

What gets me about this bowl is how visible the thinking is. You can trace the logic of the design just by looking at it. The segments aren’t decorative afterthoughts, they’re structural decisions, each one informing the curve that follows. For a piece of functional decor, that’s a rare quality. Most objects in this category are either beautiful or interesting. The Curved Pursuit manages to be both, and does it without trying to explain itself.

The price sits at $372 USD, available to order on commission. That number might give some people pause, but I’d argue it’s almost suspiciously reasonable for what you’re getting. This isn’t a production piece pulled from a conveyor belt. It’s a hand-built object that required five years of problem-solving to even exist. Commissioning one means you’re essentially getting a slice of a very specific creative obsession, which is not something that ends up on most people’s shelves by accident.

There’s also a broader conversation happening here about craft in the age of mass production. We live at a moment when almost anything can be printed, extruded, or manufactured at scale, and yet the appetite for handmade objects keeps growing. Not out of nostalgia exactly, but out of a genuine desire to own something that carries a human fingerprint. Gomis’s work taps directly into that. His YouTube channel documents every step of his process with no shortcuts hidden, which is both a smart move and a generous one. Watching him work makes the finished objects more meaningful, not less. You come away from his videos understanding not just how a piece was made, but why it matters.

The Bowl Curved Pursuit is the kind of design that rewards attention. It doesn’t immediately give everything away. The more you sit with it, the more the geometry reveals itself, the precision, the patience, the particular stubbornness it takes to return to something after five years and finally decide it’s ready. Somewhere between design and craft, between art object and kitchen counter, Gomis has made something genuinely hard to categorize. If that sounds like a compliment, it is.

The post Five Years, One Bowl, and a Woodturner Who Refused to Quit first appeared on Yanko Design.