Author Archives: Ida Torres

Students Just Designed a Suitcase That Dries Your Clothes on the Go

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Every seasoned traveler has their version of the wet clothes problem. You step out of the rain during a city walk, catch a wave at the beach on day one of a five-day trip, or try to hand-wash a blouse in the sink only to end up draping it over a radiator, a towel rack, a chair, basically anything with a surface. It is one of travel’s most persistent minor disasters, and most of us have accepted it as simply part of the deal. Designers Tongye Wang and Zhichen Hu apparently refused to accept that deal.

Their concept, a suitcase with an integrated clothes drying system, is the kind of idea that makes you wonder why it took this long. It is a student project that has been picking up recognition on the design awards circuit, and it is not hard to see why. The concept takes a problem that affects virtually every traveler and bakes the solution directly into the luggage itself, no extra gadgets, no separate appliances, no hunting for a laundromat in a foreign city.

Designers: Tongye Wang & Zhichen Hu

Here is how it works. The suitcase operates on a telescoping structure that lets it shift seamlessly between two modes: standard luggage mode and drying mode. When you switch it over, an internal frame extends, built-in hangers fold out so you can hang your clothes, and a control display activates automatically. From there, you can set your preferred drying temperature and time based on whatever fabric you are working with. The internal airflow system distributes heat evenly throughout the compartment so you are not just blasting one side of a shirt while the other stays damp.

The part that genuinely surprised me was the energy source. The suitcase’s wheels contain a kinetic energy conversion system, meaning the act of rolling your luggage through an airport or down a sidewalk actually generates and stores electricity. That stored energy then helps power the drying function, reducing how much you need to rely on an external outlet. It does not eliminate the need for power entirely, but it meaningfully offsets it. For a student concept, that level of systems thinking is notable.

I will be honest: my first reaction to the premise was mild skepticism. Luggage designers have been pitching smart suitcase concepts for years, most of them solving problems that never really felt like problems. A built-in scale. A USB charger. A GPS tracker. These features read more like tech for tech’s sake, and many ended up adding weight and complexity without meaningfully changing the travel experience. This feels different. Wet clothes are a real, recurring frustration, and the solution here is structural rather than gimmicky. It is built into the form of the object, not bolted on as an afterthought.

The visual design reinforces that integration. Wang and Hu went with angular geometric surfaces and concave detailing that give the suitcase a strong, sculptural presence. It does not look like a box with a machine stuffed inside. It looks intentional, like the form and function were designed together from the start, because they were.

Whether this ever makes it to full production is an open question. The gap between an award-winning student concept and a retail product involves manufacturing constraints, safety certifications, cost engineering, and consumer testing that can fundamentally change an original vision. The kinetic energy generation system in particular would need rigorous real-world testing to prove its reliability across different surfaces and travel conditions.

But that is not really the point right now. What Wang and Hu have done is ask a better question about an object most designers stopped questioning decades ago. The suitcase has been a box on wheels for a long time. Treating it as a platform for active problem-solving rather than passive storage opens up a conversation that the travel and luggage industry probably needs to be having more seriously. At the very least, the next time I am draping a wet jacket over a hotel bathroom door, I will know someone is already working on a better answer.

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G-Shock Just Turned a Japanese Paper Lantern Into Wearable Art

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G-Shock has always known how to make a statement. From its reckless-by-design origins in 1983 to its cult status across military barracks, skate parks, and high-fashion runways, the brand has never really needed to justify itself. It just shows up. But with the new Aka-Chochin collection, built around the DW-5600AKA-4 and DW-6900AKA-4, G-Shock isn’t just showing up. It’s glowing.

The concept behind these two watches is, genuinely, one of the more thoughtful design moves I’ve seen from the brand in a while. “Aka-Chochin” translates to “red lantern,” a reference to the traditional paper lanterns that hang outside izakayas, the beloved Japanese taverns where people gather after long days for food, drinks, and the kind of conversation that only happens past 9 p.m. These lanterns, which date back to the early Edo period in the 17th century, weren’t decorative in the precious sense. They were practical and symbolic at once, signaling warmth, welcome, and the specific pleasure of slowing down. Casio took that idea and pushed it into two of its most iconic silhouettes.

Designer: G-Shock

The result is unapologetically red. Not a subtle, wine-at-dinner red. A full-on, stop-what-you’re-doing red that covers the resin case, bezel, and band from top to bottom. On paper, it sounds like a lot. In practice, it earns its confidence. Both watches carry kanji characters down the face of the dial, reading “耐衝撃,” which means “shock resistance,” one of G-Shock’s founding promises. The characters are split between the bezel and the LCD display, and when the LED backlight activates, the two halves complete each other like a puzzle piece lighting up from within. It’s a detail you have to see in person to fully appreciate, and it’s the kind of thing that elevates a colorway from a gimmick to a genuine design choice.

The bezels on both models also feature hot-stamped grooves that mimic the ribbed texture of a paper lantern, and that same motif carries through to the edges of the strap. It’s not subtle, but it is cohesive. G-Shock committed to the bit, and the commitment pays off.

Now, I’ll say this upfront: the Aka-Chochin aesthetic is polarizing. All-red anything tends to divide opinion, and a digital watch in this colorway is not trying to blend in. If your instinct is to gravitate toward muted, understated timepieces, these are probably not for you, and that’s fine. But if you’ve ever wanted a watch that reads as confident and culturally curious at the same time, the DW-5600AKA-4 and DW-6900AKA-4 make a genuinely compelling argument.

The choice of silhouettes is also worth noting. The DW-5600 is essentially G-Shock’s origin story made physical, the square case that started everything, a design so clean and deliberate it has barely needed updating in four decades. The DW-6900 is its more expressive sibling, with that distinctive triple-window dial and wider case presence. Pairing both with the same concept gives collectors and casual buyers alike an entry point, whether you’re drawn to the classic restraint of the 5600 or the bolder graphic energy of the 6900.

At $190 each, neither watch is a budget impulse buy, but it’s not a stretch, either. G-Shock has always occupied that interesting middle ground between functional tool watch and cultural artifact, and the Aka-Chochin collection lands squarely in that territory. You’re not just buying a watch that tells time reliably. You’re buying into a very specific idea about where design, heritage, and streetwear culture converge.

Red lanterns were built to be seen at night, to cut through the dark and draw people in. G-Shock’s interpretation of that idea works for the same reason. Bold doesn’t have to mean reckless. Sometimes it just means knowing exactly what you want to say and saying it clearly, wrist and all.

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The Fortune Cookie Redesigned With Braille Is Pure Genius

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Fortune cookies are one of those small rituals that carry more weight than they should. You crack it open, fish out the slip of paper, and read whatever odd little prophecy is inside. It’s silly, sure. But it’s also communal. The whole table does it. Everyone compares fortunes, laughs at the vague predictions, and tucks the good ones into their wallets for luck. It’s a shared moment disguised as a throwaway snack. And for visually impaired individuals, that moment stops at the crack of the shell.

Korean designer Hyerim Yoo’s response to that gap is Fortune Dot, a tactile device that lets visually impaired users independently read a daily fortune in Braille. But describing it that way undersells what makes it genuinely remarkable. Because Yoo didn’t just solve the accessibility problem. She solved it beautifully.

Designer: Hyerim Yoo

The object is shaped exactly like a fortune cookie. Same rounded form, same warm beige palette, same satisfying heft. A small translucent tab sticks out from the side, the only visual tell that this isn’t actually food. That tab is the “fortune paper,” a design detail so considered it almost makes you laugh. When you pull the two halves apart, the gesture mirrors breaking a real cookie open, and what you find inside is a refreshable Braille display with raised pin cells arranged in neat rows across a recessed panel. The message is there, waiting to be read with your fingertips, exactly as Yoo’s tagline describes it: today’s luck, felt at your fingertips.

The engineering inside is worth pausing on. The exploded views of the device reveal individual Braille cell modules, each capable of raising and lowering their pins to form different characters. It’s a compact, mechanical system tucked into something that looks like it belongs on a dessert plate. The bottom edge carries a USB-C port for charging, nearly invisible from the outside. The whole thing is small enough to drop into a pouch alongside a pair of AirPods and a lip balm, which is apparently exactly what Yoo intended.

What makes this design stand apart from most inclusive design projects, though, is the color system. Fortune Dot comes in three variants named Soft Bake, Signature Bake, and Dark Bake. The names follow the logic of actual cookie baking, and the colors range from a pale cream to a deep chocolate brown. It’s a playful, smart branding decision that does real work. It removes any clinical association from the product. It makes Fortune Dot feel like something you’d want to own and carry, not something assigned to you by necessity.

The branding extends outward into a full identity system. The Fortune Dot logo uses a dot-based pattern that quietly references Braille without spelling it out. It appears on a branded coffee cup in one of the campaign shots, wrapped in wired earbuds, Fortune Dot perched on top. That image alone communicates something most accessible product design never manages to: that this object belongs in the texture of everyday life, not apart from it.

The packaging holds up the same way. A light blue box lid features Braille text running across the top, the Fortune Dot wordmark sitting below it in clean type, and a cutout that reveals the cookie silhouette inside. When you lift the lid, the device sits nested in a cream interior, the translucent fortune tab pointing upward. It’s the kind of unboxing that feels like it was designed to be experienced by touch as much as by sight, which, of course, it was.

I’ve seen a lot of inclusive design work that gets the intention right but misses in execution, products that function well but feel set apart, designed for a category of user rather than a person. Fortune Dot doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something a designer fell genuinely in love with, in the best possible way, the kind of love that shows up in every detail, from the baking-level color names to the translucent paper tab to the way the hinges split open just so. That level of care is rare. When you see it, you notice.

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Lake Como Has a New Resident, and She Floats

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When I first saw images of Lucia floating across the glassy surface of Lake Como, I thought someone had photoshopped a Giorgio Armani showroom onto a boat. The structure is white, impossibly clean, and moves across the water like it belongs there. Which, technically, it does.

Lucia is the brainchild of uau studio, a concept micro-home designed to drift across one of Italy’s most storied lakes. The name, the setting, the whole premise feels almost too cinematic to be real. But the more you look at it, the more you realize this isn’t just a pretty render. It’s a genuine rethinking of what a home can be and where it can go, and it deserves a moment more than the usual scroll-and-double-tap.

Designer: uau studio

The design draws its soul from the batèl, a traditional flat-bottomed fishing vessel that appears in Alessandro Manzoni’s 19th-century novel The Betrothed. For anyone who didn’t have to read it in school, Manzoni’s book is essentially the Italian equivalent of a national literary treasure. That detail alone gives Lucia a kind of cultural weight that most micro-homes simply don’t carry. uau studio isn’t just designing a floating box. They’re threading it into a centuries-old relationship between the people of Lake Como and the water they live beside. That’s a different kind of ambition, and it shows.

The signature feature is a foldable canopy roof that opens and closes depending on how much of the lake you want to let in. Fully open, the interior feels like an extension of the water itself. Closed, it becomes a more private, sheltered space, quieter and more contained. That flexibility matters more than you might think. Living on a lake means negotiating between exposure and enclosure constantly, and Lucia gives you full control over that tension without asking you to compromise on either.

The interior is single-floor, fully accessible, and built around modular, multifunctional furniture that can be reconfigured depending on how you’re using the space. It’s compact by design, not by compromise. uau studio was deliberate about this: nothing is wasted, nothing is redundant, and the materials prioritize reuse over novelty. For a project set against one of the most photographed backdrops in Europe, that kind of restraint is actually a design statement in itself.

Lucia also plugs into what the studio calls Darsena Link, a network of solar-powered docking hubs around the lake that would support the vessel’s movement and keep it charged. The infrastructure isn’t an afterthought. It’s part of the concept. You can wake up anchored at one point on the lake and, by afternoon, quietly motor to another. The house follows you, or you follow it.

I’ll be transparent: Lucia is still a concept, not something you can book or buy today. But I think that’s exactly what makes it worth paying attention to right now. It represents a direction more designers and architects should be exploring. The tiny home movement has largely been a land-based conversation, with the water version mostly limited to houseboats that feel more nautical than architectural. Lucia doesn’t feel like a boat trying to be a house. It feels like a house that happens to float, and that distinction is more meaningful than it sounds.

The project also positions itself as a kind of social connector on the lake, what uau studio calls a “pollinator,” meant to move through different communities, bring people into contact with corners of the lake they might not otherwise reach, and revive its cultural fabric for a younger generation. Whether that vision scales beyond the concept stage or stays beautifully poetic is still an open question. But the intention gives the project a dimension that stretches well beyond aesthetics.

Lake Como already has villas, yachts, and Grand Hotel terraces competing for your attention. Lucia proposes something quieter: a life on the water that is small, considered, and genuinely mobile. Not every home needs to be rooted to the ground. Some of the best ones, apparently, simply drift.

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The AI Music Device That Finally Asked Artists First

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Most of us are passive music listeners now. We scroll, press shuffle, half-hear a song while doing something else entirely, and let algorithms decide what comes next. That’s not really listening, is it? IMAGO, a deep listening device created by designers Domenico Di Paolo and Kieran Feechan at Central Saint Martins, is taking direct issue with that kind of relationship with music and with the AI systems that have quietly normalized it.

The device is designed for a domestic setting, which is already an interesting choice. Home is intimate. Home is where you actually sit with things. By placing IMAGO in that kind of environment, Di Paolo and Feechan are deliberately steering users away from passive consumption and toward something more deliberate, more physical, more present. The design encourages bodily engagement with sound, not just background ambience you forget about before the track even ends.

Designers: Domenico Di Paolo and Kieran Feechan

But the more pressing issue IMAGO raises isn’t about listening habits. It’s about data. Most AI music systems today are trained on enormous datasets of songs scraped from the internet, with little or no compensation to the artists whose work feeds those models. It’s a system that benefits everyone except the people who actually made the music. IMAGO runs differently. It operates locally and uses artist-trained models, meaning the AI at its core was built with consent, not convenience.

That distinction matters more than it might initially seem. The conversation around AI and creative theft has been growing louder for years now, and for good reason. Artists, musicians, writers, and illustrators have spent considerable energy sounding alarms about models trained on their work without permission, without pay, and often without acknowledgment. What Di Paolo and Feechan have done is embed that ethical position directly into the design of an object. Not as a tagline. Not as an ethical framework document buried on a website. As the thing itself.

It’s a quietly bold position to take. Industrial design has always had the ability to make abstract ideas tangible, and IMAGO does exactly that. It takes the ongoing debate about AI ethics and turns it into something you can hold, operate, and sit with in your living room. The choice to run locally rather than in the cloud also carries weight. Local operation means no data is being siphoned off somewhere, no behavior tracked, no listening habits packaged and sold. Just you, the device, and music that an artist knowingly contributed to the model.

Central Saint Martins has consistently produced designers who treat objects as arguments, and this is clearly one of them. IMAGO feels less like a product pitch and more like a provocation, a physical question mark placed in front of an industry that has been moving too fast and asking too little. What if the default model for AI creativity wasn’t extraction? What if consent was the starting point instead of the afterthought?

I won’t pretend these questions are new. But packaging them this clearly, this beautifully, in something that functions as both a design object and a listening experience? That’s genuinely hard to do. Di Paolo and Feechan have managed it.

Whether IMAGO ever reaches mass production is almost beside the point. Its real value lies in what it models: a blueprint for how AI-powered design could look if we collectively decided that the people whose work trains these systems deserve a seat at the table. The device won’t fix the music industry’s complicated relationship with artificial intelligence on its own, but it makes the alternative feel possible and, more importantly, desirable.

The best design objects tend to do that. They don’t solve problems so much as they reframe them, make them feel answerable rather than overwhelming. IMAGO does that well. It asks whether deep listening and ethical AI can occupy the same space, and then it shows you what that space might actually look and feel like. That’s a harder question than most devices bother to ask.

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Forget Humanoids: Eno Might Be the Robot We Actually Need

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The robot race has been moving in one direction for a while now: two legs, a head, and a shape that clearly spent considerable time studying what a person looks like. It’s a logical instinct. Factories, hospitals, and homes were all designed with human proportions in mind, so a robot built like a human should, theoretically, slot right in. But a growing argument exists that this whole approach might be overthought, and Genesis AI’s new Eno robot is making that case louder than most.

Unveiled this week, Eno is the debut robot from Genesis AI, a San Carlos-based startup that quietly raised $105 million in seed funding and spent that time building something genuinely different. Eno doesn’t walk. It rolls. Its body is a minimalist, articulated tower rising from a wheeled base, with no face and no head in sight. The form adjusts its height and reach as needed, folds down for storage, and carries a pair of proprietary dexterous hands designed to move with the kind of precision and range that human hands are capable of. The result looks more like a sleek industrial sculpture than any robot you’ve seen at a tech keynote.

Designer: Genesis AI

That feels completely intentional. Genesis AI’s head of design, Daniel Hundt, has said that Eno was built by asking a single question first: what does the robot actually need to be? The answer stripped away everything decorative and kept everything functional. No face, because a face isn’t a prerequisite for doing work well. No legs, because legs add cost, complexity, and a surprising number of ways for something to go wrong. What remained was a form built around capability, not aesthetics trying to pass as capability. That’s a meaningful distinction in an industry that sometimes confuses the two.

Eno runs on GENE, Genesis AI’s proprietary robotics-native AI foundation model, and the two were developed together as a single integrated system. This matters more than it might initially seem. A lot of robots in this space are essentially off-the-shelf AI bolted onto hardware that wasn’t designed with it in mind. GENE and Eno were built to complement each other, which means the robot can reason through multi-step tasks, adapt when conditions change, and plan across long time horizons rather than just responding to simple, pre-defined commands. That kind of sustained, adaptive thinking is what separates a useful robot from an expensive demo reel.

For those who want a deeper look at what’s happening under the hood, Genesis AI is offering an optional screen version of Eno featuring a cognitive interface that displays, in real time, what the robot is thinking and processing. It’s an unusual transparency move for a robotics company, and a genuinely smart one. Trust in AI systems tends to erode when people feel like they’re watching a black box make decisions. Showing the work, quite literally, is one way to build confidence in environments where precision matters, like hospitals, labs, or busy production floors.

Deployment is set to begin with industrial customers by the end of 2026, starting with manufacturing, logistics, and laboratory settings before moving into service industries like hotels and hospitals, with consumer and home use following down the line. That rollout sequence makes sense. Controlled industrial environments offer a much cleaner test case for a robot learning the real world than someone’s living room does, and it gives Genesis AI the chance to refine Eno where the stakes of a miscalculation are measured in efficiency rather than anything more personal.

Whether Eno ends up being the robot that finally makes good on the promise of general-purpose robotics remains to be seen. The industry has announced breakthroughs before and delivered timelines that stretched well past the original projections. But Eno feels different in at least one significant way: it isn’t trying to win you over with its looks. It’s making a functional argument, and that alone puts it in a category of its own right now. Sometimes the smartest design choice is knowing exactly what not to include.

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The Lamp That Turned a 100-Year-Old Rule Upside Down

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The lampshade has had one job since Edison’s era: surround the bulb, soften the glare, direct the light. It exists in service of something else, always subordinate, always secondary. Nobody really looks at a lampshade. They look at the light it produces. Raphael Klug decided that was a problem worth solving.

His Loop Lamp doesn’t hide the light source inside the shade. It moves the light entirely to the outside, leaving the shade hollow, open, and unapologetically empty. The shade stops being a vessel and becomes a volume. A form. An object in its own right. And when you see it in person, the effect is genuinely disorienting in the best possible way.

Designer: Raphael Klug (photography by Lisha Imani Hülser)

From the front, the Loop Lamp reads almost like a figure. The tapered column rises from the base, and the wide disc-like top floats above it with a thin ring of warm light glowing along the inner rim. The shade and the body connect in a way that feels less industrial and more sculptural, somewhere between a ceramic vessel and a modernist monument. You’d be forgiven for walking past it at an exhibition and thinking it was art before realizing it’s a lamp.

Seeing it installed alongside other furniture makes its presence even more apparent. The electric blue colorway, that deep, almost Klein-blue intensity, does a lot of the heavy lifting aesthetically. It photographs beautifully, which probably explains why it’s been circulating on design feeds. But there’s more going on here than a striking color palette.

What Klug has done is reframe the conceptual role of a familiar object. The shade, usually ignored, becomes the focal point. The light source, usually the star, steps offstage. It’s an inversion that sounds simple when you explain it but takes real design conviction to pull off without the result feeling like a gimmick. The Loop Lamp doesn’t feel like a gimmick. It feels considered, precise, and strangely inevitable once you understand the idea.

The material story adds another layer. The object was additively manufactured from quartz sand, produced in collaboration with Sandhelden, a company that specializes in 3D printing with natural sand-based materials. This isn’t just a process footnote because it shapes the object’s texture in a way that conventional molding couldn’t replicate. The surface has a slight granularity, almost matte and tactile, which contrasts beautifully with the ring of light. Under certain angles it absorbs shadow rather than reflecting it, giving the lamp a density that heavier materials don’t always achieve.

3D printing with sand also means that scale and material can shift in ways that traditional manufacturing makes difficult. Klug has already noted that the concept opens possibilities for other scales and materials, and I find that genuinely exciting to think about. A table version. A pendant version. A version in translucent composite that catches light entirely differently. The floor lamp is the proof of concept, and it’s a convincing one.

Design conversations lately tend to swing between two poles: objects that are purely functional and stripped of personality, and objects so decorative they forget to work. The Loop Lamp sits comfortably outside both camps. It functions exactly as a floor lamp should, casting a warm, ambient ring of light at the right height for a living space. But it also asks a genuine question about form, expectation, and what an object is allowed to be beyond its primary purpose.

That question is what makes it worth paying attention to. Designers interrogating the rules of familiar objects isn’t new, but doing it with this level of restraint and material intelligence is less common. Klug didn’t add more to the lampshade. He took away its responsibility and, in doing so, gave it an identity. That’s a harder thing to do than it looks. And the Loop Lamp makes it look effortless.

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The Paper Fan Just Lost Its Ribs. It’s Better For It.

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The Japanese paper fan is one of those objects that seems to have already said everything it has to say. It’s been refined over centuries, grown into a cultural icon, and been replicated so many times that it barely registers as a design object anymore. It’s just a fan. You flap it at yourself on a hot day and move on. So when KUMAnoTE and Professor Jun Mitani released Orikaze, a ribless folded paper fan that holds its shape through geometry alone, it felt like a genuinely unexpected development.

Let me explain the “ribless” part, because it’s more interesting than it sounds. Traditional Japanese fans, whether the folded sensu or the flat uchiwa, rely on an internal skeleton. Bamboo ribs, plastic frames, some kind of structure embedded within the paper to keep everything in shape. Without that skeleton, a fan is just a floppy sheet of material. Orikaze removes the skeleton entirely and replaces it with something far more elegant: the fold itself.

Designers: KUMAnoTE x Jun Mitani

The design uses a system of mountain and valley folds that transforms a single flat sheet of paper into a self-supporting structure. The geometry does the engineering. The paper doesn’t need a spine because the folds create rigidity, distribute force, and hold the form together. Professor Jun Mitani, who researches computational origami at the University of Tsukuba, brought the mathematical backbone to this project, and you can feel that precision in the result. It’s not just a clever idea pitched in a studio meeting. It’s a concept grounded in real structural logic.

Orikaze comes in three forms, named SORA, KAZE, and TSUCHI. Sky, wind, and earth. KUMAnoTE could have just called them A, B, and C, or given them abstract model numbers, but the naming choice tells you something about how seriously the studio took the project. These are elemental references, and the visual result earns them. The folded surfaces catch light differently depending on the angle, throwing subtle patterns of shadow across the paper as you move the fan. It shifts. It breathes. For an object this simple, it does a remarkable amount of visual work.

The design also exists in graphic editions. KUMAnoTE collaborated with graphic designer COYA on versions featuring Japanese yokai folklore motifs, and with Japanese fashion brand SNEEUW on a separate set. The structural logic remains the same across all editions; only the visual layer changes. That flexibility reveals something important about what Orikaze actually is. It’s not just a fan. It’s a design platform, a structure capable of carrying different visual conversations without losing its essential character.

Orikaze was presented at Interior Lifestyle Tokyo 2026 and is scheduled for release in summer 2026. Interior Lifestyle Tokyo is a trade show with genuine curatorial weight, so the placement isn’t incidental. The audience there isn’t shopping for novelties. They’re looking at direction, at ideas that signal where design is going. That context positions Orikaze as exactly what it appears to be: a serious design object that happens to be a fan.

My honest read on this project is that it succeeds because it doesn’t try to replace the traditional fan. It converses with it. The sensu has survived for over a thousand years because it solves a basic human problem well and does it beautifully. Orikaze doesn’t argue against that. It asks: what if we looked at the same problem with fresh eyes and different tools? What does paper actually need in order to become a fan? And then it answers that question through mathematics rather than materials.

That kind of thinking, where the constraint becomes the creative engine rather than the limitation, is rare in design. Most redesigns add. They layer on new materials, new mechanisms, new technology. Orikaze subtracts. It removes the internal frame and trusts the paper to do more than we usually ask of it. The result is lighter, quieter, and somehow more considered than anything with more moving parts. That restraint is the whole point. And the paper fan, it turns out, still has things to say.

The post The Paper Fan Just Lost Its Ribs. It’s Better For It. first appeared on Yanko Design.

Issey Miyake Just Made a Lamp That Wears Pleated Clothes

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When a fashion brand turns its most iconic textile technology into a lampshade, you pay attention. That’s the short version of what A-POC ABLE ISSEY MIYAKE and Swiss design studio atelier oï managed to do with the O Series, the latest chapter in their ongoing TYPE-XIII collaboration. Portable, pleated, and quietly radical, these lamps feel like proof that the best design ideas rarely stay confined to one category for long.

The project started in 2024, built on a deceptively simple question: what happens when clothing technology meets light? A-POC ABLE ISSEY MIYAKE is known for its A-POC (A Piece of Cloth) philosophy, which treats fabric as a continuous, considered whole rather than something to be cut and assembled. From that foundation came Steam Stretch, a process where pattern and structure are woven directly into a single piece of recycled polyester fabric. Heat is then applied to specific areas, causing them to contract and bloom into a dimensional, pleated form. No additional construction. No extra pieces. The texture is built into the material itself.

Designers: A-POC ABLE ISSEY MIYAKE x atelier oï

For the O Series, that same pleated textile becomes a lampshade. Atelier oï, the Swiss studio with a practice spanning architecture, interiors, and product design, contributed the oval wire frame that holds it all together. The shade is designed to be detached and swapped out, which means the lamp can shift its mood depending on what material, color, or texture you choose. It’s modular in the quietest, most intentional way: not a gimmick, but a reflection of how both studios think about longevity and use.

The second edition of the O Series was presented at 3 Days of Design in Copenhagen this past June, marking A-POC ABLE ISSEY MIYAKE’s debut at the festival. The new colors were inspired by nature, which feels right for a material that transforms through something as elemental as heat. The exhibition at Gallery 2112 was set up so visitors could actually handle the lamps rather than just look at them from a careful distance. That decision says a lot about the confidence behind the design. When you make something this considered, you want people to touch it.

The collaboration is credited to designer Yoshiyuki Miyamae of A-POC ABLE ISSEY MIYAKE, working alongside atelier oï, with lighting expertise brought in from Ambientec. The TYPE-XIII project first debuted at Milan Design Week 2025, so Copenhagen represents a growing body of work rather than a one-off moment. That continuity matters. It suggests the two studios are genuinely exploring this territory rather than producing a collection for the press and moving on.

Somewhere in the details of the O Series is an idea that fashion has understood for decades: what you put in a room, like what you put on your body, can shift with context. The lampshade is interchangeable, almost seasonal. But unlike a cushion cover or a tablecloth, it arrives carrying real process. The structure comes from heat and fiber rather than scissors and glue, which gives it a kind of intellectual weight that most lighting objects simply don’t have.

It’s also worth saying that the lamps are just beautiful. The pleating catches light with the same kind of movement and depth you’d expect from an Issey Miyake garment, and the oval wire frame reads as restrained and precise without being cold. The portable format means they’re not anchored to a single room or a fixed power source, which opens up how and where you might actually use one.

Design collaborations between fashion and other disciplines can easily feel like branding exercises, two logos on one object with little else to show for it. The TYPE-XIII Atelier Oï project is not that. It’s a real conversation between two studios that understand materials deeply, and the O Series is the kind of outcome that makes you reassess what a lamp can actually be. Cloth and wire. Pleat and light. Sometimes the most interesting objects are the ones with the fewest elements.

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A Wind Turbine That Goes Anywhere, Even Where the Grid Doesn’t

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Most of us picture wind turbines the same way: massive, industrial, planted firmly on a hillside or out at sea, part of a choreographed grid infrastructure that took years and millions of euros to build. That image isn’t wrong, but it’s incomplete. And French designer Fabien Brun is one of the people quietly trying to fill in the gap.

Brun’s project, Wind to Watt, is a modular wind turbine concept that challenges the assumption that clean energy has to arrive at scale or not at all. The pitch is simple: wind is everywhere, so the technology that captures it should be too. Whether you’re on a rooftop in Morocco, a remote construction site in the Sahara, a farmland in Eastern Europe, or an offshore platform in the middle of the ocean, Wind to Watt is designed to work there, without drama, without heavy machinery, and without rerouting the landscape to accommodate it.

Designer: Fabien Brun

What makes the design genuinely interesting isn’t its ambition alone. It’s the materials. The turbine is built from aluminum tubes and plastic tarpaulins, which sounds almost too simple, but that simplicity is entirely the point. Rustic, lightweight, and practical. Heavy machinery needs cranes and specialists. This needs neither. The terrain doesn’t need to be modified, no concrete bases poured, no complex grid hookup required. You bring it, you assemble it, and the wind does the rest.

That low-tech philosophy runs all the way through the product. The aluminum and plastics used are 100% recyclable, which puts it well ahead of most conventional turbines, whose composite blades have been making headlines for all the wrong reasons lately. Blade waste is a genuine and growing crisis in the wind industry right now, with older turbines reaching end-of-life and their non-recyclable fiberglass components heading straight to landfill. Wind to Watt sidesteps that problem entirely by making recyclability a design principle from the very beginning, not an afterthought.

The price point is also hard to ignore. At €2,500, with a projected return on investment in five years and maintenance costs of just €50 per year, this is a product designed to be within reach, not just for utility companies but for individual communities, farmers, isolated worksites, and regions of the world where extending the traditional grid is simply not viable. Over 25 years, the projected gain sits at €10,000. Those numbers are not flashy, but they are honest. And in the renewable energy space, honesty about cost and return is rarer than you’d think.

From a design perspective, the modularity is where the real elegance lives. Modular systems are forgiving by nature. They scale up or down depending on need, they’re easier to repair, easier to transport, and far more adaptable than monolithic structures that were designed for one location and one purpose. Brun’s approach treats wind energy less like a fixed infrastructure project and more like a tool, something you deploy where it’s needed rather than something that demands the world reshape itself around it.

Wind to Watt is still in development, but it has already been technically and commercially validated internationally, with a pipeline of over 90 strategic contacts spanning Europe, the Middle East, Africa, and India. That’s a wide net, and it makes sense. The communities that have the most to gain from accessible, affordable, off-grid energy solutions are often the ones most underserved by traditional renewable energy rollouts, which tend to favor established infrastructure and wealthy markets.

The broader conversation about renewable energy often gets stuck in the spectacular: offshore mega-farms, hydrogen pipelines, solar arrays blanketing entire deserts. Those solutions have their place and they’re necessary. But they’re not the whole story. The practical, low-tech end of the spectrum matters just as much, maybe more, if we’re serious about treating energy access as a global issue rather than a first-world design challenge.

Wind to Watt doesn’t promise to solve everything. It promises to be useful, deployable, and affordable in places where those three things rarely arrive together. For a design world that sometimes mistakes scale for ambition, and ambition for impact, that restraint might be its most radical feature.

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