Author Archives: Ida Torres

London’s Barbican Now Has Furniture You’re Allowed to Move

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Most public spaces don’t trust you. They’re designed to move you through them efficiently, seat you for a limited time, or keep you from lingering too long. Benches with armrests in the middle to prevent sleeping. Spikes on flat ledges. Gaps between seats so no one gets too comfortable. Somewhere along the way, cities stopped being places you inhabit and started being places you pass through.

Päivi Raivio’s Basic Forms (of Urban Life) is a direct and cheerful argument against all of that. The Finnish artist and urban designer has taken a set of geometric plywood pieces, painted in colors borrowed from the Barbican’s own brutalist architecture, and placed them in the middle of one of London’s most famous cultural complexes. No instructions. No fixed configuration. No single correct answer. Visitors are invited to pick them up, move them around, stack them, sit on them, or arrange them into something entirely new. What looks like furniture is actually a question: what do you want this space to be?

Designer: Päivi Raivio

I’ve seen a lot of participatory design installations over the years, and most of them fail for the same reason: they participate for you. They have a predetermined “correct” arrangement that visitors slowly discover through guided cues. There’s no real agency. Raivio’s work is different because it genuinely means it. A seat can become a table. A table can become a platform. A platform can become a wall, a stage, or a privacy screen between two strangers who both needed a quiet corner at the same moment. The work shifts with whoever is using it, and that feels radical compared to what most public design offers.

The Barbican is a fitting backdrop for all of this. Designed through the 1950s and completed in 1982, it’s one of the most monumental pieces of brutalist architecture in the UK, all exposed concrete and sharp geometry. Raivio’s lightweight, colorful pieces don’t fight the setting. They echo it quietly, picking up the shapes and tones of the architecture without trying to compete with several acres of concrete. The contrast between the fixed permanence of the building and the cheerful rearrangeability of the installation is part of what makes the whole thing click.

For Raivio, play isn’t a decorative layer applied over the surface of serious design. It’s a foundational principle. Her studio, RaivioBumann, focuses on transforming public spaces into places that are genuinely livable, not just functional. The idea that disorder and disruption can be design tools, rather than problems to be solved, runs through everything about Basic Forms. Public space, in her view, is most alive when it hasn’t been entirely decided for you.

The installation is part of the Barbican’s Play Make Do festival, running 14 to 16 August 2026, and it’s free, unticketed, and open to anyone who walks through. It previously showed at Concéntrico in Logroño, Spain, where it was met with the kind of spontaneous collective enthusiasm that designers spend careers hoping for. People of all ages rearranged, combined, balanced, and rebuilt the pieces for hours. The images from that presentation are worth looking up. They show something you don’t see often enough in public space: strangers making decisions together.

That’s the detail that sticks with me. Not the form, not the color palette, not even the clever way the installation adapts to its environment. It’s the fact that two people who don’t know each other will naturally start negotiating, collaborating, and eventually laughing over how to arrange a pile of plywood. Raivio has essentially built a permission slip for connection, disguised as furniture.

Cities don’t lack benches or tables. They lack reasons to linger. They lack spaces that say, figure it out, make it yours, stay as long as you want. Basic Forms gives London exactly that, even if only for a weekend. The real question it raises is why we aren’t building this kind of thinking into cities permanently, instead of treating it as a festival-season novelty.

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The Hidden Part of Every Book Just Became a Sculpture

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Every book you have ever held has a secret. Not a story buried between its pages, but a structural one, a quiet piece of craftsmanship stitched along the spine that most people never think to look for. A new work by Singaporean artist Adelene Koh not only knows about it. It makes it the entire point.

“Endless” (2025) is a large, ring-like sculpture built from paper, embroidery threads, and aluminum wire. It is meditative in form, circular in structure, and resembles a torus. It is also, depending on how much you know about bookbinding, either immediately legible or completely mysterious. Either way, it stops you. The scale of it, the density of color, the almost compulsive repetition of its construction, all of it registers before you even begin to understand what you are looking at.

Designer: Adelene Koh

What you are looking at is an endband. Or rather, what an endband becomes when it is freed from the book it was always meant to serve. If you have never heard that word, you are in good company. The endband is a structural and decorative element sewn along the head and tail of a book’s spine, a strip of colored thread that adds reinforcement and a quiet finishing touch. It is the part that usually disappears the moment a cover is glued on. Most readers never see it. Most of us never think to ask what is actually holding a book together. “Endless” takes that hidden element and builds an entire object around it, blowing the endband up into something that can finally be seen on its own terms.

The construction method is as considered as the concept. Koh used the front bead method, an 18th and 19th century English sewing technique, worked around a single aluminum wire core. Into that structure she integrated hand-folded and hand-cut pages formed into quires, with additional folds along the fore-edge. The result is not just visually striking but physically demanding to comprehend. The labor embedded in the piece is immense, and the closer you look, the more apparent that becomes. It is the kind of object that rewards slowness and punishes a quick glance.

The material choice deserves its own attention. Paper is usually the fragile thing in the room, the thing that tears, yellows, and eventually dissolves. Here, it becomes the structural backbone. It holds the entire form in place. That inversion feels intentional, a kind of material optimism that refuses to accept the obvious hierarchy between what is precious and what is expendable. Thread, wire, and paper, three materials associated with impermanence, come together to produce something that feels permanent and resolved.

“Endless” was shortlisted for the 2026 Loewe Foundation Craft Prize, one of the more prestigious recognitions in contemporary craftsmanship, and the piece carries the weight of that context well. The prize consistently spotlights work that sits at the intersection of tradition and innovation, and this fits squarely in that space. It is technically rooted in centuries-old bookbinding practice while producing something that looks entirely contemporary. That balance is genuinely difficult to achieve, and rarer than it should be.

I keep thinking about what the design is actually arguing. We tend to celebrate the surface of things: the cover, the finish, the outer form. The integrity of any well-made object usually lives in the parts nobody shows you. “Endless” makes that invisible infrastructure visible, and in doing so, asks a quiet but pointed question about what we choose to hide and what we choose to show.

The 2026 prize was ultimately awarded to South Korean artist Jongjin Park for “Strata of Illusion,” selected by a jury that included architect Frida Escobedo, designer Patricia Urquiola, and curator Abraham Thomas. But the shortlist carries its own weight, and the presence of “Endless” on it feels like a signal worth paying attention to. Bookbinding rarely gets the cultural spotlight it deserves. As a design object, “Endless” makes the strongest possible case for why it should.

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The Sculptural Rocking Chair That Started as a Single Idea

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Most furniture design starts with a question: How do people sit? Aleks Forystek Studio started with a completely different one. What happens when a heavy sphere presses into a structural loop? The answer, it turns out, is a chair. But not just any chair. It’s Dooal, and it might be the most conceptually satisfying piece of furniture I’ve seen this year.

The premise sounds almost too simple. A sphere meets a loop. The loop yields under the weight, compressing and curving into a form that becomes, all at once, a backrest, a seat, a leg rest, and a rocking base. One gesture, one cause-and-effect sequence, and suddenly you have a fully resolved object. The audacity of that economy is hard not to admire.

Designer: Aleks Forystek Studio

I’ll admit my first instinct when I saw the images was purely aesthetic. The black and white photography does everything right. The curves catch light in a way that makes the chair look more like a cast sculpture than a functional object, and the close-up shots reveal a fine-lined ribbed texture that layers real depth onto an already commanding silhouette. Shot in near-darkness, Dooal looks cinematic. It has the kind of presence that makes you stop mid-scroll and just sit with it for a moment.

But the longer I looked, the more the concept started doing something to me. Forystek’s Chicago-land studio describes its work as committed to “destabilizing the familiar,” and that phrase lands differently once you understand the logic behind Dooal. The chair is familiar enough, a seat you can rock in, a shape the body immediately recognizes. Yet the process that created it is almost foreign to how we typically think about furniture. No separate components engineered together. No piece-by-piece assembly of form and function. Just a single physical interaction, preserved.

That’s a philosophical statement as much as a design one. The studio’s whole methodology centers on finding the latent potential within ordinary objects, pushing past the surface of what something is to explore what it could become when a single variable changes. With Dooal, that variable is weight. Pressure. The simple, undeniable force of a sphere doing exactly what gravity asks it to do.

What makes this feel significant right now is the context we’re sitting in. We live in an era of maximal complexity, where products get layered with features, materials compete for attention, and design often signals effort rather than intelligence. Dooal does the opposite. It argues that constraint is where creativity actually lives. That stripping a design down to one decisive action can produce something richer and more resolved than a process built on a dozen competing decisions.

And it’s not just theoretical. The rocking chair is one of the oldest, most human pieces of furniture we have. It exists in farmhouse porches and modernist living rooms with equal ease. It’s comfort distilled into motion. The fact that Dooal arrives at that form through a logic of compression rather than craft tradition feels both subversive and strangely inevitable. Like the chair was always there, waiting to be discovered rather than designed.

That sphere at the base of the loop is easy to overlook in the photographs. It’s small, nestled low, nearly swallowed by shadow. But without it, none of this exists. It’s the cause the entire object is an effect of, and the fact that it remains visible in the final form is a choice that rewards people who look closely. That kind of embedded storytelling, where the origin of an object is literally written into its body, is rare in furniture design. It elevates Dooal from chair to argument.

Aleks Forystek Studio is not a household name yet. But Dooal is the kind of work that earns attention quietly. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s precise. Because it asks a stubborn, specific question and then answers it completely. Whether you care about objects for their beauty, their ideas, or the story behind them, this chair has all three. And it got there with one moment of contact.

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The $599 AI Guitar That Finally Makes Playing Easy

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At some point in their life, almost everyone has picked up a guitar, struggled with a C chord for ten minutes, and quietly put it back down. The fingertip pain. The out-of-tune strings. The YouTube tutorial that somehow assumes you already know what a fret is. Learning guitar has always had a steep and slightly humiliating entry curve, and most of us just gave up. The TemPolor Melo-D thinks that’s a problem worth solving, and the design it came up with is genuinely hard to ignore.

Designed by inDare Design Strategy Limited, the Melo-D is billed as the world’s first generative AI guitar, and even that description barely scratches the surface of what it actually is. On the outside, it looks like a guitar that a product designer and a tech enthusiast co-parented together. The body is sleek, the finish is pearl white, and it has a foldable build that makes it compact enough to take almost anywhere. But the real story is what happens when you turn it on.

Designer: inDare Design Strategy Limited

The neck is embedded with LED lights that illuminate exactly which notes to press, removing the guesswork for beginners entirely. A built-in 2.4″ LCD flip screen on the body handles chord guidance and ambient visuals without you ever needing to prop up a phone nearby. These feel like small details, but they represent a real design philosophy: the instrument itself should carry the full experience. You shouldn’t need a separate ecosystem of apps and accessories just to get started.

What makes the Melo-D genuinely interesting is the AI engine running underneath all of it. The guitar operates in three modes: solo, sing-along, and AI creation. In AI creation mode, you can hum a melody and the guitar transcribes it into a guitar solo. You can type a text prompt and it generates a song. Upload an audio file and it converts the music into playable tabs or chord charts. It even generates personalized backing tracks using emotional tags, so the sound starts to feel like yours rather than something borrowed from a practice app.

The “AI everything” wave has made it easy to be skeptical every time a product slaps the word generative onto its marketing. But the Melo-D doesn’t read as a gimmick dressed up in smart-instrument clothing. The six-string silicone system allows for real, note-by-note playing, which means it isn’t just a toy approximating the feel of music. It’s an actual instrument with training wheels you can choose to remove. The goal isn’t to replace the skill of playing guitar. It’s to lower the barrier enough that more people actually get through the door.

inDare’s design work here deserves its own mention. The studio, known for thoughtful human-centered industrial design, brought a lot of restraint to a product that could have easily become overcrowded with features. The foldable form factor, the integrated flip screen, and the silicone strings all feel like deliberate decisions, not afterthoughts. The Melo-D has also earned recognition at the iF Design Awards, which makes sense, because from a design standpoint it reads as a product with a clear and confident point of view rather than a collection of specs looking for a shell to live in.

At $599, it’s available for pre-order now with an expected ship date in September 2026. For a piece of hardware this layered, that number asks you to take it seriously, which feels appropriate for what it’s trying to do.

Learning guitar used to mean a real commitment: years of practice, a teacher, calluses, patience, and a certain willingness to sound terrible for a while. The Melo-D isn’t trying to skip all of that, but it is offering a more honest entry point for people who actually want to try. Whether you’re a complete beginner or someone who has quietly given up on the guitar more than once, it meets you where you are. And sometimes, that’s exactly the invitation you need to actually show up.

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Bang & Olufsen’s New Speaker Concept Is a Ritual, Not a Device

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Most speakers are designed to disappear. They sit on a shelf, blend into a bookcase, or hide in a cabinet, quietly doing their job until you need them and then fading back into the background. Mårten Malmnäs, a graduate from the Umeå Institute of Design, designed something that pushes back against all of that.

The Beosound Tableau is a wall-mounted audio object developed in collaboration with Bang & Olufsen. Malmnäs calls it “a fireplace for music,” an instrument not just for listening, but for living. The moment I read that, I had to stop. Because I’ve never heard a speaker described that way before, and suddenly, I couldn’t think of a more fitting comparison.

Designer: Mårten Malmnäs

Think about what a fireplace actually does. Yes, it produces heat, but that’s almost beside the point. A fireplace creates presence. It becomes the thing a room organizes itself around. People pull their chairs toward it, conversations happen because of it, and its absence is genuinely felt. That’s a completely different design brief than “fits on your desk” or “connects to your phone.”

Malmnäs started the project with a design probe, a research method that explores the relationships people have with their homes, and from that came a set of experiments around values and behaviors. Eight experimental directions emerged from the ideation phase, spanning different input and output formats. Three of those directions clearly answered the design responsibilities he’d set for the project, and their shared qualities pointed toward one resolved object.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The original concept for the Tableau was screen-based, but a method called Wizard of Oz testing, where a human simulates the system to observe how people actually interact with it, pushed the design somewhere more honest. The interaction model shifted from screens to navigation by sound. And the principle that came out of it became the foundation of the whole concept: the most honest interface for a music object is music itself.

That’s a provocative idea. We’ve spent years layering more and more visual UI on top of audio experiences. Every streaming service competes on the complexity of its recommendation algorithm, the visual polish of its playlist covers, the grid of album art. Malmnäs argued the opposite, that sound should speak for sound. The result is the Sonic Token, a physical object that mediates between the listener and the Tableau. Tactile, intentional, and completely different from scrolling a touchscreen.

The Tableau is positioned as a focal thing for the home. An object to gather around and tend to. That language is deliberate, and it’s also a little radical. “Tending” to an audio object implies care and attention, a relationship rather than a transaction. You don’t tend to a Bluetooth speaker. You don’t gather around an app.

Bang & Olufsen has always occupied a rare space in the audio world, where design and sound hold equal weight, and where a product can belong in a design museum and still deliver extraordinary sound. But even by B&O’s standards, the Tableau concept asks a genuinely new question: what if the speaker were the focal point of the room, rather than just a feature of it?

There are fair questions about how a concept like this survives beyond a graduate show. The hands-on, material-driven process Malmnäs used, with 1:1 mock-ups and rigorous testing of the Sonic Token’s form and function, suggests this isn’t a vague idea dressed up in renders. It was built and tested as a real object. Whether it eventually reaches production or stays as a collaborative concept between a student designer and one of the world’s most revered audio brands is another matter.

But the value of the Beosound Tableau isn’t only in whether it ships. It’s in the question it refuses to let go of: why have we settled for speakers that ask nothing of us? The alternative, a speaker that earns its place on the wall, makes music feel like a gathering, and treats sound like something worth being present for, sounds like exactly what the living room has been missing.

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Forget Lithium. Algae Might Be Powering Your Devices Next.

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Every time I replace a battery, I think about where it ends up. A AA battery in a remote control, a watch battery in a smoke alarm, the little round one rattling around in a drawer because nobody knows what to do with it. We go through billions of them every year, toss them out without much thought, and then mine more lithium from the earth to make the next round. It’s a loop that’s hard to break, and harder still to look at clearly. But what if the alternative was something alive?

Bio-designer Lucia Giron, working alongside the University of Cambridge’s Department of Biochemistry and electrical engineer Lifu Tan, has developed prototypes of an algae-based battery alternative called a biocell. The science behind it is called biophotovoltaics, which works like a biological solar panel. Living microorganisms, specifically cyanobacteria (which most of us know as blue-green algae), carry out photosynthesis and generate an electrical current in the process. They take energy from sunlight and feed on carbon dioxide to grow. And crucially, the electricity keeps flowing even when it’s dark.

Designers: Lucia Giron and University of Cambridge’s Department of Biochemistry

Cyanobacteria have been generating electricity in the Cambridge labs for over six years now. Not in theory. Actually generating. That number stopped me when I first read it. The potential scale of this is worth paying attention to. Professor Chris Howe, the project’s principal investigator, puts it plainly: disposable batteries are very bad for the planet. Conventional batteries are built with mined materials like lithium, which carry a range of environmental costs from extraction to disposal. The researchers believe biocells could one day eliminate the need for the small chemical batteries powering everyday devices like remote controls, smoke alarms, and sensors. Paolo Bombelli, one of the Cambridge researchers behind the project, has said their aim is to get rid of the need for batteries altogether.

That sounds bold, but the team has already proven the concept beyond the lab. Giron designed a demonstrator cell (essentially a compact, transparent case filled with green-tinged cyanobacteria) as well as a clock radio and a temperature sensor, both powered by biophotovoltaic panels. There’s also a system that monitors a potted plant, reading light levels, air temperature, and soil moisture, all powered by the algae cells. The data feeds directly into a mobile app. It’s the kind of object that makes you look twice, because nothing about it reads as conventional technology.

Giron’s role here is genuinely interesting. Coming from an art and design background rather than a science one, she was brought in specifically to translate the research into something legible to the rest of us. Her goal, as she’s described it, is to find ways of making these prototype living systems into real-world sustainable energy solutions. The demonstrator cell wasn’t designed to be hidden away in a lab. It was designed to communicate, to make biophotovoltaics feel tangible and approachable to a new audience.

The team has since launched a startup, e-Pho, and is exploring commercial applications with prospective clients. They’ve also developed a classroom toolkit where students can grow algae, assemble biocells, and test how different materials affect performance. That last part feels significant to me. Getting a technology into classrooms before it reaches shelves is a way of building familiarity and, more importantly, building the next generation of people who don’t think twice about energy coming from something alive.

We’re at a stage where the biocell can power small, low-energy devices reliably. The researchers are clear that it’s not yet a replacement for your phone charger. But the trajectory is what matters, and it’s pointing somewhere genuinely different from where the battery industry has been going for the past century.

Algae is not the flashiest material to build a future around. It doesn’t have the gleam of a new chip or the cultural momentum of a wearable. But it eats light, feeds on carbon dioxide, and keeps going. For a technology, that’s a remarkably good résumé.

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Replace 100 Tutorial Videos With This One Smart Keyboard

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If you’ve ever tried to learn Photoshop, Illustrator, or pretty much any serious creative software on your own, you know the ritual. Open the app, watch a tutorial, pause the tutorial, switch back to the app, forget what you just watched, rewind, watch it again, lose your place in the project, repeat. It is a loop that is less about learning and more about surviving, and it is the reason so many people quietly give up on tools they actually want to use.

Designer Ming Sheng Shih clearly knows this frustration, because KeyFlowAI is built around that exact problem. The constant back-and-forth between tutorial and practice does not just slow you down; it breaks the thread of whatever you were trying to create. And once that thread snaps, getting back into it takes more energy than most beginners have left after the third rewind.

Designer: Ming Sheng Shih

The concept is straightforward but genuinely clever. KeyFlowAI combines an AI-powered guidance system with an adaptive keyboard to bring step-by-step assistance directly into your workflow. Instead of alt-tabbing your way through browser tabs or scrubbing back through YouTube, the keyboard itself becomes the guide. The keys adapt contextually, surfacing relevant shortcuts and workflow cues for whatever task you are working on, right where your hands already are. It is a fundamentally different approach to the onboarding problem that creative software has had for decades.

What strikes me about this design is how it reframes the learning challenge at the hardware level rather than the software level. Most ed-tech solutions pile another app on top of the chaos, another overlay, another subscription layer you have to manage alongside the thing you are actually trying to learn. KeyFlowAI goes the other direction. It meets you at the physical interface, which is where attention already lives during any hands-on creative session. The keyboard stops being just an input device and starts acting as a co-pilot.

Visually, the design is clean and restrained in the best way. The rounded, slightly pill-shaped body comes in navy blue, light gray, and a soft sage green. None of the colors are aggressive or trendy in an obvious way. The keys have that satisfying, slightly domed profile that looks genuinely tactile even in product renders. Running along the top edge is a narrow display strip that presumably serves as the main guidance interface, showing instructions or prompts without pulling your eyes fully away from the screen. It is a small detail that shows real consideration for how people actually look at their desks when they are working.

The back of the device features two raised rails that function as a stand, letting you tilt the keyboard to a more comfortable working angle. A coiled cable option is also part of the design language, and while coiled cables are very much having a moment in the mechanical keyboard world right now, it does not feel forced here. It fits the overall aesthetic without trying too hard.

To be fair, KeyFlowAI is still a concept from Shih, which means there are open questions that a working prototype would need to answer. How accurately does the AI read your current task within the software? How quickly do the adaptive key labels update? Does the system scale to more advanced workflows, or is its sweet spot firmly in the beginner range? These are the kinds of details that make or break a tool like this, and they cannot be answered on paper.

But the underlying premise is sound, and more than that, it is overdue. The gap between watching a tutorial and actually building something has always been wider than the creative software industry acknowledges. Beginners do not need more content; they need less friction in the moment of doing. KeyFlowAI is betting that the solution lives right there on the desk, sitting under your hands. Whether or not it makes it to production, it is making the right argument.

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A Chess Set So Well-Designed It Doubles as Desk Art

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Chess has had its design moments before. The Bauhaus crowd took a swing at it in the 1920s. The Staunton standard has been the global norm since the 1800s, and somehow nobody’s fully managed to unseat it. Every generation eventually looks at the board and decides the pieces deserve a second opinion. Right now, that reinterpretation is coming from a 23-year-old UK-based 3D artist named Jess Wiseman, operating under the handle @chesslwiseman, and his set is called CHEKT.

The photographs alone are enough to stop you mid-scroll. Six pieces nestled into tight foam cutouts, each one precision-milled in matte obsidian with a warm cream undertone that catches light differently depending on the angle. Wiseman designed them entirely from scratch, replacing the traditional Staunton silhouettes with sculptural, geometric forms that still read unmistakably as their archetypes. The queen is still regal. The knight still suggests a horse. But the language they’re speaking is architectural rather than decorative, all sharp edges, weighted bases, and deliberate negative space that makes each piece feel like a standalone object worth studying on its own terms.

Designer: Jess Wiseman

That commitment to negative space runs through the entire set. The pieces are designed with rhythmic repetition across the grid in mind, so when they’re arranged on the board, the composition has a visual logic that goes beyond the game. It doesn’t just look like a chess set mid-play. It looks like an installation. That’s a hard balance to strike without the pieces feeling cold or inaccessible, and Wiseman manages it without sacrificing the tactile quality that makes a chess set satisfying to actually handle.

The stacking mechanism is where the engineering becomes genuinely difficult to look away from. Cross-section diagrams reveal an internal locking system built directly into each piece, allowing them to stack and store compactly without compromising their form. The pieces are also magnetic, keeping them grounded during play. It solves the oldest tension in chess set design: something this considered should also be able to travel. CHEKT. was built to do both, and the construction makes that clear without needing to announce it.

The packaging is what really gets me, though. Packaging is almost always the afterthought, the thing that ends up in recycling within ten minutes of a product arriving. Here it functions as a co-equal part of the design language. The main box is a muted gray with an illustrated coordinate grid and gold line drawings of the pieces printed on the lid. Below that, a dark foam tray holds each piece in a custom-cut pocket alongside three colored marker squares in red, orange, and blue. Then there’s the separate mustard yellow storage box, embossed with CHEKT. lettering and graphic iconography in a way that reads like a limited-run streetwear release. Stack the whole thing on a desk and it doesn’t look like something waiting to be put away. It looks like it’s already home.

CHEKT. also comes in multiple board packaging editions, each one with a different graphic treatment on its kraft paper exterior. One uses full geometric abstraction, another halftone circles, a third illustrated chess piece silhouettes in pop-art red. They look nothing alike and yet they feel entirely consistent. That kind of visual coherence across variations is harder to achieve than it seems, and Wiseman pulls it off without apparent strain.

That small detail of the colored marker squares says a lot, actually. Their presence shifts the whole personality of the set. It signals that CHEKT. was designed for actual play, for real people sitting across from each other, not just for a shelf or a coffee table book. That feels like a deliberate philosophical choice, and it’s one worth noting.

Wiseman’s background covers 3D animation, visual effects for artists like Doja Cat and Lil Nas X, and lifestyle branding through his label Figuregot. All of that cross-disciplinary range shows up in how this project holds together. It doesn’t look like a chess set designed by someone who only knows chess. It looks like a chess set designed by someone who understands what objects are truly capable of, and decided to prove it.

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Smart Glasses Run Hot. A 1mm Fan Might Finally Fix That.

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Smart glasses have a problem they don’t talk about enough, and it has nothing to do with design or battery life or social awkwardness. It’s heat. Plain, boring, uncomfortable heat. When you pack AI processing, computer vision, translation capabilities, and high-resolution displays into a frame that sits directly on your face, things get warm fast. Not warm in a “this laptop is on my lap” kind of way, but warm in a “I need to take these off because my temple is burning” kind of way. It’s a limitation that has quietly held the entire category back, and it’s one of the reasons smart glasses have struggled to make good on years of very loud promises.

xMEMS Labs is trying to fix that with the XMC-1200, and the approach is genuinely clever. The XMC-1200 is a solid-state micro fan, billed as the world’s smallest active micro fan purpose-built for AR, XR, and AI-powered smart glasses. It measures just 46mm², it’s 1mm thin, and it draws only 70mW of power. For context, that is less energy than most Bluetooth earbuds consume. Yet it still manages to deliver up to a 10°C temperature reduction at a 1W thermal load, which is not a small number when you’re dealing with wearable tech that people expect to use comfortably for hours at a time.

Designer: xMEMS

What makes the XMC-1200 different from conventional cooling solutions is that it’s built for the exact spaces those solutions can’t reach. Traditional fans simply don’t fit inside a glasses temple arm. The XMC-1200 does. Paired with xMEMS’ Astra2 drive ASIC, the chip targets heat directly at the source rather than trying to dissipate it passively. It also carries an IP68 rating, meaning it holds up against water and dust, which matters a great deal for something you’re wearing on a humid afternoon or during a light rain.

The timing here is significant. We’re at a point where the smart glasses category is starting to feel real in a way it hasn’t before. Meta’s Ray-Ban smart glasses have sold surprisingly well. Apple continues iterating on Vision Pro. Startups and established brands alike are betting big on the idea that the next dominant computing interface lives on your face. But all of that progress runs into the same wall: you can miniaturize a processor, you can shrink a display, but you can’t compress the laws of thermodynamics. Heat is still heat.

That’s what makes xMEMS’ announcement feel more foundational than it might appear at first glance. This isn’t a headline feature. Nobody is going to choose smart glasses because of the cooling chip inside them. But they will absolutely notice when their glasses throttle performance after 20 minutes of use, or when the frame gets too hot to wear during a long session, or when the display dims because the hardware is desperately trying to regulate its own temperature. These are the friction points that kill user adoption quietly, before anyone stops to ask why.

The XMC-1200 won’t be the last word in wearable thermal management, but it represents a genuinely meaningful step toward smart glasses that actually behave like the always-on, AI-powered tools they’re marketed as. Engineers working on next-generation devices now have an option that doesn’t force them to choose between ambitious performance and a form factor people will actually want to wear.

Engineering samples are currently available under NDA for qualified OEMs and technology partners, which means this is still early. Consumers won’t be picking XMC-1200-equipped glasses off a shelf anytime soon. But the fact that a purpose-built cooling solution at this scale exists at all is a signal that the industry is finally treating thermal management as a design priority, not just a footnote in a spec sheet. Good design has always been about solving the problems nobody sees. The XMC-1200 is exactly that. Invisible, necessary, and quietly important to everything the smart glasses category is trying to become.

The post Smart Glasses Run Hot. A 1mm Fan Might Finally Fix That. first appeared on Yanko Design.

A Natural History Museum That Actually Looks Like Nature

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Museums have a reputation problem. For decades, they’ve been temples of quiet reverence: boxy, imposing, slightly intimidating buildings that seem to announce, before you’ve even walked through the door, that you should already be taking notes. So when a museum opens that genuinely looks like the Earth just pushed it out of the ground, it’s worth paying attention.

The Shenzhen Natural History Museum officially opened on July 28, 2026, in the Pingshan District of Shenzhen, China, and from the very first image you see of it, you understand that something fundamentally different was intended here. Designed by a consortium of 3XN, B+H Architects, and Zhubo Design, the 105,300-square-meter complex sits beside Yanzi Lake and rises in a series of fluid, granite-clad forms that look less like architecture and more like an ancient geological formation that was always meant to be there. That’s not an accident.

Designers: 3XN with B+H Architects and Zhubo Design

“Nothing in nature is square,” said 3XN founder Kim Herforth Nielsen. “Nature is amorphous, dynamic, and always in formation. From the beginning, the ambition was to create not a building, but a piece of landscape that had always been there, shaped by local geology, water and time.” That quote does a lot of heavy lifting, and the building earns it.

The design process was genuinely collaborative in a way that large-scale architecture rarely manages. 3XN led the concept design. B+H Architects handled project delivery, landscape, and interior expertise. Zhubo Design brought the local technical knowledge that a project of this scale in China absolutely requires. Construction began in March 2022 and wrapped up four years later. For a building that looks like a mountain range and functions like a public park, a museum, and a walking route all at once, that timeline is actually impressive.

And yes, it functions like all three of those things simultaneously. The roof is walkable. The grounds are public. The building isn’t sitting behind a fence waiting for you to purchase a ticket before you’re allowed anywhere near it. It opens itself to the city, which feels like a deliberate philosophical statement about who science and natural history actually belong to. I appreciate that enormously. Too many cultural institutions operate like exclusive clubs dressed up as public spaces.

Inside, the experience continues the logic of the exterior. The exhibitions were developed with Atelier Brückner and Museum Studio, and the approach integrates the scenography directly with the architecture. Displays curve along the walls, rising through cone-shaped gallery spaces. Cinematic projections and immersive light installations make the galleries feel like environments you move through rather than rooms you stand politely in. If the outside of the building asks you to rethink what architecture looks like, the inside asks you to rethink what a museum visit feels like.

I’ll be transparent: I’ve seen the images, not the building. And images of architecture, especially this kind, are always a bit of a seduction. Photographs flatten and idealize. The real test of a building like this is whether it holds up over time, whether the crowds and the heat and the ordinary chaos of a functioning public institution diminish what feels, right now, like something genuinely extraordinary. That’s a fair question to hold.

But even accounting for that skepticism, the Shenzhen Natural History Museum makes a compelling argument for what museums can be when they stop treating their buildings as containers and start treating them as part of the story. Natural history is a story about a planet forming itself over billions of years. The building looks like a chapter of that story. That coherence is rare, and when architecture and content align that cleanly, it tends to produce something that lasts.

Shenzhen already has a reputation as a city that builds fast and builds bold. It’s the place where skylines get reinvented in a decade. But this museum isn’t bold for the sake of attention. It’s bold because the subject demanded it. And that distinction, quiet as it is, makes all the difference.

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