Tag Archives: Events

Bang & Olufsen Just Taught Stone to Sing at Milan 2026

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Every year, Milan Design Week raises the question of what design is actually for. Not in the abstract, philosophical sense that gets debated in panel discussions nobody remembers, but in the most immediate, physical way: you walk into a space, and either you feel it or you don’t. The Bang & Olufsen and Antolini installation this year, From Quarry to Garden: The Shape of Beautiful Sound, is the kind of experience that makes you feel it before you can even explain why.

The collaboration between Bang & Olufsen, the Danish audio luxury brand founded in 1925, and Antolini, the Verona-based natural stone company with 70 years of history, is one of those pairings that sounds unlikely on paper but makes complete sense once you see it. Both brands are obsessed with material. Both are deeply committed to the idea that an object should not only perform but move you. Putting them in the same room, or rather the same garden, was probably inevitable.

Designers: Antolini® with Bang & Olufsen

The installation, hosted at Antolini’s MilanoDuomo Stoneroom, centers on the preview of Beosound Haven, Bang & Olufsen’s forthcoming landscape speaker. It’s a sphere of precision-engineered aluminium that sits on a stone plinth, surrounded by living greenery, water lilies floating on a reflective table, and the kind of deliberate quiet that makes you lean in. Droplets fall onto the water surface and send out ripples, which is either a very beautiful metaphor for sound or just a very beautiful moment. I’m not sure it matters which.

The primary stone throughout the space is Antolini’s Taj Mahal quartzite in a matt finish, chosen for its soft, almost luminous tonality. It reads as both ancient and contemporary at once, exactly the kind of visual tension that great design installations live on. The stone doesn’t compete with the speaker; it contextualizes it. Beosound Haven looks like it belongs there, among the moss and the hydrangeas, in a way that speakers almost never manage to look like they belong anywhere outdoors.

That, to me, is the most interesting design question this collaboration raises: can sound be architectural? Not metaphorically, but literally, the way a wall or a window or a threshold is architectural? Bang & Olufsen’s Senior Director of Design, Kresten Bjørn Krab-Bjerre, speaks about sound as “an architectural language,” one that interacts with materials and forms atmosphere. It’s the kind of language that’s usually associated with interiors, with rooms and ceilings and acoustic panels. Translating it outdoors, into the open air, into a garden or a terrace, is a genuinely new proposition. And one worth taking seriously.

The collaboration also extends to a limited series of Beolab 18 speakers reinterpreted in Antolini stones: Amazonite, Retro Black Petrified Wood, Patagonia Original, Dalmata, Cipollino GreyWave, and Taj Mahal, each piece defined by the specific character of its material. No two are identical, which is exactly how it should be when you’re working with stone. Stone isn’t uniform and it was never meant to be. That unpredictability is part of the point.

This is the second chapter of the Bang & Olufsen and Antolini partnership, building on work introduced in 2025. It feels more confident this time around, more willing to make a statement. Carlo Alberto Antolini describes the result as “a dialogue between the elements,” and that framing feels right. It’s not a speaker placed in a garden. It’s a conversation between nature and craft, between sound and surface, between something ancient and something very, very deliberate.

Milan Design Week produces a lot of installations that photograph well and feel thin in person. This one seems to work differently, designed to be experienced with the body, not just processed with the eyes. The sound moves through the space. The stone holds light. The water catches everything. Whether you’re drawn in by the audio, the aesthetics, or simply the spectacle of a garden growing inside a Milan stoneroom, you’re likely to leave thinking about what it means to really listen to a space rather than just look at it.

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The Inflatable Ocean That Knows When You’ve Gone Too Far

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Not every design earns its attention. SHUOKE’s Light Me UP! is exactly the kind of work that makes you stop, look twice, and genuinely want to understand what you’re standing inside. And you are standing inside it. That’s the first thing to understand. Light Me UP! is not a sculpture you circle or a screen you observe from a polite distance. It is an enterable artificial seascape, a field of large inflatable forms installed at Xintiandi Style II in Shanghai, built at a scale that makes you feel genuinely small.

The columns are rounded and organic, their silhouettes somewhere between coral, sea anemone, and something you might find drifting in deep water. Their gradient coloring moves from deep orange and red at the crown down through warm yellow, then into a pale, almost translucent white at the base, where internal lights pool in cool blues and purples. During the day, they read as bold and almost playful. At night, they glow like living things. That quality, the sense that the installation is alive, is not accidental. It is the entire point.

Designer: Shuoke

Each form carries internal lighting that shifts in a breathing rhythm, expanding and contracting with a pulse that is slow enough to feel biological. The effect is subtle but deeply convincing. You stop noticing the material and start noticing the breath. When you touch one of the columns, or press through the narrow gaps between them, the light responds. The moment of contact produces a shimmer, a flicker of acknowledgment, that genuinely reads as reciprocal. SHUOKE described an earlier version of this logic as wanting the experience to feel more like interacting with a living thing than with a device, and Light Me UP! lands exactly there.

But here is where the design gets genuinely interesting, and where SHUOKE moves well beyond the usual boundaries of interactive installation work. The responsiveness has a limit, and that limit is intentional. Moderate interaction, a gentle touch, a slow movement through the space, draws the light out and activates the installation’s vitality. But push too hard, too aggressively, too much, and the light begins to fade. The structures appear to deteriorate. The environment dims and falls into stillness. The installation does not simply reward participation. It responds to the quality of it.

This is the marine ecology metaphor embedded directly into the interactive logic, and it is a clever and meaningful piece of design thinking. The ocean, like Light Me UP!, sustains and nurtures life up to a point. Past that point, it retreats. It diminishes. What SHUOKE has done is translate a genuinely complex environmental idea into a physical, embodied experience that anyone can feel without needing it explained. You don’t read the metaphor. You live it, in the span of a few minutes, with your hands and your body in a public space in Shanghai.

I think this matters more than it might initially seem. Environmental messaging in design has a tendency to stay on the surface: a recycled material here, a sustainability claim there. Light Me UP! goes somewhere different. It puts you in the position of the human who has the capacity to either nurture or exhaust the thing in front of them, and it gives you real-time feedback on which one you’re doing. That is a far more honest and demanding kind of design.

The forms themselves deserve more credit too. SHUOKE chose inflatable structures for a reason. They are soft, yielding, and slightly unpredictable. They move when pressed. They hold air the way living organisms hold breath. The choice of material reinforces the biological quality of the whole installation without ever having to announce it. The colors, warm and gradient and unmistakably aquatic at night, do the same work quietly.

Light Me UP! is the kind of design that operates on multiple registers at once: visually arresting from the street, physically immersive once you’re inside it, and conceptually coherent in a way that holds up the more you think about it. That combination is rarer than it should be, and when it shows up, it’s worth paying attention to.

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These Stickers Turn Crumbling City Walls Into Tiny Living Ecosystems

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Cities are built almost exclusively for people. Every surface, every wall, every façade is designed, maintained, and repaired with human use in mind. But cities aren’t just inhabited by humans, and the idea that urban decay, those crumbling plaster patches and cracked brick faces, is purely a problem to be fixed ignores the potential it quietly holds for other species.

That’s the provocation at the heart of Green Anarchy, a project by Yasemin Keyif of Bahçeşehir University in Istanbul, presented as part of the UNFOLD 2026 exhibition at BASE Milano during Milan Design Week. Rather than treating a cracked or crumbling façade as something to be patched over, Keyif asks what happens when designers choose to work with decay instead of against it.

Designer: Yasemin Keyif (Bahçeşehir University)

The answer takes the form of a small, biodegradable sticker pressed directly onto damaged building surfaces. Each unit is made from a blend of paper pulp, coco peat, perlite, and seeds in its main body, with an adhesive system of gum arabic, methyl cellulose, and glycerin that lets it bond to roughened or degraded masonry without any synthetic materials.

The process is surprisingly simple: the stickers are soaked, mixed, shaped, and applied by hand directly onto the wall. Over time, the seeds embedded in the substrate germinate and take root in the existing cracks and recesses, gradually turning neglected building surfaces into small, self-sustaining ecosystems. The name for this sequence, decay, attach, grow, also doubles as the project’s driving logic.

Keyif developed the concept with Karaköy, a dense historic neighborhood in Istanbul, as the pilot context. The project maps four escalating stages of urban decay, from minor surface cracks to severe structural collapse, and identifies each stage as a viable entry point for the stickers. The greater the damage, the more surface area becomes available for attachment and growth, turning the most deteriorated walls into the most fertile ground.

The deeper idea is a repositioning of architecture itself. Buildings, in this framework, aren’t just infrastructure for human activity but potential interfaces between human and non-human life. Cities already host birds, insects, mosses, and small animals that quietly inhabit the spaces we overlook, and Green Anarchy asks whether design can actively make room for that, rather than continually squeezing it out.

Presented as part of UNFOLD 2026, Domus Academy’s annual international design showcase held under the theme “Engage Friction: Designing Through Conflict,” Green Anarchy fits the brief almost too well. It doesn’t try to resolve the tension between the built city and the natural world so much as give them a way to grow into each other, slowly, without asking anyone’s permission.

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These Sequins Are Made From Industrial Dye Sludge and Still Sparkle

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The fashion industry has a water problem that most people never see. Dyeing fabric is one of the most chemically intensive steps in garment production, and the wastewater that comes out of that process carries synthetic dyes, heavy metals, and other pollutants that routinely end up in rivers and soil. By the time a sequined dress reaches a store, the environmental cost of making it sparkle is already long gone and mostly forgotten.

CQ Studio, a London-based regenerative textiles lab, tackled that problem head-on with a material experiment that turns the very wastewater from textile dyeing into the sequins themselves. The result, called Detox Bio-Embellishments, was on show at BASE Milan during Milan Design Week 2026 as part of the studio’s debut exhibition, Transient Gradients.

Designer: Cassie Quinn (CQ Studio)

The process starts by running textile-dye wastewater through a detox capture system that uses food waste to pull out the contaminants. Once the water is cleaned and separated, the leftover sludge doesn’t get thrown away. Instead, it’s processed into thin, flexible sheets that look and feel like plastic, but are bio-based, biodegradable, and recyclable. Sequins are then die-cut from those sheets, and whatever scraps remain from the cutting are folded back into the process.

What makes the material particularly clever is how far it extends the concept of nothing wasted. It handles both synthetic-dye and natural-dye wastewater, keeping the synthetic version from ever reaching waterways, while the natural-dye version becomes safe enough to compost into soil. The sheets can also be made using food waste and natural pigments, giving designers a way to produce embellishments in a wide range of colors without any virgin plastic.

The visual result doesn’t look like a sustainability project at all. The sequins and embellishment pieces come out in deep blacks, jewel-like teals, warm ambers, rich reds, and tortoiseshell-patterned fragments that carry a high-shine finish. Strung onto braided cords and translucent threads for the Milan installation, they hung in dense cascading curtains that looked more like haute couture jewelry than anything born from industrial sludge.

For the fashion industry, where sequins are almost universally made from petroleum-based PET plastic and are notoriously difficult to recycle, having a material that can match the visual appeal of conventional embellishments while being fully bio-based is a genuinely significant step. A garment made with Detox Sequins wouldn’t just sparkle; it would also carry a story worth telling, one that runs from a dyeing vat through a detox system and out the other side as something a designer can actually use.

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A Copper-Wax Lamp Revives a Slovak Forge and Glows Like Stained Glass

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Industrial heritage sites have a way of disappearing quietly. The machinery goes silent, the workers move on, and the buildings either get repurposed or left to rust. What rarely survives is the craft knowledge, the particular way a community understood and worked a material. Slovakia’s copper-processing history is one of those stories, rooted in a small central region that once hummed with the sounds of metalwork and fire.

That’s the history Laura Zolnianska, a student at the Slovak University of Technology’s Faculty of Architecture and Design, decided to pull back into the present. Exhibited at BASE Milano as part of the 2026 Fuorisalone UNFOLD showcase, Echoes of Copper is a lamp collection drawing from the copper-processing traditions of Medený Hamor in central Slovakia, combining them with digital fabrication and an entirely experimental material of her own development.

Designer: Laura Zolnianska (Slovak University of Technology, Faculty of Architecture and Design)

The material is the most interesting part. Zolnianska created a copper-wax composite that forms the shades, a substance that behaves differently every time it’s worked. Some shades come out smooth and disc-like, with swirling oxidation patterns that look almost planetary when lit. Others emerge heavily textured and volcanic, their deeply pitted surfaces catching and scattering light in ways that can’t be planned or predicted. No two pieces are the same.

Each lamp sits on a polished copper cylinder base with a matching copper-toned cord. When lit, the shades glow a deep amber orange, with translucent sections illuminating like stained glass while the denser, hammered areas cast dramatic, irregular shadows. The warmth of the light feels almost geological, as if it’s being filtered through something that took centuries to form rather than a material coaxed into shape in a studio.

The project isn’t purely a lighting exercise, though. Zolnianska designed Echoes of Copper around a workshop model where participants can create their own version of the lamp at the former Medený Hamor site itself. The idea is to bring people back to a place of faded industrial significance and give them a hands-on connection to the craft traditions that once defined their community.

Medený Hamor, which translates roughly to “Copper Hammer,” was a copper-processing site in central Slovakia’s Banská Štiavnica region, an area with a centuries-old metallurgical history. Using that heritage as a creative prompt rather than a museum exhibit is itself a meaningful design decision. Of course, craft doesn’t have to end up behind glass to be preserved; sometimes it ends up glowing amber on someone’s bedside table.

Echoes of Copper was exhibited at BASE Milano during Milan Design Week 2026 as part of UNFOLD, a student showcase bringing together emerging designers from institutions across Europe. It’s the kind of project that deserves more attention than student exhibitions typically get. Zolnianska didn’t just make a lamp; she made an argument that industrial communities don’t have to lose their identity to time.

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This Chair Looks Normal Until It Needs to Keep You Afloat in a Flood

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Flooding has gone from a rare calamity to a recurring reality for millions of households. As climate patterns grow more unpredictable, the spaces people call home have become increasingly vulnerable to forces they were never designed to withstand. Most domestic objects offer no answer to this shift, and furniture has remained stubbornly indifferent to the idea that the room it sits in might one day be underwater.

That’s the gap a team of Domus Academy Milano students decided to close. Exhibited at BASE Milano as part of the 2026 Milan Design Week, AquaForma is a transformable furniture piece designed under the theme “Conflict: Human vs Nature.” Created by Valentina Algorta, Lorenzo Gennari, and Sabrina Lounis under faculty guidance, it explores how an everyday domestic object can quietly hold the capacity to save a life.

Designers: Valentina Algorta, Lorenzo Gennari, Sabrina Lounis (Domus Academy Milano)

The starting point is a familiar one: a chair. In its default configuration, AquaForma functions as low-profile floor seating with a cushioned backrest and seat upholstered in deep burgundy fabric. A white structural shell wraps around the cushioned elements in flowing, organic curves, giving the piece a sculptural quality that sits comfortably within contemporary furniture design. Nothing about it announces its other purpose.

That other purpose becomes clear when flooding hits. The piece uses modular panels, a ratchet buckle mechanism, and buoyant materials that allow it to be reconfigured into a flotation device. The modules interlock and can be reoriented, with individual components separating and reassembling into a completely different arrangement. What sits quietly in a living room can, in theory, keep someone afloat.

The ratchet strap across the midsection does more than hold the piece together; it’s the key mechanism that allows components to be tightened, secured, and adjusted depending on the configuration the piece needs to take. This kind of dual-purpose hardware thinking keeps the design grounded in practicality. There’s no single feature here that’s gratuitous, with everything pulling double duty between the domestic and the emergency.

What makes AquaForma particularly compelling is how invisible its emergency function is in everyday life. You wouldn’t sit on it and think about rising water, and that’s precisely the point. Resilience embedded in ordinary objects doesn’t announce itself until it needs to, and that restraint is what separates a clever concept from a genuinely useful one. The designers didn’t design for a crisis; they designed around it.

AquaForma was shown as part of the UNFOLD exhibition at BASE Milano during Milan Design Week 2026, a student showcase that puts emerging design ideas at the center of one of the world’s most design-saturated weeks. It’s the kind of project that’s easy to underestimate at first glance. A chair that becomes a flotation device sounds like a design school exercise until you remember how often people need exactly that.

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Elanco Made Dog-Shaped Furniture Because Your Sofa Has a Flea Problem

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Pet ownership and interior design have always had an uneasy relationship. You pick out a sofa carefully, and within months, it’s covered in fur, scratch marks, or the lingering evidence of a bad flea season. Design spaces rarely acknowledge the animal that shares the room, and pet health brands rarely think to communicate through furniture. Most of the time, these two worlds simply don’t talk to each other.

Elanco, a global animal health company, had other ideas. For the 2026 Fuorisalone, it partnered with Milan-based architecture and design studio Parasite 2.0 to bring the Pet Collection to BASE Milano. The result is a limited-edition series of four pet-inspired furniture pieces that are equal parts campaign, design statement, and visual joke, all presented at one of Milan’s most forward-thinking creative venues.

Designers: Elanco, Parasite 2.0

The whole thing starts from a simple but uncomfortable truth. Fleas don’t just live on pets; they infest homes too, spreading through the furniture and floors that pets and people share. Elanco’s point is that your sofa and your dog aren’t as different as you think, at least not from a flea’s perspective. The collection makes that idea impossible to ignore.

Each piece is a pun on both a breed and a furniture type. The Basset Longue is a chaise longue upholstered in wavy, brown-striped faux fur, shaped after a Basset Hound, and mounted on chrome legs with a tail detail at one end. The Dalmatian is a wide sofa in black-spotted white plush with dark, rounded backrests that look like a dog curled up in place.

The Yorkchair is a chunky armchair draped entirely in long, golden faux fur with a small chrome detail on the back, very much like a Yorkshire Terrier wearing a collar. Then there’s the Gattond, which departs from the canine theme and becomes a feline-inspired coffee table, its polished metal top sitting on a rounded, fuzzy golden base with a tail sticking out from the side.

The Pet Collection is on view at BASE Milano as part of the 2026 Fuorisalone, and it’s the kind of exhibit that sticks with you long after you’ve left the room. Not because the furniture is particularly comfortable, mind you, but because the message is hard to unsee once you’ve seen it. Your sofa and your dog are, apparently, not so different after all.

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What Streaming Took From Music, Samsung Design Just Gave Back

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Music used to take up space in the most satisfying way. There was a record sleeve to pull from a shelf, a cassette to slot into a deck, a disc to slide into a tray. Each was a small, deliberate act that made listening feel like a choice rather than a background default. Streaming replaced all of that with convenience, and something tactile and visual quietly disappeared along the way.

Samsung Design seems to think that loss is worth addressing. At Milan Design Week 2026, it presented Visual Audio, a collection of music player concepts that reinterpret the forms of LPs, cassettes, and CD players through tailored displays. Rather than smart speakers with screens bolted on, they’re objects designed to make listening visible again, giving digital music a presence that largely disappeared with the vinyl era.

Designer: Samsung Audio

The appeal of analog formats was never really about fidelity. It was about having something to look at while the music played, a record spinning on a platter, tape reels turning inside their housing, a disc glowing in a transparent tray. Each gave listening a visual rhythm you could follow without thinking. Streaming quietly removed all of that, leaving the experience invisible in a way that’s only grown more obvious.

Visual Audio addresses this with objects that are clearly players but also clearly more. One recalls the boxy silhouette of a cassette deck, its screen animating spinning reels as the music plays. Another takes the form of a circular piece that simulates vinyl in motion, with a rotating label at the center. Each has a visual identity tied to the analog format it evokes, and that’s very much the point.

What these objects do differently from regular speakers or streaming devices is make playback legible. When something is playing, you see it happening. The interface isn’t a generic progress bar on an app; it’s a reel turning, a record label spinning, album art presented in a way that matches the physical form of the device. That makes sitting down to listen feel more like an occasion than a habit.

There’s also how these pieces actually live in a room. A speaker that looks like a cassette deck or a miniature turntable doesn’t need to be tucked in a corner; it contributes to the space around it, the way a record collection or a well-placed audio rack once did. Keep one on a desk, and it quietly communicates something about taste and how seriously you take the act of listening.

None of the Visual Audio concepts are headed for retail, and Samsung Design is upfront about that. They’re experiments, open questions about what music players could look like if they treated the emotional intelligence of analog formats as a design priority. The interesting thing is how specific and considered they are for objects not going anywhere near a store, which suggests this line of thinking goes beyond the exhibition itself.

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Samsung Design’s Milan 2026 AI Sphere Lifts Its Face Like It’s Alive

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Smart home devices have come a long way from the plain white boxes we once hid behind sofas. Voice assistants sit openly on shelves now, and small robotic helpers are slowly making their way into living spaces. For all their usefulness, though, most still feel more like appliances than companions. They respond when spoken to, perform tasks, then go quiet, making the whole relationship feel transactional rather than warm.

Samsung Design seems to think there’s a better way. At Milan Design Week 2026, its Open Lab unveiled the AI Companion, a small spherical robot designed to feel less like a gadget and more like a genuine presence. The concept frames these companions as friends that “understand you and grow with you,” bringing delight and warmth to daily life rather than simply waiting for the next voice prompt.

Designer: Samsung Design

The AI Companion’s form is its first deliberate statement. It’s a near-perfect orb, compact and smooth, with a presence that feels more like a creature than a consumer device. There are no sharp edges, glowing rings, or intake vents, none of the usual signals of smart home hardware. What it has instead is a small circular screen that reads as expressive eyes, giving it a quiet, almost attentive quality.

That face is where the design becomes truly surprising. The upper section of the sphere lifts open, almost like a creature raising its head, to reveal a compact projector tucked inside. It’s a small mechanical gesture that carries outsized meaning. The transition from sealed orb to open, projecting device doesn’t feel like pressing a button; it feels like watching something wake up and decide to share a moment with you.

With that projector now exposed, the AI Companion can cast games, animations, and interactive content directly onto the surface in front of it. The experience shifts from a one-on-one interaction to something more communal, turning a tabletop into a small shared stage. It’s the kind of feature that makes the device feel genuinely social, designed for moments between people rather than a single user quietly issuing voice commands.

Part of what makes the AI Companion feel so considered is how personality has been worked into its physical design. It comes in distinct variants, each with its own visual character, from a minimal white orb to one with a yellow cap-like shell to another wrapped in teal and rust-orange. These aren’t cosmetic afterthoughts; they suggest that each companion is meant to reflect the personality of whoever it lives with.

Samsung Design also sees these companions as inherently social. They can interact with each other, creating the kinds of playful exchanges that make them feel more like characters sharing a space than devices sitting on a shelf. The AI Companion is explicitly a concept and isn’t headed for retail, but it lays out a compelling vision for home AI that’s designed to be felt, not just heard.

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Issey Miyake’s Most Beautiful Material Was Always the Scrap

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If you’ve ever watched the pleating process behind ISSEY MIYAKE’s iconic garments, you already know it’s one of the most satisfying things in fashion. The fabric goes in, it comes out textured and alive, and for decades, that has been the whole story. Satoshi Kondo, one of the design directors at MIYAKE DESIGN STUDIO, chose to flip the script. He looked not at the pleated garment coming off the machine, but at what was left behind: compressed rolls of wafer-thin paper, stacked and destined for the bin.

The result is The Paper Log: Shell and Core, a special exhibition running at the ISSEY MIYAKE Milan store this April, timed to coincide with Milan Design Week 2026. And it’s the kind of project that makes you want to rethink every process you’ve ever considered mundane.

Designer: Satoshi Kondo of MIYAKE DESIGN STUDIO

The paper in question is a production byproduct. These thin sheets are used to protect the fabric as it moves through the pleating machine, and when the garments are done, the sheets are rolled up, compressed, and typically moved off-site for recycling or disposal. What Kondo noticed during a visit to the manufacturer, though, was that these rolls look like logs. Not metaphorically, but structurally. Each compressed roll stands 80 cm tall and 40 cm wide, and when you look at the end of one, the layered paper creates a marbled, circular pattern that resembles the growth rings of a tree. Hence the name.

That visual parallel carries real weight. The Paper Log doesn’t just look like a tree trunk; it shares its logic. Growth rings mark time in a living thing, and the layers of the Paper Log carry the memory of every garment made at the house. It’s a surprisingly poetic idea from an industry that usually discards its footnotes.

For the exhibition, Kondo brought in Spanish architecture office Ensamble Studio to develop two distinct bodies of work from the same material. The first, Shell, takes the paper log apart and treats it like a sculptural material, creating crisp, delicate objects that feel frozen mid-process. They’re almost ghost-like, holding a shape the way paper holds a crease. The second body of work, Core, goes in the opposite direction. Here the paper is treated as structure, forming actual furniture prototypes including stools, chairs, and tables. Robust and handcrafted, these pieces sit in direct contrast to the fragility of Shell, and that tension is very much the point.

The installation is arranged throughout the store to play Shell and Core against each other, presenting opposing ideas side by side: ephemeral versus concrete, delicate versus robust. I find this curatorial framing genuinely effective. It’s rare to see a single waste material handled in ways that feel this philosophically distinct, and rarer still to see a fashion house direct that kind of rigorous design thinking toward something that would otherwise not exist at all.

What makes The Paper Log worth your attention beyond the visual spectacle is the quiet insistence that process deserves as much consideration as product. Issey Miyake has always been a house obsessed with how things are made. The pleating technology itself is a kind of philosophy, a belief that the mechanics of creation are as meaningful as the finished object. Applying that thinking to the waste materials of that same process feels less like an act of sustainability and more like an act of honesty.

Whether or not furniture made from fashion scraps becomes a commercial category (and it absolutely could), The Paper Log: Shell and Core operates primarily as a provocation. It asks what we overlook when we’re focused on the final product, and suggests that the answer might be the most interesting material in the room. The exhibition runs at the ISSEY MIYAKE Milan store on Via Bagutta 12, from April 21 to May 5, 2026.

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