Tag Archives: lamp

Meet The Lamp That’s Actually Grown, Not Made

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If you’ve never thought about bacteria as a design material before, Cenit might be the thing that changes that for you. The latest lighting collection from the collaboration between biotechnology company Polybion and Mexico-based design studio Natural Urbano is doing something genuinely different from what most lighting brands are doing right now, and it’s worth paying attention to.

To understand Cenit, you have to know a little about what came before it. Lapso was their first major collaboration: a sculptural pendant lamp handcrafted from five sheets of cultivated bacterial cellulose, a translucent, flexible material called Celium™ that Polybion grows using bacteria. Not synthetically manufactured. Not extracted from a forest. Grown, from bacteria, using agricultural waste. Lapso was already a bold statement when it debuted at the London Design Festival in 2025. Each lamp came with a certificate of authenticity and a two-month production lead time, because you can’t rush biology.

Designers: Polybion x Natural Urbano

Cenit follows that same philosophy but takes it further. For the first time, the duo has combined Celium™ with natural ash wood and stainless steel, bringing the material into a more structured, versatile family of lighting objects. The collection comes in both pendant and table formats, which is a smart move that Lapso didn’t make. Lapso was undeniably sculptural, a piece you’d plan a room around. Cenit feels like it wants to live with you in your home across different spaces and moods, without demanding all the attention in the room.

The specific variant used here is Celium™ Manto, layered in a way that calls to mind the gradients of a horizon. The collection’s name, Cenit, means zenith in Spanish, the highest point in the sky, and the visual reference lands. When light passes through the layered cellulose, it does something that no synthetic material can fully replicate. It glows with an organic warmth, the kind you usually only get from paper or natural stone, but lighter and more alive-feeling.

A lot of sustainable design still requires us to compromise somewhere. Rougher edges. Less refined finishes. A feeling that the eco-credentials come at the cost of beauty. Cenit does not ask that of you. The combination of ash and Celium™ Manto is genuinely beautiful, in a way that’s considered and deliberate rather than rustic or raw. The stainless steel elements give it structure without weight. The ash brings warmth without heaviness. And the cellulose does what it always does in Polybion’s hands: it makes you stop and look.

Beyond the material, what makes this collaboration particularly interesting is where it’s coming from. Natural Urbano, founded by Sebastián Beltrán and Lorena Márquez, and Polybion, based in Guanajuato, are actively positioning Mexico as a place where design and biotechnology meet at a serious, global level. That’s not a small thing. The conversation about sustainable and biofabricated design has historically centered on European studios and Scandinavian minimalism. Watching a Mexican collaboration work at this level, with this degree of craft and material innovation, feels significant.

The pendant and table formats in Cenit also suggest that Polybion and Natural Urbano are thinking about a longer game. Moving from a collectible sculptural piece like Lapso into a more scalable, multi-format collection points to the kind of ambition that doesn’t just want to make a beautiful object. It wants to change what beautiful objects are made from, and it’s doing that without sacrificing the craft or the story behind the material.

Biofabricated materials are still a niche, but collections like Cenit make the niche feel a lot less obscure. When something looks this considered and lives this comfortably in a real interior, it becomes a lot easier to imagine a future where Celium™ shows up in more homes, more spaces, more everyday things. Cenit is the kind of work that makes you want to ask more questions about what your objects are made of, and that, as far as I’m concerned, is exactly what good design is supposed to do.

The post Meet The Lamp That’s Actually Grown, Not Made first appeared on Yanko Design.

Erwan Bouroullec’s Lamps Leave the Last Design Decision to You

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Most lighting products arrive complete. You unbox them, install them, and that’s basically the end of the story. Maap, the new wall lamp by Erwan Bouroullec for Flos, works a little differently. Before you can hang it on your wall, you have to crumple it. Not metaphorically. Actually crumple it, by hand.

The diffuser at the heart of Maap is made from Tyvek, the ultra-thin synthetic material most commonly associated with shipping envelopes and construction wrap. Bouroullec chose it specifically for its behavior: when crumpled, it holds its shape, forming a microstructure of ridges and folds that stabilizes the lamp’s form and scatters light in a way no factory process could replicate. Two people installing the same model will end up with two completely different objects. That’s not a design flaw. That’s the entire point.

Designer: Erwan Bouroullec

Bouroullec has been thinking about expansive light for a long time. “Maap is the realization of a long-held desire to create expansive light sources that diffuse illumination across a broad surface,” he says. “This results in a subtle, immersive glow that surrounds you, spreading softly and evenly.” The lamp reportedly took years to develop and, at one point, resisted being drawn in traditional technical schematics because its final form simply couldn’t be predetermined. How do you draft a blueprint for something that depends on a human gesture?

The structure underneath the crumpled Tyvek is precise and deliberate. A cross-shaped mount attaches to the wall, and the diffuser shell clips on magnetically. Each unit runs four LED bulbs, and multiple units can be combined to scale the piece up. The smallest configuration is a single panel. At its largest, Maap can stretch over three metres across a wall, which at that scale stops being a lamp and starts becoming an installation. Flos describes it as an “alchemical wall installation,” and while that kind of language gets applied liberally by lighting brands, here it actually feels earned.

What I keep thinking about is how Maap challenges the standard relationship between designer and buyer. Usually, a piece of furniture or lighting arrives as a closed system. The designer made every call, and your only role is placement. Maap breaks that contract in the most tactile, satisfying way. Bouroullec built the architecture; you determine the texture. It reframes ownership not as possession but as participation.

That’s also a slightly risky ask. Not everyone wants to be handed creative responsibility over something they just spent serious money on. For people who need a predictable aesthetic outcome, Maap might feel genuinely unsettling. But for the person who already treats their home as a living, evolving thing rather than a finished project, it’s a quietly compelling offer. You can reshape it. You can start over. If you move, you can detach the diffuser from the wall, re-crumple it, and begin again in a new space. The lamp is designed to be shaped, reshaped, and interpreted by the person living with it.

Bouroullec has long approached design as something environmental rather than decorative. “I see design as part of a whole. Designs need to cooperate with a given environment and somehow enhance it.” Maap feels like one of the clearest expressions of that belief. It doesn’t arrive with a fixed visual identity or a demand that you style your room around it. It adapts, which turns out to be a fairly rare quality in a market that often values visual consistency above everything else.

Maap is available now through Flos flagship stores and Design Within Reach, its exclusive U.S. launch partner. It comes in three sizes, Wall 1, Wall 2, and Wall 3. The material is white, the glow is soft, and the rest is entirely up to you.

Whether this becomes a reference point in lighting design or stays a beautiful one-off experiment, it’s hard to look at Maap without feeling like something genuinely fresh is being proposed. At a time when design often cycles through familiar references, that still counts for something.

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A Duck, Some Bent Tubes, and the Most Charming Lamp of 2026

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The first thing you notice is the yellow. Not a soft, hedging yellow, but a full-commitment, matte, warm yellow that coats every millimeter of the piece without apology. Then you notice the shape. A long, arching neck. Two sturdy legs. A horizontal head that doubles as the light source. Duke, the table lamp designed by Liam de la Bedoyere of Bored Eye Design, is a duck. More precisely, it’s a duck drawn by someone who decided that one continuous tube was all they needed.

That’s the central idea, and it’s worth sitting with. De la Bedoyere’s design vocabulary here is essentially a single rule: take a tube, bend it, and let the animal emerge from the bends. No additional elements, no decorative flourishes, no mixed materials. Just the tube, its curves, and the form they describe. The result is a piece that communicates immediately. You read it as an animal before you register that it’s a lamp, which is the correct order of things.

Designer: Liam de la Bedoyere

Up close, the construction rewards attention. The tubular sections connect in visible segments, and those joints give the piece a modular, almost architectural quality that tempers the playfulness with something more considered. The bends themselves are generous and smooth, with a radiused curve that keeps everything feeling soft rather than rigid. The head is a cylinder open at the end, functioning as the spotlight, and that detail is quietly clever. The light doesn’t interrupt the form. It completes it, pointing forward from the duck’s snout like the whole thing was always meant to do exactly this.

The base is a flat circular disc, minimal and low to the surface. Two legs rise from it and immediately branch into the body, giving the lamp a planted, grounded stance that stops it from reading as fragile. And then there’s the cord, a braided yellow cable that matches the body exactly, looping out near the base. Most designers treat the cord as a problem to solve or something to hide. Here it’s an afterthought that became a feature, trailing away from the lamp like a tail. It’s one of those small decisions that reveals how thoroughly this design was thought through.

The monochromatic yellow does something important for how the silhouette reads. By removing any tonal contrast within the piece itself, the animal form becomes purer and more immediate. Your eye traces the outline rather than getting pulled into detail, which is exactly what you want from a lamp that’s also functioning as sculpture. The color also travels. Looking at Duke placed against warm wood, concrete, white walls, and natural linen, it doesn’t clash with any of them. Yellow at this saturation and matte finish is warmer than it is aggressive, and it reads more like a material choice than a color choice.

The design is also genuinely versatile, which isn’t something you can say about most statement objects. Duke works in a child’s bedroom because it looks like a toy. It works on a bookshelf or a credenza in an adult living space because the construction is clean and the form is abstract enough to read as sculptural. Place it next to a magazine on a coffee table and it looks like something you’d find in a design gallery. That range of contexts isn’t accidental. It comes from the clarity of the underlying concept. When a design is resolved at the idea level, it adapts.

What makes Duke feel significant beyond its charm is that de la Bedoyere is clearly developing a language, not just making individual pieces. The Flamingo Lamp came first, and the same logic runs through both, which means the interest is in the system as much as the object. A lamp collection built entirely on the premise of one continuous tube tracing an animal is a genuinely interesting editorial position for a designer to take. It’s a constraint that produces rather than limits, and that’s the kind of thinking that tends to produce lasting work.

Duke doesn’t try to do many things. It tries to do one thing very well, and in design, that’s harder than it sounds.

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Korean Brand BAENUE Finally Built a Lamp That Knows What Time It Is

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Most lamps don’t ask questions. They turn on, throw light at you, and call it a day. You adjust the brightness, maybe swap out a bulb with a warmer hue if you’re feeling particularly intentional about your space, and that’s the extent of the conversation. For decades, that’s been enough. But Korean brand BAENUE, the consumer-facing arm of LED technology company Baelux, is making a compelling argument that it shouldn’t have been.

The premise behind BAENUE is rooted in photobiology, the study of how light affects living organisms at a biological level. Specifically, the brand is built around something most of us quietly experience but rarely attribute to our lamps: the way artificial light disrupts our body clocks. The blue-toned light that keeps us sharp and focused at 9 a.m. is the same kind our phones and laptops push out at 11 p.m., suppressing melatonin production and quietly convincing our bodies that it’s still daytime. We chalk restless nights up to stress, too much screen time, too much coffee. Rarely do we think to blame the lamp sitting on the desk.

Designer: Baelux

BAENUE’s answer is a proprietary, patented technology called Dim2Amber™. The concept mirrors nature in a way that feels almost obvious once you understand it. As you dim the light, the lamp doesn’t just reduce brightness. It simultaneously shifts the spectrum toward warmer, amber tones. Bright and crisp when you need to focus. Soft and golden when the evening calls for it. The entire transition happens through a single analog dial, a deliberate choice by founder and chief developer Dr. Jinwoo Bae, an MIT-trained engineer who has built his career on making advanced technology feel effortless rather than overcomplicated.

Both of BAENUE’s current products, The New Lamp and the portable MINI, carry this philosophy into their design. The New Lamp is the flagship desk piece, proportioned using the golden ratio to minimize glare and direct light precisely where it needs to go. It includes wireless charging, a motion sensor for automatic on/off, and a high CRI light source that renders color accurately. That last detail matters more than people realize until they’ve spent time under genuinely high-quality light and noticed the difference. The MINI is designed for mobility. Hand-sized, wireless, and versatile enough to function as a reading lamp, ambient light, or table lamp depending on where you set it down.

The price, around $575 to $635 for The New Lamp, will be the number that stops people mid-scroll. That reaction is fair, and worth sitting with for a moment before writing it off. Baelux has spent over a decade supplying LED light sources to premium architectural and commercial projects across Europe, quietly powering the kind of lighting most people only encounter in luxury hotels and gallery spaces. BAENUE is that same industrial-grade precision, redirected toward everyday life. You’re not just buying a lamp. You’re buying the output of years of engineering research that most people would never think to demand from something sitting on their nightstand.

The brand’s restraint around wellness language is one of the more reassuring things about it. Dim2Amber is patented and technically specific. Dr. Bae’s insistence on eliminating micro-flicker, that imperceptible rapid fluctuation in light that contributes to eye strain without ever announcing itself, is exactly the kind of detail that only surfaces when someone genuinely cares about what light does to the human body. BAENUE made its public debut at 3 Days of Design 2026 in Copenhagen, a fitting stage for a brand that treats purpose and form as equally non-negotiable.

Lighting design has lagged behind the broader wellness conversation for too long, still measured mostly by how a room looks rather than how it makes your body feel. BAENUE is one of the more serious attempts to close that gap. Whether it changes the way the industry thinks about what a lamp is supposed to do is a bigger question, but the fact that someone is asking it seriously is, at minimum, a good start.

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Ovuud’s Reactor Is the Nightlight Designers Actually Want

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Most nightlights are afterthoughts. A dim plug-in tucked behind a dresser, maybe something shaped like a mushroom from a big-box store. They exist to serve a single function: keep you from stubbing your toe at 2 a.m. Nobody really talks about them. Nobody really considers them. That changed for me when I came across Benjamin Gillespie’s latest from his Philadelphia-based studio, Ovuud, and suddenly I found myself genuinely excited about a nightlight.

The piece is called Reactor, and it’s now available in a color series that’s worth paying attention to. Gillespie, who runs Ovuud as a one-man operation out of Philadelphia, designs and builds every piece by hand using locally sourced wood. His background is an unusual combination of engineering, woodworking, and a deep architectural sensibility, and you can feel all three of those things at once when you look at his work. The LED is hidden, the wood glows, and everything feels considered without feeling precious.

Designer: Ovuud

What the Reactor does differently is how it handles the relationship between function and mood. It pairs a warm white task light with a mood light, and the two can be independently controlled depending on what you need at any given moment. The color series expands on this by offering different colored light options, each creating a distinct atmosphere from the same compact wooden form. A pink glow reads like warmth. A deeper red reads like atmosphere. The shift from one to the other is not dramatic in the way smart bulb color changes tend to be. It’s quieter than that, and more intentional.

I keep thinking about the name. Reactor. It’s not passive. A nightlight is usually passive by definition. It just sits there. But a reactor implies a response, a relationship between the object and whoever is using it. Gillespie even described the pink version as “a hug in the dark,” which is such a specific and unexpectedly tender way to talk about a light source. That sensibility carries through the design. These are not decorative pieces pretending to be functional. They’re functional pieces that happen to be beautiful.

Ovuud has been building a quiet reputation in design circles for a while now. Featured in Dwell Magazine’s 2022 list of rising international designers, Gillespie’s work has always been about finding that balance between material limits, desired function, and aesthetic harmony. The Reactor color series feels like that philosophy at its most distilled. The form is small enough to sit on a nightstand without demanding attention during the day. At night, it changes the temperature of the entire room without you having to do anything complicated.

The wood-and-plexiglass combination Gillespie uses throughout his work is particularly effective here. The wood grounds it, gives it warmth and texture and the kind of object permanence that makes you want to keep a thing rather than replace it. The plexi diffuses the light in a way that feels organic, not clinical. Together, they make something that feels genuinely handmade without looking rustic or unfinished. That’s harder to achieve than it sounds.

A design object like the Reactor matters because it doesn’t ask you to choose between living well and buying well. A lot of design right now sits in one of two camps: either it’s priced and positioned for collectors, beautiful but untouchable, or it’s mass-produced and optimized for a market that doesn’t particularly care about craft. Gillespie exists somewhere outside both of those camps, making things by hand in his studio that are accessible enough to actually use and thoughtful enough to actually keep.

The Reactor color series is the kind of thing you discover on Instagram and then find yourself thinking about for days. Not because it’s flashy or trend-driven or algorithmically designed to stop your scroll, but because it’s quietly doing something right. It’s a nightlight. It lights up your night. And somehow, against all odds, it makes that feel like enough.

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Harvard Students Built a Lamp That Taught a Robot to Make Art

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There are moments in design when your first thought isn’t “how does it work” but “how does it feel.” Hikarigami is one of those objects. Created by four Harvard Graduate School of Design students, Luke Fiorante, Joseph Fujinami, Annie Xing, and Chi Zhang, it’s a luminaire that looks, at first glance, like an intricate metal tower carved by a very patient and very precise hand. But the story behind it is far more interesting than the object alone, and the object itself is already extraordinary.

The name is a portmanteau of two Japanese words: hikari, meaning light, and kirigami, the traditional art of cutting and folding a single sheet of material into three-dimensional form. The fusion isn’t just poetic; it’s structural. The team took that ancient paper-craft logic and translated it into sheet aluminum, using an industrial robotic arm to press, deform, and expand the metal into a lattice of thousands of individual cells. Each cell is unique. Each one catches light differently. And every fold was made without a mold.

Designers: Luke Fiorante, Joseph Fujinami, Annie Xing, Chi Zhang

That last part is the quiet revolution tucked inside this project. Traditional metal forming depends on expensive, custom-made dies and molds, static tools that lock a design into one fixed shape and require significant capital before a single piece can be produced. Hikarigami throws that model out entirely. The team developed a custom script called Machina, which programs the robot to adjust its actuation depth for every single cell in the lattice. Because the cells vary in size across the panel, a uniform press would cause the metal to fail. The script scales the force to each cell’s geometry, working right up to the material’s yield limit without crossing it. It’s precision at a scale that a human hand simply couldn’t replicate.

But precision isn’t the point. Craft is. The team was genuinely asking whether robotic automation could learn the intuitions of handmaking: the responsiveness to material, the calibration to context, the sense that a gesture should change depending on where you are in the process. Most industrial fabrication doesn’t care about any of that. Hikarigami does. And to me, that’s the more interesting question.

The result is a tower made of six identical aluminum panels with no fasteners, no adhesives. The panels interlock through tabs built directly into the geometry, which means the whole assembly is a single material: pure aluminum, fully recyclable, and designed to age gracefully. The team noted that over time, the aluminum will develop a patina shaped by its environment. The lamp doesn’t resist change. It participates in it.

When you turn it on, the experience shifts completely. During the day, Hikarigami reads as architectural, almost industrial, the kind of object that would feel at home in a gallery or a thoughtfully designed living space. At night, with the central LED filament lit, the aluminum skin opens up. The thousands of robotically formed apertures cast overlapping pools of shadow and caustic highlights across every nearby surface. The room becomes part of the lamp. The lamp becomes the room.

It’s worth noting that this is a student project, and I find that genuinely refreshing. It won in the sustainability category at one of design’s most respected annual competitions, and it also picked up a notable distinction in furniture and lighting. For work produced inside an academic program, the level of technical and conceptual rigor here is striking. Beyond the accolades, Hikarigami feels significant because it takes a position. It argues, quietly but clearly, that sustainable design doesn’t have to mean sacrificing beauty or experimentation. That mold-free fabrication can be expressive. That a robot can be a collaborator, not a replacement.

The team divided their roles with intention: Xing led computational design and fabrication, Fiorante handled robotic toolpath programming, Fujinami managed structural assembly, and Zhang contributed to the robotic fabrication process. Together they didn’t just design a lamp. They designed a process, and the lamp emerged from it. That’s the kind of thinking that tends to outlast the object itself.

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Chrome Is Back and IKEA’s $30 Lamp Knows It

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Maybe the most radical thing a lamp can do in 2026 is untether itself from the wall. No outlet, no cord snaking across the floor, no compromise on placement. You just pick it up and put it somewhere. That’s the entire pitch of IKEA’s AVHÅLL LED portable lamp, and somehow, at $29.99, it feels like one of the more quietly clever products to come out of Älmhult in a while. A small object making a quiet case for a different kind of light.

The AVHÅLL is compact and confident. At just 11½ inches tall, it’s not trying to dominate a room. It’s made entirely of metal, with a nickel-plated finish that catches the light in that cool, almost liquid way chrome does when the sun hits it at an angle. It’s the kind of lamp that makes you feel like you assembled a vignette rather than just set something down on a table. The black version exists too, and it’s a perfectly good choice, but the nickel-plated one is the one worth talking about. Chrome is everywhere right now, from kitchen fixtures to jewelry to sneaker hardware, and this lamp fits neatly into that current without looking like it’s trying too hard.

Designer: IKEA

The functional side is genuinely well considered. The AVHÅLL is battery-operated with the battery included, which is already a point in its favor. It dims in three steps, so you get full brightness, a mid level, and something low and warm that works as ambient light after dark. Charging happens via USB-C, which means the cable you already have on your nightstand will probably work for this too, though IKEA sells the cable and charger separately. You can charge it with the battery in or out, which is a small convenience that ends up mattering more than you’d think. And it carries an IP44 rating, meaning it handles splashes and light rain, making it legitimately useful on a patio, a balcony, or a dinner table outside.

The LED inside has an expected lifespan of around 25,000 hours and is replaceable. That last detail might seem small, but it’s actually the kind of decision that separates thoughtful product design from disposable product design. IKEA has been getting called out on sustainability for years, and a replaceable bulb in a $30 lamp is at least a step in the right direction. It matters.

Where the AVHÅLL really earns its place is in the gap it fills. Portable lamps at this price point usually look like it. They tend to skew plasticky, or they have that vaguely clinical look you get from something designed to be cheap rather than designed to feel intentional. The AVHÅLL doesn’t suffer from that. It looks like something you’d see in a higher-priced lifestyle catalog, not because it’s deceiving you about what it is, but because the design decisions, the metal body, the warm light output, the proportions, actually hold up. It reads well in a photo and it reads well in person, which is increasingly the benchmark for whether something is worth paying attention to.

The one thing to note before you buy is the price of accessories. The USB-C cable and charger are sold separately, so if you’re coming in at $29.99 and expecting everything you need in the box, adjust expectations slightly. It’s a minor irritation, especially at this price point, but it’s worth knowing upfront.

Still, it’s hard to be too critical of a lamp this considered at this price. The AVHÅLL is exactly the kind of object that makes people realize how much ambient light shapes how a room feels, and how rarely they’ve had the flexibility to change it. Move it from your bedroom to the living room. Take it outside. Put it on the coffee table during a dinner party. It travels with you through the house, and that’s what makes it interesting. A cord would ruin the whole thing.

The post Chrome Is Back and IKEA’s $30 Lamp Knows It first appeared on Yanko Design.

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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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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6 Murano Glass Lamps That Glow Without a Single Cord

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If you’ve ever wished your lamp could double as a sculpture, or that a piece of Venetian craft could actually travel with you from room to room rather than stay anchored to the nearest outlet, Flowers in Wonderland might just ruin every other lamp you’ve ever owned. Not dramatically. Just quietly, the way really good things do.

Designed by Alessandra Baldereschi for Multiforme, the collection is made up of six table lamps, each shaped like an unopened flower bud and hand-blown in artistic Murano glass. They come in soft pastel tones, they’re touch-activated, and they glow. Quietly, beautifully, and completely without a cord.

Designer: Alessandra Baldereschi

That last part matters more than it sounds. Portable lighting has been around for a while, but most of it still skews practical or industrial. A camping lantern. A rechargeable desk light you forget to charge. The cordless lamp category hasn’t exactly been known for elegance, or for the kind of visual impact that makes you actually want to own one. Baldereschi’s Flowers in Wonderland steps into that gap with a very different idea of what a portable lamp can look and feel like. These are objects you place somewhere because they’re beautiful, and the light just happens to be part of that.

The Murano glass angle is worth sitting with. Venice’s glassblowing tradition goes back to the 13th century, when the city relocated its glassmakers to the island of Murano to reduce the risk of fire in its densely packed streets. The craft has stayed there ever since, producing work that ranges from decorative to ceremonial to, yes, commercially mass-produced. What Multiforme does differently is keep the handmade core alive while pushing the design language somewhere genuinely contemporary. Each piece in the collection is hand-blown, which means no two are exactly alike, and the light that filters through the glass carries a warmth and depth that manufactured materials simply can’t replicate.

Baldereschi herself is a Milanese designer with a sensibility that’s harder to pin down than most. She trained at Domus Academy in Milan, one of the more rigorous design schools in Europe, and then spent time in Japan developing ceramic tableware with companies in the Gifu district. That combination of Italian craft tradition and Japanese restraint shows up quietly in her work. She brings a precision to how she handles materials, but also a kind of playfulness that keeps things from ever feeling stiff. Her portfolio spans glassware, décor, and lighting, and she’s shown at the Triennale di Milano, the Seoul Design Festival, and the Moss Gallery in New York. She’s not a newcomer with a single viral moment. She’s a designer who’s been building a coherent body of work for decades.

Flowers in Wonderland premiered at Fondaco dei Tedeschi in Venice, which is already a statement. It then went on to win the Curiouz Award at Venice Design Week 2025, a recognition dedicated to the most innovative projects in contemporary design. The win acknowledged the collection’s ability to combine technology and craftsmanship in a way that doesn’t feel like a compromise. Usually, when a product leans hard into one, it sacrifices the other. Here, the battery-powered portability and the centuries-old glassblowing technique feel like they belong together.

The collection comes in six flower shapes, each capturing a bud that’s almost open. Not fully bloomed, not completely closed. That specific in-between moment is where Baldereschi seems most interested, and it translates beautifully into objects that feel like they’re holding their breath. You want to place them on a windowsill, a dining table, or a nightstand, and then just watch the light shift as the day changes around them.

Lighting design rarely gets the cultural attention it deserves. We spend a lot of time talking about furniture and architecture, and considerably less thinking about how the quality of light in a room actually shapes the way we experience it. A lamp like this makes that conversation unavoidable. You can’t ignore it. You don’t really want to.

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