We Do Not Need More Things

There is already so much stuff in the world.

More clothes. More furniture. More objects. More buildings. More collections. More things arriving every season, only to be replaced by the next.

I don't think the future of design can simply be about making more.

I think it has to be about making the right things, for the right place, in the right way.

At Design for Vitality, this has become one of the questions behind almost everything we do.

Instead of beginning with “What can we make?”, I want to begin somewhere else:

What does life need here?

That sounds like a small shift, but it changes the whole design process.

A body living in the heat and humidity of Tulum doesn't need the same things as a body living high in the mountains of Oaxaca. A house in the desert shouldn't behave like a house in the jungle. A textile that feels wonderful in a cool, dry climate may feel completely wrong when it's 32 degrees and your skin is damp.

Place matters. The body matters. Climate matters.

And when we start there, we often realise we don't actually need more. We need better relationships with what we already have and much more thought about what we choose to make next.

I want things that get better with time

I've become increasingly interested in the idea of longevity.

Not sustainability as a label attached to a product, but something much simpler: Can I live with this thing for a long time?

I love linen partly because of this. Fresh linen is beautiful, but linen that has been washed, worn, softened by the body and faded slightly by the sun can be even more beautiful.

The signs of living don't necessarily destroy it. They become part of it.I want more of the things around us to work like that.A kimono that becomes softer every year.A table with marks from dinners.A cushion that can be recovered rather than thrown away.A chair that can be repaired. A house that can change as the people living inside it change.

We've been taught to see wear as a reason to replace something.

Perhaps we could start seeing some forms of wear as evidence of relationship.

Why did repair become so unusual?

My grandparents' generation repaired things almost automatically.

Clothes were altered and patched. Furniture was reupholstered. Shoes were resoled. Objects were maintained.Somewhere along the way, replacement became easier than repair. And design participated in that change.

Many products today are incredibly difficult to take apart. Materials are glued together. Components can't be replaced. Fabrics are mixed in ways that make recycling difficult. Sometimes repairing something costs more than buying another one.

So when we talk about creating something that lasts, we have to think about repair before we make it, not after it breaks.

Can the seam be opened?

Can the damaged part be replaced?

Can the textile be patched?

Can it be dyed again?

Can it be taken apart?

Could another maker understand how it was made?

These are design questions.

And I think they're beautiful ones.

Because suddenly the designer isn't only thinking about how something enters the world. We're thinking about how it will live in the world.

Materials aren't just materials

Working more closely with textiles has also changed the way I see materials.

A piece of cloth doesn't simply appear on a roll.

Someone grew the fibre. Someone harvested it. Water was used. Energy was used. It was spun, woven, dyed, transported, cut and sewn. Hands have already touched that material long before it reaches mine.

And its story doesn't end when I make something from it.

What happens five years later?

Ten years later?

Can it be repaired? Can it become something else? Can it safely return to the earth? Will somebody value it enough to pass it on?

This is what I mean when I talk about material intelligence.

It's not just knowing what a material is made from.

It's understanding its story.

Where did it come from? How does it behave? Who knows how to work with it? How will it age? And where might it go next?

The right material in the right place

This becomes even more interesting when we think about climate.

In Tulum, I'm constantly thinking about heat, humidity, perspiration, airflow and intense sunlight.

Suddenly the weight of a textile matters.

The openness of its weave matters.

How quickly it dries matters.

How it feels against damp skin matters.

So instead of designing a garment and then deciding what fabric to make it from, we can reverse the process.

What does the body need here?

Maybe it needs something incredibly light.

Maybe it needs shade without heaviness.

Maybe it needs a loose silhouette that allows air to move around the skin.

The same thinking can move from clothing into bedding, and from bedding into architecture.

A bedroom in the tropics doesn't necessarily need a more powerful air conditioner. Perhaps it needs better airflow, better shade, breathable bedding, different materials and a building that understands where the sun and wind are coming from.

Nature can do an extraordinary amount of work when we stop designing against it.

Maybe luxury is having enough

I'm also questioning what we mean by luxury.

For a long time, luxury has been associated with abundance.

More rooms. More clothes. More objects. More choice.

But I'm becoming interested in almost the opposite.

Imagine owning fewer things, but really loving the things you own.

A beautiful shirt that works perfectly in the climate where you live.

Sheets that feel incredible against your skin and become softer over the years.

A chair that you would repair rather than replace.

A home that feels good without being filled with things.

Knowing who made something.

Knowing where the material came from.

Knowing that if something breaks, it can be fixed.

That feels luxurious to me.

Not more. Better.

And sometimes, we shouldn't make anything

This might be the most challenging idea for a design company.

Sometimes the answer to “What does life need here?” might be: nothing.

Maybe something already exists.

Maybe it can be repaired.

Maybe we can adapt what is there.

Maybe the material doesn't need to travel halfway around the world.

Maybe the landscape already knows how to cool the building.

Maybe we simply don't need another product.

I don't think that makes design less important.I think it makes design much more interesting.Because our role stops being simply to produce objects.Our role becomes understanding relationships — between body, material, climate, maker and place — and intervening only when we can make that relationship better.

This is the thinking behind Design for Vitality.

We want to make things, of course.But I want them to be things that deserve to exist.Things appropriate to their place.Things made from materials we understand.Things people want to keep.Things that can change, age and be repaired.Things that eventually leave something better behind.

We don't need more things.We need the right things, for the right place — and we need to care for them for much longer.