Design has moved closer to people, to emotions, to the small rituals of everyday life. The object is no longer the hero; the human experience is. Digital tools have accelerated creation, opened the field to more voices, and made experimentation more accessible. But this speed has also revealed something essential: perfection is no longer the goal. Imperfection, the trace of the hand, irregularity, the unexpected detail—these have become signs of authenticity. They remind us that design is a human act, not a mechanical one. Sustainability has evolved from a niche concern into a fundamental responsibility. Designers are now expected to consider the entire lifecycle of an object: how it is made, how it ages, and how it returns to the world. What hasn’t changed is the need for meaning. In a fast, noisy world, the most valuable projects are those that feel human, intentional, imperfect, and quietly alive.

How have you changed in the last 25 years?
People often assume that 25 years transform a person—that time smooths out edges, replaces fire with caution, and turns instinct into strategy. But in my case, the opposite is true. When I look back at Wanders Wonders from 1996, my small yet explosive book, I recognize myself today. The ideas that shaped it still shape me. They’ve grown, of course—becoming more layered, more refined, more solid—but the core remains unchanged. The flame is the same, still burning strong. If anything, the years have only clarified the mission I wrote back then: “to create an environment of love, to live with passion, and to realize my most exciting dreams.” It wasn’t a slogan—it was a compass. And it still is. I continue to chase ideas others might call illusions. I still leap higher than reason would suggest. The difference is that now I land on my feet, supported by experience, skill, and a lifetime of practice. In my personal life, the boundary between work and play has always been fluid. I live by the words of L. P. Jacks: “The master in the art of living makes little distinction between work and play…” It wasn’t an aspiration—it was a diagnosis. So how have I changed? Not by becoming someone else, but by becoming more precise in being myself. More mature, more complete, yet still driven by that same youthful fire that refuses to fade. If that means being “incapable of learning,” then it is the most beautiful kind of incapacity.

How do I imagine design and the world in 25 years?
I believe the future will be brighter than we dare to imagine. By 2050, design will have fully embraced its human dimension—intuitive, emotional, generous. Technology will be powerful yet discreet, serving life rather than dominating it. Materials will be intelligent, but true intelligence will lie in how we use them—with empathy, balance, and imagination. We will finally understand that progress is measured not in speed, but in depth. And yet, as the saying goes, “those who truly know do not predict.” The future is too fluid, too alive, too beautifully unstable to be captured in a forecast. But we can sense its direction: toward humanism, toward meaning, toward a world where design is not mere decoration but a cultural force shaping how we live, love, and coexist. Certainty is the enemy of creativity. It is in the unknown that imagination breathes. I prefer to think of the future not as a destination, but as a journey—a long, open road that reveals itself step by step. And if the future refuses to reveal itself, I will walk that road guided by the same mission that has always driven me: “to create an environment of love, to live with passion, and to realize my most exciting dreams.” Because, in the end, “the best way to predict the future is to create it.”