Who Designs an Object?
Sometimes, we assume the answer is simply “the designer.” But over the years, I have come to understand that bringing an object into being involves much more than the idea and effort of a single person.
An object often begins as an idea in my mind. It may come from a need, an observation, or a problem I want to solve. One thing I have learned through experience is that, in the early stages of design, it is valuable to research and sketch without thinking too much about moulds or production. And when I have clay in front of me, I sometimes find it more useful to explore the form directly with the material rather than relying only on drawings.
Once the initial idea begins to take shape, I share it with my team. We talk about it, question it, and think together about how it might evolve. For me, one of the most valuable parts of this stage is bringing different perspectives together with my own. Sometimes, a small suggestion from someone on the team can completely change the direction of the original idea.
That is why I believe that, in the early stages of design, being able to think independently is just as important as knowing when to open the process to other ideas.
Once the material of an object is determined, another process begins. The designer, the mould maker and the craftsman come together. We discuss production methods, the behaviour of the material, and how the object can actually be brought to life. More often than not, the craftsman has an idea of his own about the design.
Over the years, I have learned that seeing the maker’s knowledge simply as technical expertise undervalues what that knowledge really means. I have repeatedly seen how much a design can improve when I listen carefully to the suggestions that come from a craftsman’s hands and experience.
For this reason, I don’t think it is right to draw a strict line between the designer as the person who “designs” and the craftsman as the person who merely “executes.”
When we work together, the idea changes. Being open to that change is an important part of the design process for everyone involved. Throughout the process, we all need to listen to one another. Only then can we find the solutions that are truly suited to the material and the way it needs to be made.
Over the years, making experiments before moving into production has also become increasingly important to me. Trying different forms, dimensions and production methods before committing to a ceramic or metal mould helps us understand not only how an object will look, but also how it will actually be made.
Whenever possible, I also like to use these first experiments.
Actually using an object can tell us things that drawings and prototypes cannot. Sometimes, quietly sharing an early version with the people we imagine using it, and observing how they hold it, where they touch it, or what they respond to, can change the way we think about the design.
Making these changes before moving into ceramic or metal moulds also allows us to manage moulding and production costs more thoughtfully.
All of this has shown me just how many layers there are to the design process.
And over the years, I have found that working with a team, rather than working entirely on my own, makes the process more open, more creative and more focused.
Then the material enters the picture.
Even when the design process seems complete, the material does not always behave as we imagined it would.
Clay sometimes shrinks more than the form allows for. Metal reacts differently than expected. A surface that looks beautiful in a drawing can become something entirely different once it enters production.
And that is often the moment when design begins again.
Because design is not simply the initial idea.
Design is thinking, trying, listening, changing — and sometimes being willing to let go of your own idea.
For many years, I have worked with different craftsmen in Istanbul’s Historic Peninsula. The influence this place has had on my design language goes far beyond simply having produced there.
I have learned so much from the way these craftsmen work.
Respect for the material.
The value of repetition.
The knowledge that comes from performing the same movement for years.
And, most importantly, the understanding that some forms of knowledge are not passed down through books, but from hand to hand.
When you watch a craftsman work, you are not simply learning a technique. You are witnessing a form of memory.
You are seeing knowledge developed over centuries find a new life in an object of today.
That is why, for me, an object is never simply something that has been “designed.”
Behind it, there is an idea.
There is a story.
There are materials, the knowledge of a craftsman, countless experiments, and the time that passes through all of them.
Perhaps this is why, when we look at a handmade object, we instinctively form a different kind of relationship with it.
We notice a small difference.
Two surfaces that are not exactly alike.
The subtle mark left by hand-hammered metal.
A slight change that appeared in the ceramic after it came out of the kiln.
These are not imperfections. They are traces of the journey that brought the object into being.
When I design, I want the idea in my mind to become the best possible object it can be. But over the years, I have also learned that good design is not about controlling everything.
Sometimes, design means making room for the material and for the knowledge held in the hands of the craftsman.
Perhaps that is why, when I look at an object today, I think about more than how it looks.
I find myself wondering:
Who made it?
Which hands did it pass through?
What knowledge does it carry within it?
And what will it tell someone who holds it many years from now?
I see all of these questions as part of design.
Özlem