How Important are lines? 

We see them everywhere, on buildings, on chairs, garments and even across the surface of our own faces. Lines quietly structure the world around us. A line is simple, it is created by a stroke, sometimes meeting another, sometimes standing alone. 

But why do lines exist, and why are they so important in design? 

Without lines, there would be no structure to the objects we depend on. No beds to rest on, no phones to hold, no tables to gather around. Even language itself would disappear because letters are simply arrangements of lines and curves. Without lines, words would not exist and without words, communication would struggle to survive. 

The world would struggle. 

In many ways, Lines are silent. 

They guide our eyes and give form to an empty space. Vertical lines, horizontal lines, diagonal lines, curved lines are minimal yet brings meaning into a design. Despite their importance, lines are often the last thing people notice. It is rare to hear someone say, “The lines are beautiful”, unless the design is entirely focused on them, Instead, people speak more about colours, materials, shape and form. These elements are “Bigger” and more visible. Lines, however, remain quiet. They sit beneath the surface of design, holding everything together like pillars. Without asking to be seen. 

Are lines underrated?
Maybe, lines are too fundamental. Lines are the beginning of almost everything, Every drawing starts with a line. Every garment pattern is drafted with lines. They are the first gesture of creating a design. It is the very moment where imagination begins to take shape. 

What would a world without lines look like?
Everything becomes fluid, without structure and leading lines. It feels gentler almost like in a dream. Nothing would be restricted or confined by a line. But at the same time, nothing would be clear. 

What about us? 
Our faces, our thumbprints, everything that makes us recognisable, will be gone. There would be no separation between features, no distinction between one person and another person. Identity itself would slowly begin to fade. 

THE MEASURING TAPE

What is a measuring tape, if not a line that has been given purpose? 
It is one of the humblest tools in design. Rolled up, it sits quietly in a pocket, in a drawer, forgotten until it is needed. But when it unravels, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes a line with purpose. A line that speaks in numbers, in centimeters, in inches. 

A line that tells you exactly how much space something takes up in the world. 

In fashion, the measuring tape is everything. 
It wraps around a body the way a garment eventually will. It learns the curve of a shoulder, the circumference of a waist, the length of the nape to hem. It does not judge. It only records. 

It is quietly intimate.
A measuring tape pressed against skin is one of the first moments a body becomes a blueprint. It is where a person stops being just a person and begins to become a pattern. 

It’s limits and how does it become free?
The measuring tape also reminds us of restrictions. Every number it gives, is a boundary. 

“A seam must fall here”. “A hem must end there”. Structure is born from these measurements. And yet, within those boundaries, design finds its own freedom. 

But why do we use it? 
The tape defines the endless possibilities. We measure because we want things to fit. Not just garments, but ideas. We measure to understand proportion, to find balance, to ensure that one thing  does not engulf another. 

In many ways, measuring is an act of respect.
For the body, for the material, for the space a design will inhabit. The tape reminds us that a line is never just a line. Sometimes, it is a choice. 

What happens when we stop measuring?
When we design without numbers, without guides, without that line stretched taut between two points? Perhaps something more instinctive is made. Something freer. But something less accurate. 

There is beauty in both.
The measured and the unmeasured. The calculated and the felt. Maybe that is what design has always been. A conversation between the tape and the hand. 

ON ITS OWN

What can a single line become? 

it is nothing remarkable on its own. A mark. A stroke. A thread lying flat. But lines rarely stay alone. They meet each other. They cross, they follow, they echo one another. And somewhere in that meeting, something shifts. What was simple becomes intricate. What was minimal becomes whole. 

In fashion, this happens silently.
A woven fabric is nothing more than two sets of lines interlocking. Over and under, over and under, repeated across an entire surface. Each thread is just a line. Humble, ordinary on its own. But together, they become something you can touch. Something that drapes, that moves, that catches light. The line does not disappear. It multiplies into something greater. 

A numbered line.
Think about the measuring tape. A single, flexible line marked with numbers. And yet, when it wraps around a body, it begins to map something complex. It reads curves, it records proportion, it traces the distance between one point and another. From that one line, a garment is born. From that garment, a silhouette that belongs to a person. Less created more. 

Plaid. Pinstripes. Houndstooth. Lace.
These are patterns that feel intricate, layered, almost overwhelming up close. But trace them back, and they all begin the same way. A line. A stripe is a line given width. A check is two sets of lines crossing. Lace is a line looped and knotted together and what remains looks almost like something that could not have been made by hand. But it was. And it started with one thing in common.

So is less truly less?
Or is less simply the beginning, before everything else develops? A line is the least it can be. And yet, it holds the potential for everything that follows. The measuring tape knows this. It is just a line, until it is pressed against a body. Then it becomes a possibility. Maybe less is not the opposite of more. Maybe less is where more begins.

IS LESS MORE?

One of the oldest questions in design.
And yet, it still unsettles people. Less. More. Two words that seem to contradict each other. And perhaps they do. 

Simplicity does not whisper. It commands
Some of the most lasting designs in fashion are the simplest ones. A white shirt. A straight-cut trouser. A coat with nothing unnecessary on it. These pieces do not compete for attention, but they hold it. Because the eye rests on them rather than scrambles across. There is ease in that. There is calmness. 

But is less always more? 
Not always. Sometimes more is more. Sometimes a design needs volume, layering, detailing to show what it is trying to say. The question is not whether to use less or more. It is whether it is intentional or not. Whether every line, every element, every choice is deserving its place. A measuring tape is a line. A garment pattern is a collection of lines. A face is mapped by lines. And when a design is stripped down to its most essential self, in many ways, it is just a line. The purest form of an idea. Perhaps that is what less really means. Not bareness. But clarity. The courage to trust less and let it mean more. 

^{Hoarding Clean-Up @ Tlk Blangah Blk 63}

^{Hoarding Clean-Up @ Ang Mo Kio Ave 4}

At first glance, a hoarded room feels overwhelming. Towers of newspapers lean into one another as if they might collapse at any second, plastic bags filled with forgotten things crowd the floor, leaving barely any space to move, and shelves bow under the quiet weight of time. The reaction is almost immediate, instinctive even. This is a mess, an excess, something that needs fixing.

Close the door, clear it out, throw it away.

The longer you stand there, however, the harder it becomes to look at it so simply. This shift became clearer to me not just through observation, but through experience. During a hoarding clean-up I participated in, what I expected to be a straightforward act of clearing space quickly became something far more complex. Each item we picked up was not just an object to discard, but something the owner hesitated over, paused at, or quietly reclaimed. The process slowed down, not because of the physical labour, but because of the emotional weight attached to what seemed, from the outside, insignificant.

As my eyes began to adjust, not just to the density of objects but to the rhythm of that hesitation, the space started to unfold differently. What once looked like chaos began to shift into something quieter, more layered, something that feels less like clutter and more like an archive. It is not a formal archive, nor something labelled or categorised, but a living collection of moments that have refused to leave.

A cracked mug sits among the piles, insignificant at first, until you begin to imagine the hands that once held it. A stack of magazines gathers dust, yet quietly marks the passing of years, routines repeated, afternoons spent in stillness. There is always something oddly specific too, a cable, a container, an object with no clear purpose anymore, yet it remains not because it is useful, but because letting it go feels like losing something that cannot quite be named.

Receipts, boxes, letters, and fragments of daily life linger here. Each object holds onto a moment, however small, resisting disappearance. To someone who stands outside this space, they may appear meaningless, even disposable, but to the person who kept them, these objects are not empty. 

They carry weight. A receipt traces back to a final dinner at a place that no longer exists. A plastic container echoes a kitchen once filled with noise and familiarity. This meaning is rarely visible, yet deeply felt.

This is where hoarding becomes misunderstood. What is seen is loud, overwhelming, and difficult to process, while what is not seen remains quieter, buried beneath layers of assumption. Hoarding is often reduced to something easy to label, such as laziness, lack of control, or irrational attachment.

These explanations may feel convenient, but they flatten something far more complex. Through both research and observation, it becomes clear that hoarding is frequently linked to experiences of loss, anxiety, and the need for stability. Objects become a way to cope, to create continuity when life feels uncertain, or to hold onto identities and memories that might otherwise fade.

Objects begin to take on a different role here. They are no longer just things, but anchors, serving as proof that something once existed and cannot simply be erased. In this way, a hoarded space can almost be read like a language, one built not from words, but from objects arranged through memory and emotion.

It tells a story that is not easily translated, especially by those who only glance at the surface. Instead, hoarding is often turned into something else entirely: a spectacle.

Television shows, online images, and before-and-after transformations frame these spaces as shocking, even grotesque. The viewer is placed at a distance, invited to react, to judge, and to feel a sense of satisfaction when everything is cleared. Having witnessed a real clean-up, this framing feels incomplete. What is removed in these narratives is not just clutter, but also the emotional negotiations, the resistance, and the quiet distress that accompany letting go.

Then the focus remains fixed on the visual mess, drawing attention only to what can be seen at a glance, rather than to the person who lived within it, their experiences, emotions, and the quiet meanings attached to each object. 

At the same time, the world outside promotes a very different ideal. Clean lines, empty surfaces, and carefully curated spaces dominate visual culture.

Minimalism is framed as clarity, discipline, and success, where owning less becomes a sign of control. Within this visual language, hoarding appears as a contradiction, something excessive and something wrong. The discomfort, however, may stem not only from the clutter itself, but also from how quickly value is assigned, determining what is worth keeping and what is not.

The act of keeping is not unfamiliar. People hold onto things all the time. Some store them quietly in boxes beneath their beds. Others display them neatly on shelves. Many keep drawers filled with items they rarely revisit, yet cannot throw away. These are accepted forms of attachment, even sentimental ones, simply more contained, more controlled, and more socially acceptable. The difference lies not always in the act itself, but in the scale, the visibility, and the point at which keeping becomes too much.

This is where my practice sits, within this tension. Through my research and design work, I have become increasingly interested in how visual presentation shapes perception, and how the way something is framed can determine whether it is seen as disturbing, emotional, excessive, or even beautiful. My work draws from both lived experience and observation, translating the overwhelming nature of hoarded spaces into forms that encourage slower looking rather than immediate judgement.

By redefining accumulation through design, I aim to shift the viewer’s response from rejection to curiosity. Rather than approaching hoarding through shock, I aim to resist that immediate reaction. I want to create moments where the viewer hesitates, where details are noticed instead of dismissed.

The accumulation of objects, when seen from an opposing perspective, reveals something deeply human: the desire to hold onto moments, to preserve connections, and to resist forgetting. 

^{The Helping Hands Behind Every Closed Door (Helping Joy SG)}

Within crowded spaces, there are quiet histories. Objects shift over time, from functional to sentimental, from everyday use to something fragile in meaning.

What appears disordered may follow a logic that only the person within it understands, a system built not on efficiency, but on memory, attachment, and survival. To look at hoarding differently requires patience.

It asks the viewer to move beyond the instinct to fix, to clean, and to simplify, and instead to sit with the discomfort of not fully understanding. What appears excessive may also be a form of care. What looks like clutter may be a way of protecting something intangible: a memory, a feeling, or a version of life someone is not ready to lose.

This instinct is not as distant as it may seem. Even outside of hoarded spaces, people create their own versions of preservation, choosing what to keep, what to display, and what to hide away, assigning value either quietly or deliberately.

An object placed behind glass, framed and protected, becomes something else, something important, something worth noticing. This leaves a quiet question lingering.

If an object only becomes valuable once it is displayed, preserved, or carefully arranged, was it ever truly worthless to begin with, or did we only learn to see its worth once it found a place that told us why it mattered.

Perhaps the value was always there, quietly waiting for someone to notice. 

Rather than a past hobby, a job, or even a talent, I have lately been thinking of craft as a kind of protest. A demand. This essay explores that concept via three fictitious short stories I created, all derived from the same eerie sketch I created: Overseer of the Communal table. It made me consider how much of what we see, do, and experience is shaped by outside variables. Maintaining one’s craft in a society constantly observing, planning, and demanding conformity calls for constant adaptation.

 I. The Eye 

Every morning on their way to the data centre, they passed the graffiti, which was a huge eye with a boardroom table inside its pupil. Around it sat faceless figures, drawn in stiff suits, their hands clenched over paperwork they couldn’t see. It bothered them in some way. It was like déjà vu stitched into concrete. Perhaps because it wasn’t a mural but rather a mirror. 

Their work was neat and silent. Including theirs, there were hundreds of desks set in a grid. Blinking in unison, computer monitors hummed above fluorescent lights. They handled numbers, streams of them, and occasionally they added their own original style to spreadsheet formatting. Conditional formatting and cell borders were jokes they said were creative ideas. 

But in their pocket, carefully folded in a tissue, was a bird fashioned from copper wire and old circuit boards. While commuting one rainy evening, they had arrived. Their wings were not uniform. The soldier had flaws. But it sat in their hand like a heartbeat. They couldn’t justify keeping it. It solved no problem, brought no honour, and accomplished nothing. But it was a reminder that they could still make things with their hands that were not necessary for a system. 

The haunting eye and the graffiti turned into a checkpoint. A daily reminder that the boardroom was infiltrating offices and not just existing on walls. They began to wonder every day: who has the authority to determine what one can see and do? 

And still, they held the bird. 

II. The Mould 

They were the logical and effective type of students that everyone admired. School was easy. Like clockwork, the awards piled up. From early childhood, a plan was mapped out: work hard in school, pursue engineering, and join the future-makers. The road was paved with assurance. predictability. 

However, a pottery wheel that was no longer in use was concealed in a dusty attic at their grandmother’s house. On the weekends, when they should have been studying, they would slip up the stairs, turn on the wheel, and let their hands forget what they were supposed to be doing. 

Clay moved slowly. It resisted. It swayed. In ways that textbooks never did, it demanded attention. Accuracy was secondary to presence. Their first bowls were a complete failure—caved in, twisted, and ridiculous. But they went on. Not to get better. Just to feel. 

One piece cracked completely while drying. For some reason, they started crying. Not irritation, but relief. They also felt as though something had burst open within them. A place to be uncertain. A place to be untidy. 

They kept it to themselves. Clay didn’t appeal to the school. Bowls were not a question on college applications. The system rewarded calculation, not craft. 

Years later, they spoke at a tech conference without showing a graph. Instead, they put that broken bowl on display. “This taught me more about systems than any syllabus,” they claimed. because I stopped trying to be flawless as a result of it. 

There was silence in the room.” I’m just listening in a different way, not confused”. 

III. The Feed 

They had no intention of creating a brand. For some reason, their posts gained popularity despite starting out as crude and odd little sketches. Comments, shares, likes and followers poured in. Brands reached out. The algorithms beaming. 

Soon, the drawings were altered. The edges softened. The colours merged. They started drawing for the grid. Likes replaced intuition. What began as a play turned into a performance. 

At first, they were not aware of the change. Like a fog rolling in, it was slow. But eventually, instead of thoughts, they were waking up with fear. Each post felt more like maintenance than an expression. They stopped drawing in their notebooks. Every mark needed to be presentable. Every idea needed a hook. 

One night, while scrolling endlessly, they stumbled upon a sketch that had been uploaded by someone else. An eye inside a boardroom. An anonymous table. cold. observing. 

It was like a slap to them. It felt as though their originality had been repurposed as corporate property. Internal observation. They weren’t truly alone, even when they were by themselves. They were being watched by imaginary audiences. 

So they turned their phones off. I took out my old sketchbook. drawn an ugly thing. Something real. It didn’t make sense. It lacked symmetry. It had no future in their feed. 

They closed the book and went to bed. 

For the first time in months, they didn’t grab their phone in the morning. 

They grabbed a pencil. 

These aren’t my stories. But they’re me. 

They discuss what it’s like to craft in a culture that discourages it. to produce something without a target audience in mind. To build, stitch, shape, or form—because your body needs to be reminded that it is living. 

The eye sketch haunted me. There was something deeply honest about it. My long-held conviction that our inner gaze is no longer genuinely ours was encapsulated in it. It’s commercial, business-related, and carefully moderated. Approval and expectation are seated around a table in our minds. Our creativity is filtered by trend cycles. Even our instincts start to sound like the language of algorithms. 

When I make something for likes rather than for sale or display, I remember who I am. when I sketch without planning. when I use ink, clay, or fabric to create space sculptures. when I behave slowly. calmly and thoughtfully. I consider what it means to choose. 

One means of paying attention is by craft. Craft is the way I know I’m not passing through the roles assigned to me sleepwalking. I break off the look with craft. 

In a world that watches, crafting is reclaiming rather than only creating. 

You are seeing with your own eyes. 

And in all the important respects, I believe this is also what keeps us alive.

^{“Overseer of the Communal Table”}

_{In the Defence of Plastic, the defendant speaks on behalf of the accused.}

Plaintiff: Plastic stands accused.

It is accountable for polluting oceans, endangering wildlife, and overwhelming our landfills.

The images are hard to ignore – turtles strangled by raffia strings, microplastics scattered across beaches, mountains of packaging left to choke the earth. These scenes have shaped our collective outrage.

“Plastic pollution is ruining our planet!” we yell.

“Ban it!”

Defendant: But plastic cannot act on its own.

It does not choose where it ends up. This is not just a case about a material. It is about the systems that created it.
The people who use it. And the culture that so easily discards it.

_{(The defendant turns from the accused and face the hands that shaped it)}

The ones sitting silently in the gallery.
The Consumers.
The Corporations.
You.
Plastic was framed.
You crafted it with your own hands. You moulded it, shaped it, gave it purpose.
You praised its strength, its flexibility, its durability.
You welcomed the convenience it brought into your everyday life.
It kept your food fresh. It protected your drinks. It made travel lighter.
For decades, plastic has been the poster child for convenience, a silent accomplice in our throwaway culture. It stood quietly in the background, doing exactly what it was designed to do. But I refuse to let it stand alone as the accused.

The true offenders are not the materials, but the mentalities. Those who encourage unsustainable systems. Those who choose profit over planet. Those who market disposability as modernity and normalise convenience as necessity.

It is not plastic that created mountains of waste but the culture of mindlessness that fail to pause and ask what would happen after it is thrown away. I can’t stay silent in the face of this wrongful conviction. My work holds up a mirror to the culture we have created with our very own hands and compels us to confront the systems that we have come to accept.

The story of a product does not end when it finds its way to a new home. What happens next is often unseen, ignored, or deliberately forgotten. A takeaway container, a plastic bag, a piece of packaging – used once, then tossed aside. Many of these items are recyclable, yet they are frequently discarded into green general waste bins, treated as trash
rather than materials with potential for a new life.

We throw them into the nearest bin, assuming we have done our part. In Singapore, we have Bloobin, the blue recycling bin found in every neighbourhood. But intention does not equal action. These bins are meant to receive clean, recyclable plastics. Instead, they are often filled with food-stained containers, and items that were never meant to be recycled in the first place, like diapers.

What happens next is far from what we had wished for.

The contents of the Bloobin are collected and sent to a Materials Recovery Facility, where workers sort the recyclables by hand. If a plastic item is clean and uncontaminated, it can be baled and sent to recycling plants, where it may be processed and reborn as something new.
However, a trace of grease or leftover liquid can contaminate an entire batch, making it unsuitable for recycling.

So is throwing something in a bin truly the end of our responsibility or have we simply moved the problem out of sight and out of mind?

A plastic, once recyclable, ends up in the general waste stream. It is incinerated, burned to ash but not before releasing its final breath into the air.

And the ash? Carried away to Semakau Landfill, where the island quietly fills, with the remains of our convenience. Once imagined as a long-term solution, Semakau, Singapore’s only landfill, is already counting down its years.
By 2035, it may reach its limit.

Some plastics do not make it that far, they are dumped where it is easier – by the roadside, into drains or open fields.
Whether out of neglect or a deliberate choice, they get washed into different water bodies. There they begin a different kind of afterlife that is slow, harmful and long-lasting. Plastic can take between 20 to 500 years to break down into
microplastics.

By exposing this truth, I design accountability. Not as a final verdict, but to keep questioning. It challenges the creators, the users, and the systems to look beyond what is visible, and confront what has been ignored for too long.

This is where the story returns to you. Not in factories or recycling plants, but in polluted beaches,
floating debris, and animals struggling to survive.

If we are to speak of prosecution, let us look at the evidence.
Exhibit A: A plastic bottle in the ocean.
Exhibit B: Sea turtles choking on plastic.
Exhibit C: A landfill overflowing with plastic packaging.

These are the results of your choices. The impact of convenience. Plastic did not end up in such a situation on their own.
They did not walk off the shelf or leap from the bin. So, we must examine further.

The fingerprints are found elsewhere – on the blueprints of corporations, in the slogans of marketing campaigns, and in the hands of everyday consumers who chose ease over responsibility.

Plastic was never the mastermind.

It was the tool.
And behind every tool, is the hand that wields it. I speak not only as the defence, but as someone who has walked within the very system I now question.

As a designer, I have seen how ideas that are initially shaped by function and innovation can be easily overtaken by the pressure for convenience. Every decision we make has consequences that extend far beyond the moment of use.

That is why I have come to realise that reflection must be built into our design process, not as an afterthought, but as a
foundation. And above all, accountability must be embedded into the things we
make. Because if design has the power to shape behaviour, it also has the responsibility to consider how that behaviour can impact the world around it.

Because every object carries a consequence – seen or unseen. A product that is made to be discarded tells a story just as strongly as one made to last. Every material chosen, every form shaped, every function defined ripples outward into the world. These choices shape behaviours. They influence how people interact with objects, how they value
them, how long they keep them, and how easily they let them go.

When we ignore the broader impact of what we put into the world, we are no longer just makers but also contributors to the very crisis we claim to solve. We become complicit in a cycle that rewards disposability and shifts responsibility away from human actions and places the blame onto materials.

Design is never neutral. And silence, too, is a design choice.

This is not just a defence of plastic.
It is a call to examine not only the material, but the hands that
wield them.

And now, I turn to you.

You have heard the case.
You have seen where the blame was placed and where it truly belongs. The evidence is before you.
I have said what I needed to say.

The defence rests.

I have always found myself lingering at the edges of conversations, of rooms, of moments,

set blank separator

Rarely feeling the urgency or need to speak, rather so I felt better not to. Instead, I found reasoning and motive between each word, particularly the silence after, to simply process and take it all in carefully. There is a kind of clarity that comes with staying quiet. The kind that isn’t loud but precise. You begin to notice the smallest things, the slight hesitations in tone that could possibly suggest something else entirely, the tension behind certain words. I grew up watching those small messages, not words but what is sat upon and simply everything in between them.

This is where I started to get interested in the field of design. While sitting in the silence and just absorbing what is around me, I was able to feel something, some solace maybe, through the designs that surrounded me, regardless it being of objects, messages, posters or anything at all. I found that instead of conversations that were floating around, there was something in the design that felt like it was speaking directly to me.

Messages that were not screaming for attention, but still reached me, deeply. Sitting on train rides, walking past bus stops, the streets, neither bold nor loud, yet felt like the designs around understood something.

One of the first pieces that reached me was a simple subway campaign, a muted poster with nothing but a single line in the corner stating: “The city never sleeps, but maybe you should.” It didn’t brand itself. It didn’t call for interaction, it just existed softly, in your periphery. I stood looking at it longer than I thought I would, thinking about the reason behind it, as it made me feel seen in a way.

That moment stayed with me.

There were others, like “Dear Data” project by Giorgia Lupi and Stefanie Posavec, where it was a medium for intimate, hand-drawn correspondence. A kind of data that listened first and not cold or statistical.

At first, I thought that design was simply about expressing ideas. About sending messages without using words. About taking what someone could not say and saying it for them, in a clear and powerful manner. And there is still truth in this. But over time as I got more into what design is about, I started to question what it meant to “give a voice”.

Thinking that maybe it is about sitting with what is hidden, not simply sending a message out or to fix or translate it, but to let it be understood on its own terms.

I realised that within each pause and space, I began to notice those who might just be like me. The way that someone might be going through a problem, and their voices are just not loud enough, that it goes unheard or hidden. Albeit, they themselves may not know or be able to identify the core of the issues themselves, yet are still experiencing and voicing out the symptoms, screaming it even.

The same way, problems, and I mean chronic, underlying, buried,

problems

The problem isn’t that people aren’t speaking.
It is that they are speaking all the time. Yet still not heard. Not even by themselves.

We are overstimulated.
Fed with content before we could even feel our own thoughts.
Consuming more, understanding less.
Even when we become aware of it, we don’t stop.

We continue even when our minds ache.
We let more content in again, telling ourselves that this is the last time.

A kind of addiction.
Be it to media, to movement, to noise. Or to not being alone with ourselves.

Coming up with the Digital Regulatory Authority (DRA), made it even clearer to me. The way it heard the issue, the underlying problem, the one that was never said aloud. The way that even when we are all clearly overstimulated by the abyss of content out there and yet still not stopping. While I was trying to understand the core of it all, I learned that we all require some assistance in restraining, though it sounds bad literally. I decided to dive deeper into it, somewhat like the behind the scenes. I realised that it was all within the silence when it happens.

When designing DRA, what went through was that I wanted a way where I could help users make and free up space, where it shapes the in-between-things in peoples’ lives, understanding the emotional weight behind it. To not be eaten away by what was somewhat considered inevitable due to the society that we grew and live in. As this was a problem that required a bold solution yet requiring a quieter kind of care.

It is a response to the noise.

Overstimulation is not a trend to be fixed or to be aware of, but a symptom of our collective difficulty in stopping.

We designed a space. A pause.
A moment where a user might stop the constant absorption of content, because they are allowed to, and they could.

Because it met them in their fatigue. In all that fog.

Letting them know that there is meaning in stillness.
That there is no need to keep going just because everything else does.

A design where it helps users realised they are overwhelmed, without overwhelming
them further.

That it is a ‘together’ movement.

Listening to everything in-between, I wanted to ensure that my designs are heard by all even the quietest ones, we are all here, a community as one. There is someone out there. Despite so, realising that there is just so many ways a design could be interpreted, we are all still different. Thus, listening longer and more through the pauses of others, is what designers do, to sound into the silences, not to fill them, but to understand what they hold.

In my approach to design now, I return time and time again to that quiet space, to understand what is not yet ready, where nothing has quite been formed but feelings. In a way I felt that there are designs that listens before speaking, and more on its presence.

As music begins to fill the space, attention shifts, ears attune, and a quiet anticipation emerges. In this moment, a subtle but powerful connection is formed between performer and audience. Whether intentional or instinctive, the performer initiates an exchange, inviting the audience into an interdependent relationship where neither fully exists without the other. The performer seeks fulfilment through expression, while the audience seeks meaning, entertainment, or emotional engagement. Together, they co-create the performance, shaping its energy and significance in real-time. This exchange, however, does not occur in isolation, it is deeply influenced by the surrounding space. The performance space becomes more than just a backdrop; it acts as an active participant, capturing atmosphere and facilitating interaction. When carefully designed, it has the power to heighten connection, enrich meaning, and transform the experience for both performer and audience, completing a cycle of mutual fulfilment.

Personally, I think that the cycle of mutual fulfilment between performer and audience is more than just satisfying each other’s desires. It is an ongoing exchange of thoughts, emotions, energy, and reactions. Every performance creates a unique atmosphere, shaped by the presence and connection shared between the two. No two performances feel the same because each one is influenced by the quality of interaction and the environment in which it takes place. The space surrounding the performance plays an important role in this process, often shaping how deeply the performer and audience connect. A well-designed stage can enhance the experience by drawing focus, guiding attention, and supporting the performer’s ability to engage the audience. On the other hand, there are performances that take place without a defined stage, where it can blur the line between performer and audience, creating a different kind of intimacy. In both cases, the space directly influences how the experience unfolds and is felt.

With this understanding of how space shapes performance, I began to ask how I, as a designer, could create a space where the interdependent relationship between performer and audience not only exists, but truly comes to life. The first step is to reflect on how the two connect. Is it visibility, the ability for the audience to clearly see and focus on the performer, that draws them into the performance? Could the proximity between them, whether close or distant, shape the intensity of this connection? Or perhaps it is the subtle actions of both performer and audience that encourage participation, transforming a simple act of watching into a shared, living moment. Even breaking the so-called fourth wall might open up unexpected forms of immersion and engagement. These questions shape the foundation of my design approach. To achieve this sense of visibility and proximity, I am considering materials that make the space feel more open, allowing passersby to glimpse and hear performances from the outside. In doing so, the space itself quietly invites them to step closer, slowly drawing them into the performance and blurring the line between observer and audience. Every choice I make, whether spatial, material, or atmospheric, has the power to either bridge or distance this delicate relationship. As I continue shaping the concept, I turn to studies, interviews, and lived experiences from both performers and audiences to deepen my understanding. My ultimate goal is to create a space where mutual fulfilment happens effortlessly, allowing performer and audience to meet and complete one another through the shared act of performance.

In the design process, case studies and research play a crucial role in shaping my ideas and helping me understand what I am designing and for whom. Most of the case studies I have gathered come from journals, books, and articles, which are especially valuable because they are based on real experiences, observations, and data. I explored various types of stage configurations depending on their function, including monologic and dialogic performances, as well as live and remote formats. Studying how these different approaches affect audience engagement helped me decide which setup best supports the intention behind my project. Beyond form and function, I focused on the relationship between performer and audience, how the audience becomes aware of their role within the performance, how the performance can deliver the intended message or experience, and how audio-visual elements shape the perception of space. One book that stood out during my research was Performance Perspectives: A Critical Introduction, which I found particularly insightful for its collection of reflections from artists and professionals. It offered detailed discussions on stage design, performance practices, and even precise considerations like proximity and audience interaction. Finally, the original use of the site, as a space for traditional Chinese instrument classes, opened new perspectives on how I could redesign it in a way that remains respectful to its origins while allowing for meaningful transformation. A design element in which its presence contributes to the atmosphere and supports deeper interaction between performer and audience. This stronger connection can be encouraged through thoughtful use of materials, spatial layout, and sensory design. In this way, the performance is not only seen or heard, but also felt and collectively experienced.

In conclusion, designing a performance space is about much more than creating a physical structure; it’s about shaping an environment that fosters genuine connection. Throughout this project, I have explored how the design of space can strengthen the relationship between performer and audience, influencing emotion, interaction, and atmosphere. By blending research with creative imagination, I have been able to generate ideas that are both innovative and achievable. Visualizing myself within the space has been key in understanding how both performers and audience members would interact with the environment, helping me to reimagine the space in a way that is both functional and immersive. While feedback and differing opinions are an essential part of the process, the most crucial step for me is to present an idea, allowing it to grow and evolve. Ultimately, a successful performance space goes beyond the physical elements of design, it creates an experience that fosters connection, engagement, and a shared sense of presence for everyone involved. The impact of such a space extends far beyond its walls.

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Design is often seen as an aesthetic pursuit, a way to romanticise the environment around us. To me, design also exists as an experience for users, creating spaces that promote human connections and interactions. As technology evolves every day, the need for human centrism becomes paramount, and this should address both the importance of the human nature of socialising whilst safeguarding the security and privacy of users of such platforms for basic human needs.

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A Want-turned-Need

Relating to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, it is a curious observation of how modern-day inventions, like smartphones and computers, address almost every need tier – security in real-time footage, love and belonging through social connections and even boosting creativity for self. But what stands out to me most in particular is the way digital media has become omnipresent in every move and decision we make, having transformed how we engage with each other. Not so long ago, we witnessed the Internet become social, with social media applications like Friendster, Facebook, and WhatsApp popping up, ensuring easy and constant connections in real-time, from work to school to leisure. Sharing our lives on the net daily has become so normative with how posting takes only a few taps and the rise of online influencers, the screens giving a false sense of security. This technology entered users’ lives almost seamlessly, it’s as if it has cemented its position as a necessity right from the start.

The tale of Hansel and Gretel

In the Grimms’ fairytale story of Hansel and Gretel, the siblings were led into the woods and used path markers like stones and breadcrumbs to find their way home. Though initially using stones led them back to the safety of their home, using breadcrumbs, however, was ineffective after being consumed by birds, which eventually led them to unforeseen danger – the Witch’s Lair, a house made up of food enticing the hungry children. They met the Witch who invited them in and willingly walked into danger. This tale offers a poignant metaphor for our activities in our digital lives.

We are being fed content we want in exchange for the data we leave.
Isn’t that how algorithms work?

Just as the woods are fraught with uncertainty and risks, the World Wide Web itself has been a labyrinth for exploration for everyone with access to the digital world. With every mindless click, tap, swipe, and scroll—our marks made online—we unknowingly get lost in habits like doomscrolling while leaving behind traces of our personal data. As we crave more and more content, just like starving children, we are led to our own house of feasts, personalised content served to us by online algorithms. The birds symbolise possible third parties such as marketers or data brokers, consumed crumbs being swept away to unknown places without our knowledge too. Both Hansel and Gretel ended up in the Evil Witch’s clutches, leading one to wonder whether there was a deliberate attempt to sabotage the path markers to purposely lead them to this danger.

What if the online world itself was the entire Witch’s Lair after all? An entrapment of its own, one where we get lost in and ultimately it is up to our choices to fall into her clutches or flee back to safety.

But here’s the thing: the children had a choice, and to which they accepted.

“She took them by the hand and led them into her house. Then she served them a
good meal: milk and pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward, she made two
nice beds for them, decked in white. Hansel and Gretel went to bed, thinking
they were in heaven. But the old woman had only pretended to be friendly.
She was a wicked witch who was lying in wait there for children.”

The Witch herself had such a lair to feed herself as well, and eerily, asking for the children’s consent to come in mirrors the cookie pop-ups and terms agreement we commonly encounter. Similarly, companies try to appeal to users, lure them, and feed on their data for their gains. One particular case study that stood out to me recently is about an AI-powered hotel, Otonomus, in Las Vegas, which is advertised as ‘crafting a personalised and intuitive experience tailored uniquely for each guest’. In many ways, this offers an exciting glimpse into the future, a highly personalised experience tailored through the data collected from its guests. This hotel, like many other AI-powered systems, also raises important questions about data usage. Does the pursuit of a personalised experience require an increasingly invasive collection of data? How much is too much of what we are sharing of ourselves online? And with all the current issues that arise together with the evolution of AI, how can we protect ourselves from the potential misuse and weaponization of what we have left online?

With this as its selling point, is it more so that Hansel and Gretel should just not have accepted the Witch’s oNer into her home, she was, after all, ‘Stranger Danger’? Were the children misguided in their actions due to the after-effects of mindless pleasures once biting into the roof, windows, and door of the sweet treat-filled shelter, the same way we
continue staying online from the small dopamine hits we get with every post we come across?

Exploring the woods – or the online realm – then becomes something that we as users should trek more vigilantly to protect ourselves from the potential dangers that lie await.

An inevitable user flaw

“When Facebook was getting going,” Mr Parker said on Wednesday, “I had these people
who would come up to me and they would say, ‘I’m not on social media.’

“And I would say, ‘OK. You know, you will be.’”

The evolving world is becoming increasingly online each day, and we are ultimately dragged into this whether we like it or not. It is interesting how some 20 years ago, an exchange between Facebook’s founding president and users showed how a designed platform has changed society’s behaviour, making people change the way they interact and even creating a new form of addiction.

In the end, design no longer serves the sole purpose of visual beautification – but to empower and protect. As earlier mentioned in social media apps, design has the ability to change behaviours and mindsets, and hence, it becomes important for designers to decide: will they lead others into algorithmic traps or will they empower for more mindful consent and critical thinking to help guide them to safety? Design can trick and manipulate but it can also have a purposeful alternative that respects autonomy and builds trust with users. The tale of Hansel and Gretel reminds us that users have a choice, and design can influence those choices. As a designer and contributor to the digital space, I believe that responsibility falls on us to ensure that the digital woods do not end up as an escapable trap, but rather a place where connections, security and purpose can coexist.

Reference

Grimm, J. and Grimm, W. (1812). Grimm 015: Hansel and Gretel. [online] sites.pitt.edu.
Available at: https://sites.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm015.html.

Lee, D. (2017). Facebook founding president sounds alarm. BBC News. [online] 10 Nov.
Available at: https://www.bbc.com/news/technology-41936791.

Lee, R. (2025). Otonomus: The World’s First AI-Powered Hotel in Las Vegas. [online]
TechInformed – A leading media and marketing solutions platform for IT Decision Makers.
Available at: https://techinformed.com/ai-powered-hotel-otonomus-las-vegas/.