Interview with Lars Angaard Madsen
Lars Angaard Madsen is a self-taught Danish artist and furniture designer whose road into the world of design has been unconventional.
Designer Interview
22 September 2026
I did not always want to be a designer. For many years I thought I would become a musician, and furniture had already entered my work long before I really thought of myself as a designer. I seem to have become one by spending a very long time doing things that gradually made it difficult to call myself anything else.
The longer answer is a rather winding story, but for anyone interested in how that happened, it begins in a small suburb of Copenhagen, at a time when television played a much smaller role in children's lives and LEGO could be an entire universe. My mother was a kindergarten teacher, so there were always creative materials around, and I was given considerable freedom to use them. I continued making Christmas presents myself well into my teens.
I was also rather particular about how things looked. At an age when some of my friends could barely be bothered to comb their hair before going to school, I became completely obsessed with a particular pair of Adidas shoes: the Montreal, their top model at the time, made of kangaroo leather, dark blue with light blue stripes. I loved that colour combination. They cost DKK 499, while the Adidas shoes that were fashionable at the time were typically around DKK 299. I pestered my parents until they eventually gave in. They later wondered whether giving in to me had been a mistake. I am still not entirely convinced. Perhaps having to insist so strongly on what I wanted also helped develop a certain persistence — a quality I have certainly had use for in my art and design practice. Apart from that, I was otherwise a lovable child.
Then music took over almost completely. From about the age of twenty to twenty-six I spent an enormous amount of time playing the saxophone. My ambitions were very high, perhaps considerably higher than my actual abilities at the time. I spent endless hours practising scales and playing other musicians' solos, which I usually transcribed myself. I loved analysing their language, but I also made the mistake of believing that before I could find my own voice as a musician, I first had to master the existing musical language.
I was also very insecure about playing in public. I attended serious music camps in 1988, 1990 and 1992, where I was surrounded by many highly skilled musicians, but I never joined the open jam sessions. At the time I berated myself for not having enough courage. Looking back, I see it rather differently. I had only been playing for a few years and barely knew the language yet. Today, I can hardly understand that I dared as much as I did. At the same time, I became second tenor saxophonist in the Ancher Grøn Big Band (1990–92), playing alongside far more experienced musicians, and in 1992 I took part in a Nordic tour under Charlie Haden, performing his Dream Keeper project for the Liberation Music Orchestra. I sat with the original part of Joe Lovano, whose music would become the focus of several years of intensive study.
In the autumn of 1993, when I was 26, I spent four months at Kunsthøjskolen in Holbæk (Folk Art School). I knew some modern art — Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh — but during those four months, I was introduced to a much wider world of art. I encountered art history far beyond the few familiar names I knew, as well as contemporary art, which had been completely unknown to me.
I also started painting, and something quite different happened. I knew very little about painting technique, but unlike with the saxophone, this did not worry me. I simply experimented and played. One of the paintings was very large, 285 × 125 cm, and I sold it while attending Den Rytmiske Højskole in Vig some months later. In an architecture course at Holbæk I was also introduced to deconstructivism. Daniel Libeskind's then-unbuilt design for the Jewish Museum in Berlin was among the projects we encountered, and I was fascinated by the openness of this way of thinking about architecture.
The study of jazz remained my main focus for several more years, while my studies at the University of Copenhagen increasingly drew my attention to the relationship between music and visual art. Early total serialism seemed almost ideally suited to being translated into another medium because its musical parameters were so rigorously organised.
In 1996, I began translating Pierre Boulez's Structures 1a visually and sculpturally as directly as possible. Interpretation was unwelcome. I didn’t want to make a visual work inspired by the music; I wanted the music's own organisation to determine the result in every detail. This eventually became the Abacus Sound Sculpture.
From there, the project expanded into a series of furniture conceived as paraphrases of the Abacus. The Triptych Sofa, the design from this series that was eventually realised, remained structurally tied to the original composition, including its progression in time. Later, elements from both the sculpture and the furniture found their way into my paintings.
In 2002 I was given the opportunity to have a solo exhibition at DGI-byen, a large sports and cultural complex, during the Copenhagen Jazz Festival. The walls of the entrance hall called for large-scale works, so I stretched some huge canvases and began painting specifically for the exhibition, which I called Paintings and Prints Based on Jazz Photography.
After the exhibition, I had to concentrate on finishing my university studies. From late 2002 until 2005 I worked intensively on my thesis on the improvisational practice of saxophonist Joe Lovano, trying to understand his musical language in detail.
While writing my thesis, I stopped playing the saxophone altogether. When I finally graduated in 2005, I was genuinely uncertain about what to do next. Should I return to jazz and the saxophone, or should I concentrate on my art and design projects? For some time, I moved rather restlessly between the two.
By 2009 I had been trying for years to have a prototype of the Triptych Sofa made. Several cabinetmakers had agreed to take on the project, but whenever I contacted them again, nothing happened. I had also made the first full-scale prototype of the Glider Chair at SVFK in Copenhagen in January that year.
In January 2010, I did something rather unusual: I went to see a highly regarded clairvoyant. At the beginning of the session, she explained that she simply passed on whatever came to her, comparing herself, rather humorously, to a kind of drainpipe. For a long time I mostly listened. Without knowing about my work, she spoke about my technical mind, my ability to understand systems and systemic relationships, and later moved into photography and artistic qualities. Her repeated references to systems immediately made me think of the Abacus Sound Sculpture. What also struck me was what she did not talk about. Music had been a central part of my life since childhood and had occupied me intensely for many years, yet she never brought it up herself. It was only much later, when I mentioned music, that she began talking about my sensitivity to tones, voices and musical nuances.
The most startling moment concerned the Glider Chair. By then I had told her about my furniture, but very little about the chair itself. She said that the chair was not quite finished. When I asked whether she could see what was wrong, she said that she was being shown it from the side and that the problem had something to do with the shape of the back. She then traced a shape in the air. I immediately recognised it as the curve of the Back-Fold on my first prototype, where the folded leather protruded when seen from the side. No photograph showing this had ever been published or shown publicly. I became convinced that she had seen something she could not have known. She also told me that the chair would eventually be finished. She was right about that, although it took until 2025. From that meeting onwards, I stopped wavering between music and visual art. My focus became art and design.
Meanwhile, the Triptych Sofa was finally realised in 2012, after I had spent years trying to find someone willing to build it. Around that time, I came across an open call for an exhibition at Superstudio Più during Milano Design Week, which that year was called Temporary Museum for New Design. They were looking for innovative, preferably exclusive projects by upcoming designers for their BASE section. I submitted the Triptych Sofa and was selected to exhibit. It was the first time I really experienced myself as part of the design world, and it was an opening I could never have imagined. Participation was expensive and I had to pay for it myself. There are many occasions when I have wondered whether a particular exhibition or opportunity was worth the investment, but this was not one of them. The opportunity was obvious. Looking back, I am convinced that this opening in Milan also helped pave the way for the Glider Chairs to return to Superstudio in 2025.
But becoming part of the design world did not mean that I suddenly knew how to be a furniture designer. I had no formal design education, and the Glider Chair became a rather unconventional education in itself. What had begun with a rough first prototype in 2009 developed into a project that would accompany me for the next sixteen years. I had to learn what the project demanded as I went along: sheet metal and tube bending, machining, casting, different metals and surface finishes, leather, Merino wool felt, tolerances and 3D scanning — not as subjects I had decided to study, but as problems the project kept putting in front of me. I do not have a workshop, and I am not a craftsman, so if something had to be made, I had to understand it well enough to find the right people and develop it together with them.
There were many prototypes, dead ends and long periods of waiting along the way, while I was also working on other projects. The Glider Chair Nomad followed in 2016, and the two final prototypes were completed in 2025. I sometimes think of those sixteen years as my practical education in furniture design — certainly not the most efficient way of getting one, but a very thorough one, nonetheless!
In 2025 I returned to Superstudio in Milan, this time with the Glider Chair and Glider Chair Nomad. There was something satisfying about returning thirteen years later to the place where I had first experienced myself as part of the design world, now with the chairs that had occupied so much of my working life.
The longer answer is a rather winding story, but for anyone interested in how that happened, it begins in a small suburb of Copenhagen, at a time when television played a much smaller role in children's lives and LEGO could be an entire universe. My mother was a kindergarten teacher, so there were always creative materials around, and I was given considerable freedom to use them. I continued making Christmas presents myself well into my teens.
I was also rather particular about how things looked. At an age when some of my friends could barely be bothered to comb their hair before going to school, I became completely obsessed with a particular pair of Adidas shoes: the Montreal, their top model at the time, made of kangaroo leather, dark blue with light blue stripes. I loved that colour combination. They cost DKK 499, while the Adidas shoes that were fashionable at the time were typically around DKK 299. I pestered my parents until they eventually gave in. They later wondered whether giving in to me had been a mistake. I am still not entirely convinced. Perhaps having to insist so strongly on what I wanted also helped develop a certain persistence — a quality I have certainly had use for in my art and design practice. Apart from that, I was otherwise a lovable child.
Then music took over almost completely. From about the age of twenty to twenty-six I spent an enormous amount of time playing the saxophone. My ambitions were very high, perhaps considerably higher than my actual abilities at the time. I spent endless hours practising scales and playing other musicians' solos, which I usually transcribed myself. I loved analysing their language, but I also made the mistake of believing that before I could find my own voice as a musician, I first had to master the existing musical language.
I was also very insecure about playing in public. I attended serious music camps in 1988, 1990 and 1992, where I was surrounded by many highly skilled musicians, but I never joined the open jam sessions. At the time I berated myself for not having enough courage. Looking back, I see it rather differently. I had only been playing for a few years and barely knew the language yet. Today, I can hardly understand that I dared as much as I did. At the same time, I became second tenor saxophonist in the Ancher Grøn Big Band (1990–92), playing alongside far more experienced musicians, and in 1992 I took part in a Nordic tour under Charlie Haden, performing his Dream Keeper project for the Liberation Music Orchestra. I sat with the original part of Joe Lovano, whose music would become the focus of several years of intensive study.
In the autumn of 1993, when I was 26, I spent four months at Kunsthøjskolen in Holbæk (Folk Art School). I knew some modern art — Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh — but during those four months, I was introduced to a much wider world of art. I encountered art history far beyond the few familiar names I knew, as well as contemporary art, which had been completely unknown to me.
I also started painting, and something quite different happened. I knew very little about painting technique, but unlike with the saxophone, this did not worry me. I simply experimented and played. One of the paintings was very large, 285 × 125 cm, and I sold it while attending Den Rytmiske Højskole in Vig some months later. In an architecture course at Holbæk I was also introduced to deconstructivism. Daniel Libeskind's then-unbuilt design for the Jewish Museum in Berlin was among the projects we encountered, and I was fascinated by the openness of this way of thinking about architecture.
The study of jazz remained my main focus for several more years, while my studies at the University of Copenhagen increasingly drew my attention to the relationship between music and visual art. Early total serialism seemed almost ideally suited to being translated into another medium because its musical parameters were so rigorously organised.
In 1996, I began translating Pierre Boulez's Structures 1a visually and sculpturally as directly as possible. Interpretation was unwelcome. I didn’t want to make a visual work inspired by the music; I wanted the music's own organisation to determine the result in every detail. This eventually became the Abacus Sound Sculpture.
From there, the project expanded into a series of furniture conceived as paraphrases of the Abacus. The Triptych Sofa, the design from this series that was eventually realised, remained structurally tied to the original composition, including its progression in time. Later, elements from both the sculpture and the furniture found their way into my paintings.
In 2002 I was given the opportunity to have a solo exhibition at DGI-byen, a large sports and cultural complex, during the Copenhagen Jazz Festival. The walls of the entrance hall called for large-scale works, so I stretched some huge canvases and began painting specifically for the exhibition, which I called Paintings and Prints Based on Jazz Photography.
After the exhibition, I had to concentrate on finishing my university studies. From late 2002 until 2005 I worked intensively on my thesis on the improvisational practice of saxophonist Joe Lovano, trying to understand his musical language in detail.
While writing my thesis, I stopped playing the saxophone altogether. When I finally graduated in 2005, I was genuinely uncertain about what to do next. Should I return to jazz and the saxophone, or should I concentrate on my art and design projects? For some time, I moved rather restlessly between the two.
By 2009 I had been trying for years to have a prototype of the Triptych Sofa made. Several cabinetmakers had agreed to take on the project, but whenever I contacted them again, nothing happened. I had also made the first full-scale prototype of the Glider Chair at SVFK in Copenhagen in January that year.
In January 2010, I did something rather unusual: I went to see a highly regarded clairvoyant. At the beginning of the session, she explained that she simply passed on whatever came to her, comparing herself, rather humorously, to a kind of drainpipe. For a long time I mostly listened. Without knowing about my work, she spoke about my technical mind, my ability to understand systems and systemic relationships, and later moved into photography and artistic qualities. Her repeated references to systems immediately made me think of the Abacus Sound Sculpture. What also struck me was what she did not talk about. Music had been a central part of my life since childhood and had occupied me intensely for many years, yet she never brought it up herself. It was only much later, when I mentioned music, that she began talking about my sensitivity to tones, voices and musical nuances.
The most startling moment concerned the Glider Chair. By then I had told her about my furniture, but very little about the chair itself. She said that the chair was not quite finished. When I asked whether she could see what was wrong, she said that she was being shown it from the side and that the problem had something to do with the shape of the back. She then traced a shape in the air. I immediately recognised it as the curve of the Back-Fold on my first prototype, where the folded leather protruded when seen from the side. No photograph showing this had ever been published or shown publicly. I became convinced that she had seen something she could not have known. She also told me that the chair would eventually be finished. She was right about that, although it took until 2025. From that meeting onwards, I stopped wavering between music and visual art. My focus became art and design.
Meanwhile, the Triptych Sofa was finally realised in 2012, after I had spent years trying to find someone willing to build it. Around that time, I came across an open call for an exhibition at Superstudio Più during Milano Design Week, which that year was called Temporary Museum for New Design. They were looking for innovative, preferably exclusive projects by upcoming designers for their BASE section. I submitted the Triptych Sofa and was selected to exhibit. It was the first time I really experienced myself as part of the design world, and it was an opening I could never have imagined. Participation was expensive and I had to pay for it myself. There are many occasions when I have wondered whether a particular exhibition or opportunity was worth the investment, but this was not one of them. The opportunity was obvious. Looking back, I am convinced that this opening in Milan also helped pave the way for the Glider Chairs to return to Superstudio in 2025.
But becoming part of the design world did not mean that I suddenly knew how to be a furniture designer. I had no formal design education, and the Glider Chair became a rather unconventional education in itself. What had begun with a rough first prototype in 2009 developed into a project that would accompany me for the next sixteen years. I had to learn what the project demanded as I went along: sheet metal and tube bending, machining, casting, different metals and surface finishes, leather, Merino wool felt, tolerances and 3D scanning — not as subjects I had decided to study, but as problems the project kept putting in front of me. I do not have a workshop, and I am not a craftsman, so if something had to be made, I had to understand it well enough to find the right people and develop it together with them.
There were many prototypes, dead ends and long periods of waiting along the way, while I was also working on other projects. The Glider Chair Nomad followed in 2016, and the two final prototypes were completed in 2025. I sometimes think of those sixteen years as my practical education in furniture design — certainly not the most efficient way of getting one, but a very thorough one, nonetheless!
In 2025 I returned to Superstudio in Milan, this time with the Glider Chair and Glider Chair Nomad. There was something satisfying about returning thirteen years later to the place where I had first experienced myself as part of the design world, now with the chairs that had occupied so much of my working life.
I founded PlanAbacus in 2009 as the framework for my art and furniture design. I have personally handled almost every part of the process: concepts, technical drawings, 1:6 scale models, prototypes and communication with specialist subcontractors and manufacturers, who carry out the physical production.
The name PlanAbacus refers to the Abacus Sound Sculpture, which is both the point of departure for my musicXart project, the ground plan from which the project rises, and a work that I hope one day to realize.
Today my main focus is furniture design, particularly the Glider Chair family, while musicXart continues as an extensive Gesamtkunstwerk of its own.
The name PlanAbacus refers to the Abacus Sound Sculpture, which is both the point of departure for my musicXart project, the ground plan from which the project rises, and a work that I hope one day to realize.
Today my main focus is furniture design, particularly the Glider Chair family, while musicXart continues as an extensive Gesamtkunstwerk of its own.
My definition of design has changed over the years. Last year at Superstudio, I met “the man in charge of 1stDibs,” who was interested in what else I had designed. The only thing that came to mind was the Triptych Sofa, but when I then introduced him to my musicXart project, he had no hesitation in regarding the Abacus Sound Sculpture as design too. That made me reconsider where the distinction between art and design actually lies. Today I think design begins whenever we intentionally give form to something and make conscious decisions about relationships, proportions and balance. In that sense, I had probably been designing long before I thought of myself as a designer.
Originality is what matters most to me. I need to feel that if I succeed, the result will clearly differ from what already exists. Without that possibility, I would probably find it difficult to put the necessary energy into a project. Until quite recently, the answer would have been FURNITURE. But after reconsidering what I understand by design, I am no longer quite so sure.
I find it very difficult to choose a favourite among my own designs. They are all my children, and they do very different things. Originality is probably the quality I value most, and I consider all of them original. That is my measure of success.
But were I forced to make a choice, I would probably choose the Glider Chairs because of their potential for my future. They are the first designs I have made that can really be scaled up, and they offer considerable potential for further development and for new and exciting connections. I think it will be great fun once things really get going.
But were I forced to make a choice, I would probably choose the Glider Chairs because of their potential for my future. They are the first designs I have made that can really be scaled up, and they offer considerable potential for further development and for new and exciting connections. I think it will be great fun once things really get going.
I have actually never designed anything for another company. So far, I have always developed my furniture independently through PlanAbacus.
I would probably say Merino wool felt. It has become extremely important to the Glider Chair project, and I love its warmth, thickness and organic character, particularly in combination with precisely formed metal components. Its highly relevant sound-absorbing and self-cleaning qualities add another dimension. But I am reluctant to name one favourite material permanently. A material becomes interesting to me when it does something that a particular design needs.
I am most creative when I have time to be creative. That sounds almost ridiculously obvious, but time is probably my greatest creative luxury. I do not yet make my living from my creative work, and ordinary life, administration and practical responsibilities consume an enormous amount of time. So does everything involved in bringing my work into the world — competitions, exhibitions, social media, presentations and communication with potential manufacturers and partners.
I have never been fortunate enough to have a great idea suddenly appear when I least expected it. I always begin with a self-imposed task and work with it until something essential falls into place. Then begins the process of gradually homing in on it. I have projects waiting, but if you asked me right now, I do not feel that I am bursting with new ideas, and I find it difficult to imagine what my next innovative project might be. But that may change when I have the time to explore. After all, there is hardly anything better than a good idea.
I have never been fortunate enough to have a great idea suddenly appear when I least expected it. I always begin with a self-imposed task and work with it until something essential falls into place. Then begins the process of gradually homing in on it. I have projects waiting, but if you asked me right now, I do not feel that I am bursting with new ideas, and I find it difficult to imagine what my next innovative project might be. But that may change when I have the time to explore. After all, there is hardly anything better than a good idea.
I tend to work in a certain hierarchy: first the idea or underlying logic — then form, proportion, construction and materials, which often develop in relation to one another — and finally elements associated with the object's visual and tactile character, such as colour, finish and details. These later elements can dramatically alter the way we perceive an object's proportions and character, but the fundamental design has to be interesting before they come into play.
The strongest feeling is probably excitement when I suddenly realise that I may have found something. From there, excitement is usually mixed with doubt, and I can become completely absorbed in finding out whether the idea really works. There can be long periods of frustration when something refuses to work, followed by the particularly satisfying moment when it suddenly falls into place.
I imagine that most designers would describe something similar. Where I may differ is in the length of the process. Some of that is by choice; some of it certainly is not. I have spent an extraordinary amount of time simply finding the right people willing and able to make what I need. Not every designer has the opportunity, the persistence — or the desire — to work this way.
I imagine that most designers would describe something similar. Where I may differ is in the length of the process. Some of that is by choice; some of it certainly is not. I have spent an extraordinary amount of time simply finding the right people willing and able to make what I need. Not every designer has the opportunity, the persistence — or the desire — to work this way.
I consider a design realized when I can present what I have made to somebody else and feel genuinely proud of it. Most of us probably know that feeling immediately. If you are uncertain about your own work, presenting it to someone else tends to reveal that very quickly.
Other people may not see the same qualities that you do, but that doesn't matter much. Recognition is wonderful, but it cannot be the only measure. If your own conviction is genuine, I think you have already achieved an important kind of success.
Other people may not see the same qualities that you do, but that doesn't matter much. Recognition is wonderful, but it cannot be the only measure. If your own conviction is genuine, I think you have already achieved an important kind of success.
For me, there should be a reason for making another object, but that reason does not necessarily have to be a radical innovation. It can be an original idea, an unusually convincing proportion, beauty, humour, or an artistic or intellectual quality. What matters is that the object adds something rather than merely repeating something we already have.
The design as a whole. My first reaction is usually quite immediate: does the design interest me? If it does, I begin to look at why. Maybe I am sometimes a little too quick in my judgement, and I might miss something along the way, but that first reaction matters to me.
I think a designer basically has the same responsibility as everyone else: to treat other people properly and to consider the consequences of what we do. Design does, however, add a particular question: do we really have a reason to bring yet another object into a world that already contains so many?
If we decide that the object has a reason to exist, we should consider materials, production conditions, repairability and the resources we use, and look for better alternatives whenever they are genuinely available.
I also think longevity is about more than physical durability. A product that people still value and want to keep after decades may ultimately be more responsible than one made according to all the right principles but replaced after a few years. Perhaps one of the most meaningful things a designer can do is create something people do not want to throw away.
If we decide that the object has a reason to exist, we should consider materials, production conditions, repairability and the resources we use, and look for better alternatives whenever they are genuinely available.
I also think longevity is about more than physical durability. A product that people still value and want to keep after decades may ultimately be more responsible than one made according to all the right principles but replaced after a few years. Perhaps one of the most meaningful things a designer can do is create something people do not want to throw away.
I find this very difficult to predict, but I’m very excited about AI and the possibilities it is opening up, apart from the environmental challenges that come with it. It will undoubtedly change the way we design and perhaps make many things that require considerable skill today much easier to achieve.
But I do not think that will make originality or individual expression less important. We will always have a need to distinguish ourselves. If some of the qualities we value today become easy for almost anyone to achieve, other parameters will simply begin to matter more. I have no idea what those parameters will be — and perhaps that is the most interesting part.
But I do not think that will make originality or individual expression less important. We will always have a need to distinguish ourselves. If some of the qualities we value today become easy for almost anyone to achieve, other parameters will simply begin to matter more. I have no idea what those parameters will be — and perhaps that is the most interesting part.
My most recent exhibition was at Other Circle (The LAB) during Copenhagen Design Week 2026, where I exhibited the Glider Chair projects. The two final prototypes made their public debut at Superdesign Show 2025 (Superstudio Più) during Milano Design Week.
My next presentation will be at Stockholm Furniture Fair in February 2027, which I see as the first real market introduction of the chairs. I am particularly looking forward to meeting architects and people from the contract market and seeing how the chairs are received in that context.
My next presentation will be at Stockholm Furniture Fair in February 2027, which I see as the first real market introduction of the chairs. I am particularly looking forward to meeting architects and people from the contract market and seeing how the chairs are received in that context.
This is interesting because my relationship with inspiration has changed considerably. When music was my focus, I had very clear role models. I could spend enormous amounts of time transcribing and playing somebody else's solos, trying to get as close as possible to musicians I admired while perhaps hoping eventually to add something of my own. In design, it is almost the other way around. I want the work to be entirely my own, while still fitting in.
My sources of inspiration can be almost anything, but I am particularly interested when something from one field can be translated into another. Music has become a sound sculpture, a sofa, paintings and virtual reality — and folding a piece of paper has become a chair. What interests me is not so much the original source itself, but what can happen to it along the way.
As for feeding my creativity, I am not sure that I do anything very systematic. I look, listen, read and become curious about things, but more than anything I need time to feed my inspiration. Without time, nothing happens.
My sources of inspiration can be almost anything, but I am particularly interested when something from one field can be translated into another. Music has become a sound sculpture, a sofa, paintings and virtual reality — and folding a piece of paper has become a chair. What interests me is not so much the original source itself, but what can happen to it along the way.
As for feeding my creativity, I am not sure that I do anything very systematic. I look, listen, read and become curious about things, but more than anything I need time to feed my inspiration. Without time, nothing happens.
I am not sure that I have a design style, at least not in the sense of a recognizable visual language. My projects can look very different from one another, and I do not particularly want them to resemble one another visually. What probably connects my work is an approach rather than a style. I often begin from a place of deliberate naivety, allowing myself to explore without constraints before gradually returning to common sense.
I was born and raised in Copenhagen and I've lived here all my life. This has undoubtedly had a profound influence on the way I design. Denmark has an extraordinary furniture tradition, and it is easy to have great respect for its craftsmanship, particularly when it comes to wood and textiles.
At the same time, I sometimes find the contemporary Danish design environment too cautious. Principles such as “less is more” and “form follows function” have had an enormously positive influence, but they can also become restrictive when treated almost as rules. Sometimes I miss risk, extravagance and artistic freedom. What attracted me to Other Circle in Copenhagen was precisely that it seemed to go against this tendency, bringing art, design, fashion, food and music together rather than keeping the disciplines neatly separated.
This may explain why I have felt drawn towards contexts outside Denmark, like Italy. I have exhibited in Milan on two occasions, and lately I've even considered the possibility of producing there.
At the same time, I sometimes find the contemporary Danish design environment too cautious. Principles such as “less is more” and “form follows function” have had an enormously positive influence, but they can also become restrictive when treated almost as rules. Sometimes I miss risk, extravagance and artistic freedom. What attracted me to Other Circle in Copenhagen was precisely that it seemed to go against this tendency, bringing art, design, fashion, food and music together rather than keeping the disciplines neatly separated.
This may explain why I have felt drawn towards contexts outside Denmark, like Italy. I have exhibited in Milan on two occasions, and lately I've even considered the possibility of producing there.
So far, I have only worked with specialist subcontractors. I develop the individual components independently and usually approach companies with the required expertise when my drawings are nearly production ready. In most cases, their input is primarily related to manufacturing details such as tolerances. The Glider Chair contains several custom-made components, including the Hub and Flex Bolt, whose development has required considerable research and specialist knowledge.
I am always open-minded when a subcontractor suggests a better way of making something, but in practice I have also learned that this is not something you can always rely on. Specialist subcontractors are usually very busy, and when I arrive with detailed drawings, they may understandably focus on how to produce what I have designed rather than question whether there might be a better way of doing it. For years, for example, the Seat Insert consisted of two separate parts. It was only when the subcontractor responsible for machining the metal components (Precision Machinist) asked me why I did not simply bend it from a single piece, that this much better solution emerged. I would have loved the original sheet-metal specialist to have asked me that question.
I have been particularly fortunate with this precision machinist. He has worked with metal for most of his life and, through his work, is regularly in contact with specialists in other metal processes. He is highly creative and good at improving solutions or suggesting alternatives. That kind of dialogue has been extremely valuable to me, and I never take it for granted when I find it.
I am always open-minded when a subcontractor suggests a better way of making something, but in practice I have also learned that this is not something you can always rely on. Specialist subcontractors are usually very busy, and when I arrive with detailed drawings, they may understandably focus on how to produce what I have designed rather than question whether there might be a better way of doing it. For years, for example, the Seat Insert consisted of two separate parts. It was only when the subcontractor responsible for machining the metal components (Precision Machinist) asked me why I did not simply bend it from a single piece, that this much better solution emerged. I would have loved the original sheet-metal specialist to have asked me that question.
I have been particularly fortunate with this precision machinist. He has worked with metal for most of his life and, through his work, is regularly in contact with specialists in other metal processes. He is highly creative and good at improving solutions or suggesting alternatives. That kind of dialogue has been extremely valuable to me, and I never take it for granted when I find it.
I simply know too little about the economics of running a company and how much room companies actually have to take risks. I have seen companies that historically developed fantastic designs but that, at least to my eyes, have lost some of that edge. And a recognized designer is no guarantee of an extraordinary result. If a company has the financial freedom, I hope it can turn some of that freedom into play.
I have already touched on different parts of my design process in some of the previous questions. I have described how I usually begin with a self-imposed task and work with it until something essential falls into place, before gradually homing in on it (Q8), and how I often begin from a place of deliberate naivety, allowing myself to explore without constraints before gradually returning to common sense (Q18). I have also described the hierarchy I tend to work with, from the underlying idea through form, proportion, construction and materials to colour, finish and details (Q9), and the later stage, where I bring nearly production-ready drawings to specialist subcontractors (Q20).
My process is unusual partly because I do not have my own workshop. I therefore develop a great deal in my head, on paper and in CAD, and then work with specialist subcontractors when physical components have to be made. I do not regard this as ideal; I would actually love to have more opportunity for spontaneous physical experimentation with materials.
For the Glider Chair Nomad, I developed a particularly useful method based on precise 1:6 models. The geometrically definable parts are first developed in CAD at full scale and then scaled down accurately. I build those components physically at 1:6 and combine them with a physical 1:6 version of the organic Seat-Fold.
This became important because the Seat-Fold cannot be completely determined in CAD. The physical model allowed me to study how its organic form related to the precisely defined geometric structure. Surprisingly, the 1:6 model was accurate enough for the vast majority of design decisions; only relatively few things ultimately required determination at full scale.
My process is unusual partly because I do not have my own workshop. I therefore develop a great deal in my head, on paper and in CAD, and then work with specialist subcontractors when physical components have to be made. I do not regard this as ideal; I would actually love to have more opportunity for spontaneous physical experimentation with materials.
For the Glider Chair Nomad, I developed a particularly useful method based on precise 1:6 models. The geometrically definable parts are first developed in CAD at full scale and then scaled down accurately. I build those components physically at 1:6 and combine them with a physical 1:6 version of the organic Seat-Fold.
This became important because the Seat-Fold cannot be completely determined in CAD. The physical model allowed me to study how its organic form related to the precisely defined geometric structure. Surprisingly, the 1:6 model was accurate enough for the vast majority of design decisions; only relatively few things ultimately required determination at full scale.
My home is relatively small, and most of the objects in it are inherited rather than carefully collected. I do not even have room to keep my own two Glider Chairs or the Triptych Sofa at home. But five objects I particularly enjoy are:
1.Bang & Olufsen Beomaster 4400 receiver — It is no longer the technically obvious solution, but B&O really knew how to make objects with character, and I cannot bring myself to part with it.
2.Vintage Holmegaard coloured-glass and teak double pendant (probably from the 1960s) — It is simply beautiful, and I’ve never seen it anywhere before.
3.Le Klint 306 lamp by Kaare Klint — I love the way it manages to feel modern and classical at the same time.
4.Church Chair (FH4133) by Kaare Klint — I find it remarkably comfortable. In many otherwise beautiful Danish chairs with woven seats, the tops of the legs extend above the woven surface in a way that I find uncomfortable. The Church Chair avoids this completely.
5.Rhodes MK-80 keyboard — Most digital keyboards with 88 weighted keys are remarkably unappealing objects. The MK-80 succeeds, for me, because it does not try to pretend that it is an acoustic piano. It visually accepts what it is.
1.Bang & Olufsen Beomaster 4400 receiver — It is no longer the technically obvious solution, but B&O really knew how to make objects with character, and I cannot bring myself to part with it.
2.Vintage Holmegaard coloured-glass and teak double pendant (probably from the 1960s) — It is simply beautiful, and I’ve never seen it anywhere before.
3.Le Klint 306 lamp by Kaare Klint — I love the way it manages to feel modern and classical at the same time.
4.Church Chair (FH4133) by Kaare Klint — I find it remarkably comfortable. In many otherwise beautiful Danish chairs with woven seats, the tops of the legs extend above the woven surface in a way that I find uncomfortable. The Church Chair avoids this completely.
5.Rhodes MK-80 keyboard — Most digital keyboards with 88 weighted keys are remarkably unappealing objects. The MK-80 succeeds, for me, because it does not try to pretend that it is an acoustic piano. It visually accepts what it is.
At the moment, surprisingly little of my day is actually spent designing. Much of my time goes into everything surrounding the work: correspondence, applications, competitions, exhibitions, presentations, social media, company administration and the practical work of trying to bring the Glider Chairs into production.
I also have a family, and ordinary life takes its share of the day. I have never been particularly good at separating work from the rest of my life.
I also have a family, and ordinary life takes its share of the day. I have never been particularly good at separating work from the rest of my life.
There are many things I wish I had learned through a formal design education, so I would certainly not advise anybody against education. But coming from outside the design environment may also have given me something valuable: I had time to develop ideas without knowing all the expectations I was supposed to fulfil. You could spend a lifetime learning everything everybody else knows — and even then, it is not enough.
When I was young, I spent an enormous amount of time studying the musicians I admired. I loved analysing their language, but I also made the mistake of believing that before I could find my own voice as a musician, I first had to master the existing musical language. Looking back, I would probably give a young designer almost the opposite advice: learn as much as you can, but do not postpone your own voice until you think you know enough. That day may never arrive.
When I was young, I spent an enormous amount of time studying the musicians I admired. I loved analysing their language, but I also made the mistake of believing that before I could find my own voice as a musician, I first had to master the existing musical language. Looking back, I would probably give a young designer almost the opposite advice: learn as much as you can, but do not postpone your own voice until you think you know enough. That day may never arrive.
I enjoy the whole process of being a designer: moving from an initial idea through development and prototyping, solving technical and production challenges, preparing presentations and exhibitions, meeting people and eventually bringing the design into the market. I like moving between these very different activities. I do, however, wish I had more time to design. Bookkeeping is probably the only part I would happily hand over completely to somebody else — although running your own company seems to make that rather difficult.
I also appreciate that I don't have to put myself in the awkward position of presenting my work before I'm ready. I can take the time I need to arrive at a result I am genuinely satisfied with, and once the design is finished, it exists on its own terms. Being able to communicate and present the work convincingly matters, but ultimately, people can see what is in front of them.
The real uncertainty is whether years of work will eventually become an economically sustainable profession. I am now considering whether to produce the chairs myself or try to find an established manufacturer. Producing them myself could involve considerable financial risk, but I also find this possibility quite exciting.
I also appreciate that I don't have to put myself in the awkward position of presenting my work before I'm ready. I can take the time I need to arrive at a result I am genuinely satisfied with, and once the design is finished, it exists on its own terms. Being able to communicate and present the work convincingly matters, but ultimately, people can see what is in front of them.
The real uncertainty is whether years of work will eventually become an economically sustainable profession. I am now considering whether to produce the chairs myself or try to find an established manufacturer. Producing them myself could involve considerable financial risk, but I also find this possibility quite exciting.
My golden rule could be:
“Keep working until the different decisions begin to feel necessary — until you can look at the result and feel that it could hardly have been otherwise.”
“Keep working until the different decisions begin to feel necessary — until you can look at the result and feel that it could hardly have been otherwise.”
For me, creativity and curiosity come first, but design knowledge and technical knowledge are obviously important too. In my own case, much of that knowledge came later. I had the idea first and then had to learn what was necessary to develop and realize it. With this approach, persistence is a must.
My toolbox is actually quite limited. For furniture design, my main digital tool has been SolidWorks. Its Sheet Metal functions, which allow me to move back and forth between a folded three-dimensional form and its flat pattern, were essential in developing the Glider Chair's Flat Metal Frame. Apart from that, I use sketches, precise 1:6 models and finally full-scale prototypes.
I am probably not the right person to teach time management. My projects tend to become large, partly because I seem to take on ideas that involve a great many challenges. At the same time, much of my life has had to coexist with other work and responsibilities. So I have become quite good at keeping a project alive over a very long period, but I am not sure that is the same thing as being good at time management.
Apparently, anywhere from a short period to sixteen years. The initial idea can take shape quite quickly, but developing it into something I consider finished can take much longer.
The Glider Chair is obviously an extreme example. The first prototype was made during a three-week residency at the Danish Art Workshops in 2009, and the design reached its final prototype form in 2025. Sixteen years should not be understood as sixteen years of continuous work on one chair. I worked on many other things in parallel, and some of the time was simply spent finding subcontractors or waiting for components to be made.
For me, a design is finished when I look at it and no longer want it to be different.
The Glider Chair is obviously an extreme example. The first prototype was made during a three-week residency at the Danish Art Workshops in 2009, and the design reached its final prototype form in 2025. Sixteen years should not be understood as sixteen years of continuous work on one chair. I worked on many other things in parallel, and some of the time was simply spent finding subcontractors or waiting for components to be made.
For me, a design is finished when I look at it and no longer want it to be different.
One question I have heard surprisingly often is why I have not applied to participate in Danmarks næste klassiker, a Danish television competition where five designers are given three weeks to develop and build a piece of furniture intended to become a new Danish furniture classic. I find the programme fascinating, and I am always impressed by how much the designers manage to achieve in such a short time. It also gives a fascinating insight into how differently designers approach the same task. If I had the practical skills to build my designs myself, I might actually be tempted to take part. I would probably still struggle to finish within three weeks, and I find the thought of working under that kind of pressure quite daunting.
I have never had a job as a designer. My most important experience has been developing my own projects independently. It has repeatedly forced me into areas about which I initially knew very little or nothing and had to learn what was necessary along the way. In that sense, the projects themselves have been my design education.
My practice has not developed around conventional client commissions. My designs have been self-initiated and developed through PlanAbacus. I am now focused on finding the right producers, galleries, architects and hospitality partners to bring the Glider Chairs into production and establish them internationally.
Furniture — and chairs in particular. So many chairs have already been designed that it seems almost impossible to come up with something genuinely new. At the same time, there are so many things to consider if you are not willing to compromise on comfort and usability. I find that enormously motivating. The possibility that, within such a familiar and thoroughly explored type of object, there might still be something original left to discover is incredibly exciting to me. And when you do succeed, the sense of achievement is all the greater.
The immediate priority is to move the Glider Chairs from final prototypes into the right form of production and to establish relationships with architects, hospitality partners and galleries. I'm looking for the right established furniture manufacturer, but I am also prepared to produce the chairs myself through a network of specialist subcontractors.
The next major step will be Stockholm Furniture Fair in February 2027, which I see as the first real market introduction of the chairs. Beyond the current Merino wool felt versions, I am also interested in creating Seat-Folds from specially designed rugs, opening possibilities for collaborations with rug designers and manufacturers.
The next major step will be Stockholm Furniture Fair in February 2027, which I see as the first real market introduction of the chairs. Beyond the current Merino wool felt versions, I am also interested in creating Seat-Folds from specially designed rugs, opening possibilities for collaborations with rug designers and manufacturers.
I develop everything myself. All components are produced by specialist subcontractors, and I value the dialogue with them, but naturally their input is mainly related to their particular area of expertise. Sometimes I wish I had a partner who took part in the entire process and with whom I could discuss the more fundamental decisions.
One direction I would particularly like to return to is a version of the Glider Chair with a Seat-Fold made from metal mesh. During my residency at the Danish Art Workshops in 2009, I made a 1:6 model and found that the folded mesh was structurally strong. Its transparency also created a beautiful shadow on the floor that almost reproduced the Seat-Fold itself. I would be very interested to find out whether a self-supporting Seat-Fold could be realized at full scale.
The easiest way to contact me is by email at lam@planabacus.com or through my website, www.planabacus.com
I think we have covered quite a lot already.
Interview about Glider Chair Grand Interview