Interview with Nataliya Naymark

My transition into product design was driven by a powerful internal pull to create tangible, lasting objects after a highly successful career in the ephemeral digital world. Spending more than a decade as a digital and UX strategist taught me how to deeply analyze human behavior, ergonomics, and consumer needs. Yet, I felt a growing desire to translate that user-centered philosophy into physical form—to create things that people can touch, feel, and live with in real space.

My interest in structure and spatial design began early, rooted in my physical-mathematics education and eight years of intensive mechanical drawing. That technical training gave me a deep appreciation for geometric systems, patterns, and analytical problem-solving. Additionally, design runs in my blood; my great-grandfather was a professional blacksmith, and his legacy of shaping raw materials with precision and purpose provided a strong conceptual foundation for my own creative drive.

When I decided to pivot into physical design seven years ago, I chose the challenging path of being self-taught, treating my transition as an intense, self-directed university program. Instead of relying on a single school, I curated an advanced education from the world’s leading institutions. I built my foundation by studying drawing, composition, and prototyping in long-term, intensive private study. From there, I systematically filled my technical and historical gaps: studying furniture design at Central Saint Martins, learning the fundamentals of manufacturing processes at MIT, and diving deep into architectural and design history through HarvardX, MoMA, and specialized courses on modernist design movements like the Bauhaus and Vkhutemas.

To bridge theory with physical execution, I took hands-on design courses in carpentry and 3D modeling in Rhinoceros, forcing myself to understand how materials join together. I also immersed myself in practical lighting design, collaborating on immersive museum exhibitions.

Ultimately, what drove me to become a designer was the conviction that good design brings harmony, order, and quiet beauty to everyday life. My journey has been a deliberate, step-by-step assembly of technical drawing, digital user-experience strategies, and rigorous physical prototyping—all driven by an internal motivation to create thoughtful, production-aware objects that respect both the consumer and the material.

My approach to design is a balanced intersection of mathematical logic, user-centric ergonomics, and tactile material experimentation. When developing a new product or architectural system, my process is anchored by three primary priorities:

Human-Centered Ergonomics and Functionality: Drawing directly from my extensive background as a UX strategist, my first priority is always the end consumer. I analyze how an object interacts with human behavior and its surrounding space, ensuring that comfort, usability, and sustainability are embedded into the design from the very first sketch.

Geometric Logic and Structural Purity: Influenced by my physical-mathematics background and years of mechanical drawing, I prioritize clean lines, mathematical patterns, and structural order. I look for systemic, modular solutions where the geometry itself provides the aesthetic value.

Material Integrity and Production Awareness: I design with a deep respect for industrial manufacturing constraints and material realism. A project is only successful if it respects the physical properties of its medium and can be realistically produced and scaled.

Style and Central Themes
My design style can be described as an industrial-aware exploration of geometric relief, heavily influenced by modernist architecture, Scandinavian minimalism, and the structural purism of early 20th-century avant-garde movements like the Bauhaus and Vkhutemas.

The central keystone that connects all of my projects is the exploration of depth and volumetric surface texture. Whether working with modular ceramic tiles, lighting, or furniture, I focus on how light and shadow interact with a physical form to create a dynamic sensory experience without relying on superficial, applied ornamentation.
Technique: Digital Precision Meets Physical Prototyping
My technique relies on a seamless hybrid of computer-aided design and intensive physical mock-ups. When approaching a new project, I begin with rigorous analytical research, sketching, and precise technical drawing to map out the geometric system.

From there, my workflow moves fluidly between digital and analog tools:

Digital Tools: I rely on advanced digital modeling software like Rhinoceros 3D and AutoCAD to calculate exact tolerances, refine complex curvilinear modules, and generate technical drafts.

Physical Mock-ups: I believe a design cannot truly be understood until it exists in the physical world. I spend a significant amount of time in my studio creating hands-on prototypes, structural mock-ups, and experimenting directly with materials—whether analyzing the behavior of technical fabrics like Tyvek, working through carpentry details, or shaping porcelain models.

This combination allows me to ensure that the final product achieved on the computer screen translates perfectly into a beautiful, functional, and production-ready physical reality.

My approach to design is a balanced intersection of mathematical logic, user-centric ergonomics, and tactile material experimentation. When I am developing a new product or architectural system, my process is anchored by three primary priorities that I constantly balance. First and foremost is human-centered ergonomics and functionality, a priority that draws directly from my extensive background as a UX strategist. I am hardwired to analyze how an object interacts with human behavior and its surrounding space, ensuring that comfort, usability, and sustainability are embedded into the design from the very first sketch. Alongside this, I give immense importance to geometric logic and structural purity, an influence from my physical-mathematics background and years of technical drawing. I am always looking for systemic, modular solutions where the geometry itself provides the aesthetic value. Finally, I design with a deep awareness of material integrity and production reality; a project is only truly successful if it respects the physical properties of its medium and can be realistically manufactured and scaled.

My aesthetic style can be described as an industrial-aware exploration of geometric relief, heavily influenced by modernist architecture, Scandinavian minimalism, and the structural purism of early 20th-century avant-garde movements. The central keystone that connects all of my projects is the exploration of depth and volumetric surface texture. Whether I am working with modular ceramic tiles, lighting, or furniture, I focus entirely on how light and shadow interact with a physical form to create a dynamic sensory experience without relying on superficial, applied ornamentation.

To bring these ideas to life, my technique relies on a seamless hybrid of digital planning and intensive physical mock-ups. When approaching a new project, I begin with rigorous analytical research, sketching, and precise technical drawing to map out the geometric system. From there, my workflow moves fluidly between digital and analog tools. I utilize AutoCAD for precise technical drafting to calculate exact tolerances and map out complex curvilinear modules, with plans to transition into Blender for my upcoming 3D modeling and visualization workflows. However, I believe a design cannot truly be understood until it exists in the physical world. I spend a significant amount of time in my studio creating hands-on prototypes, structural mock-ups, and experimenting directly with materials—whether analyzing the behavior of technical fabrics, working through carpentry details, or shaping porcelain models. This combination ensures that the final product achieved during the planning phase translates perfectly into a beautiful, functional, and production-ready physical reality.

Looking back at my path, the aspects of my background that shaped me most are entirely non-design disciplines, paired with the unique rhythms of my daily life. My journey began with an intensive physical-mathematics education and eight years of mechanical drawing, finishing with a golden medal. Following that, I earned degrees in economics and digital marketing, and spent over a decade working as a digital and UX strategist for prominent media companies and agencies. This unconventional trajectory meant that when I committed to a self-taught path in product design seven years ago, I wasn't starting from scratch; I was translating a massive toolkit of technical drawing, strategic consumer analysis, and ergonomic research into physical forms.

This journey highlights what I believe are the most valuable non-design skills any creator should possess: user experience strategy, market empathy, and strict time-management under real-world constraints. Because I have two children to take care of during the day, my design work happens almost entirely in the evenings. This reality has forced me to develop a high level of self-discipline and strategic efficiency. My UX background allows me to instantly look at an object through the eyes of the consumer, while my economics training brings a crucial awareness of production reality. These non-design skills are beneficial because they ground artistic intuition in functional execution, ensuring that the limited, precious hours I have at night are spent creating objects that are viable, ergonomic, and built to endure.

In terms of creative influence and my journey up to now, my work is shaped by a beautiful contrast between rigorous logic and spontaneous discovery. On one hand, I am deeply influenced by a heritage of raw craftsmanship—my great-grandfather was a professional blacksmith, and his legacy of shaping materials with precision serves as a core conceptual foundation when I design physical objects. On the other hand, my daily practice is heavily fueled by an ongoing, self-directed education. I have a massive soft spot for streaming design history lectures while working with my hands. As I listen, I constantly pause to map out new ideas, bridging historical concepts with my own contemporary style. In fact, my current visual language was recently shaped by a pure accident: I found a perfect, unexpected color scheme inside one of my old watercolor boxes, and that exact palette is now a signature element anchoring all of my new project sketches. My journey has been a deliberate, step-by-step assembly of these diverse worlds—moving from mathematical formulas and digital screens to evening sketchbooks and physical prototypes.

My creative growth path is focused on breaking away from traditional constraints and pushing the boundaries of form and material utility. As I look to the future of my independent practice, NNaymark Design, my main goal is to experiment with as many new materials as possible. I want to prove that modern, alternative materials can be just as enduring and beautiful as traditional ones. Too often in the design world, we discover incredible new materials but get stuck forcing them into old, familiar shapes. I believe that a new material should dictate a completely new form, pushing us to create structures that have never been seen before. Transitioning into Blender for my 3D modeling and visualization is a key part of this path, as it will give me the digital freedom to map out these complex, unconventional geometries before bringing them into the studio.

So far, the project I am most proud of is the Madonna Tile Collection. Today, architectural and construction patterns have become a bit too simple and uniform. With Madonna, my goal was to inject something whimsical back into structural design, proving that geometric systems can be deeply engaging and full of personality.

My future plans are to continue bringing this sense of structural play and material reincarnation to life. My absolute dream project is to design a collection using authentic, used Formula 1 parts. I have a deep love for the engineering, history, and raw materiality of F1 components, and I want to give those high-performance elements a completely new life as functional art or furniture pieces. Ultimately, I want to be remembered as a designer who refused to stay stuck in old forms—someone who brought a whimsical, analytical, and production-aware perspective to the physical world, showing that any material can be transformed into beautiful, enduring design.

The absolute biggest hurdle you will face at the beginning of your career is a deep, agonizing impatience. If you are a true designer, you are going to experience this overwhelming frustration where you just want your things to become real, right now. It is easy to feel defeated when your ideas are stuck in a sketchbook or on a computer screen because you don't have the manufacturing resources, the budget, or the machinery yet to build them. My advice is to embrace that frustration. Don't view it as a weakness; that burning desire to see your work exist in the physical world is the exact engine that will push you through the exhausting hours of learning.

Use that impatience to fuel a strict, self-directed education. You don't need to wait for a perfect opportunity to start building your technical toolkit. When I transitioned into product design, I systematically built my own path by taking advanced courses from institutions like Central Saint Martins and MIT. You have to learn how to draft precisely in programs like AutoCAD, but you also need to get your hands dirty with actual materials.

My biggest warning to young designers is to fight against the pressure to conform to safe, boring shapes. When the industry tells you to keep everything overly simple, fight for a sense of play. In my Madonna Tile Collection, I deliberately brought something whimsical into structural construction patterns because design should have personality. When you discover new, cutting-edge materials, don't force them into old, traditional forms. Let the material itself dictate a brand-new shape.

Lastly, be realistic about your daily life and find a rhythm that protects your creative energy. Because I take care of my two children during the day, my design work happens almost entirely at night. I need absolute silence when I am doing precise mathematical calculations or writing at the computer, but when I am working with my hands, I keep the monotony away by streaming design history lectures. I sketch constantly during those lectures, and I keep my eyes open for accidental inspiration—like the time I found a perfect color scheme hidden inside an old watercolor box that now anchors all my sketches. Success doesn't happen overnight, but if you maintain your self-discipline, protect your whimsical ideas, and let that hunger to create real, physical objects drive you forward, you will build a career to be proud of.

The single most important professional practice I can share is to learn how to forgive yourself when you hit a wall, and to trust the natural cycle of rest. In the creative industries, there is an intense, toxic pressure to constantly produce, which leads to a common bias that if you aren't working, you are failing. There will be times when you feel like you utterly cannot do it anymore—moments of exhaustion where you genuinely believe you are done, empty, and will never design anything ever again. When that happens, the best professional shortcut is to simply stop. Give yourself permission to completely rest for several days. Trust that the pause is part of the process, because a few days later, you will invariably find yourself drawn back to the studio, sketching and creating all over again. The passion always returns if you give it room to breathe.

Beyond managing your energy, a critical principle for refining your practice is to let materials dictate form rather than forcing them into traditional shapes. When exploring new or unconventional mediums, avoid the safe bias of repeating old geometries. Let the physical reality of the material push your design into uncharted territory. At the same time, resist the industry trend toward clinical oversimplification. Even within highly structured, geometric, or production-aware designs, always strive to preserve a element of the whimsical. Infusing a sense of play into structural patterns elevates an object from a standard product to a piece of memorable design.

Finally, optimize your technical environment so it supports your personal workflow. Don't feel pressured to work according to someone else's ideal schedule. If your life requires you to design in the evenings, embrace that rhythm. Divide your tasks by your mental state: dedicate quiet, silent windows to heavy data, precise counting, or writing at the computer, and save your hands-on prototyping or material testing for times when you can stream design history lectures in the background. Let your daily life feed your work, stay open to accidental inspirations—like an unexpected color palette found in an old box of watercolors—and remember that true professional longevity comes from respecting your own boundaries and letting your creativity rest when it needs to.

My daily rhythm is shaped by a very clear, natural boundary between my family and my craft. Because I have two children to care for during the day, my dedicated studio hours don't start in the morning—they begin in the evening when the house finally goes quiet. This boundary has actually become a hidden strength; because my night hours are limited, I don't waste time scrolling through endless design news or social media feed distractions. I sit down and dive straight into the work.

My nightly workflow is split into two completely different headspaces. The first half is quiet and deeply analytical. When I am handling complex geometric counting, plotting out precise measurements, or writing project descriptions, I need absolute silence to focus on the numbers and the logic.

The absolute best part of the day, and the thing that brings me the most excitement, is when the heavy mental work is done and I get to transition into the tactile world. Moving away from the glowing screen to actually work with my hands, test physical forms, and play with raw materials is incredibly fulfilling.

To break up the quiet monotony of repetitive handwork, I love to stream design history lectures. Listening to how historical movements evolved naturally sparks my own imagination, and I often find myself pausing to sketch entirely new concepts right there in the dark. Finding joy in those little things—like catching a perfect color scheme hidden inside an old watercolor box or watching a playful, whimsical pattern come to life after hours of calculation—is what keeps me going. It’s a quiet, evening rhythm balanced between strict logic and spontaneous artistic play.

To me, treating furniture design like a seasonal trend is a massive mistake. Designing a piece just because it is "hip" this season is like buying a fast-fashion t-shirt that you throw away a few months later—it shows a complete lack of care for nature and the environment. Trends are transient and disposable, but true design should have a sense of permanence and longevity. Because of this, I don't focus on chasing curated trend forecasts or trying to make my work fit into temporary market aesthetics.

However, ignoring seasonal trends doesn't mean closing your eyes to the design world. I absolutely love watching the emergence of new forms and innovative material experimentations. When I see an incredible piece of work by another creator, I often experience a deep sense of creative jealousy—that wonderful, inspiring feeling of wishing I had thought of that concept first.

Instead of letting that feeling pass, I use it as a puzzle. I immediately start analyzing the object, constantly thinking about how I could apply that same spark to a completely different material or an entirely new form. It is about taking the essence of what made me jealous and translating it through my own creative lens. By focusing on the evolution of materials and forms rather than fleeting seasonal fads, you can create a distinctive product family that feels fresh, intentional, and entirely your own.

For me, the definition of good design is rooted entirely in sensory comfort and clear contextual purpose, rather than abstract aesthetic theories. How I evaluate a project depends heavily on whether I am experiencing it offline in the physical world, or online through a digital presentation.

In the physical world, the ultimate gatekeeper of good design is tactile comfort. While traditional design principles often prioritize ergonomics first, the reality is that ergonomics do not matter if the material itself is wrong. As an autistic individual, if a material feels terrible, uncomfortable, or jarring to the touch, the object becomes unusable, no matter how mathematically perfect its structure might be. My very first physical contact with an object decides everything: the tactile experience must invite use, not repel it.

When evaluating a project online or digitally, good design is defined by how clearly it answers the questions of "how" and "why" it serves a user's needs. A very common mistake in digital portfolios and design presentations is showing a massive, complex project—such as a large-scale chair surrounded by intricate craftsmanship—entirely in isolation. When a project is presented that way, it fails because it doesn't explain how it actually fits into a living interior or why it exists beyond simply standing there as a static sculpture.

Ultimately, a project or product achieves good design when it respects the sensory boundaries of the person touching it, and explicitly demonstrates its purpose and utility to the person viewing it. If it fails to connect with human touch or fails to explain its place in a real environment, it fails completely.

I am not a perfectionist who keeps an open tab in my mind to edit a project forever. Unless a design is bought and requires client-driven revisions, I find it very easy to complete a project and move on to the next one. This is because my editing process doesn't happen at the end; it happens naturally throughout the distinct production phases that the product must pass through.

My workflow follows a strict, sequential progression:

The Initial Sketch where the concept is born.

The Technical Drawing where dimensions and geometry are locked in.

The Physical Scale Model (Макет) to test spatial reality.

The Prototype to check materials and physical presence.

Color-Matching and Material Fitting to finalize the sensory experience.

The Final 3D Visualization which serves as the definitive completion point.

Every single time a project moves from one of these phases to the next, it naturally forces necessary edits and corrections. Because I address technical, material, and structural challenges step-by-step as they arise, the design refines itself along the way. By the time I finish the final 3D visualization, the evolution is complete and the design is ready.

Furthermore, I don't need to rely on abstract frameworks like a Lean Canvas at the very end to check if a product fits the Target Audience. Because of my professional background as a UX strategist and marketing specialist, I am incapable of thinking any other way—I design with a real, living person in mind from the very first sketch. A project becomes a success for me when it successfully survives this rigorous transition from a mental concept into a physically realized, user-focused object, without losing its original soul.

My biggest and most significant work to date is the Taita Lamp, a light installation that explores the architecture of a fold as a direct means of controlling light. Heavily inspired by the clean aesthetics of Scandinavian minimalism and the deep philosophy of Japanese craftsmanship, the project reinterprets classical forms through parametric design. The rhythmic surface, crafted from a single sheet of material, transforms light into a tangible, sculptural texture where the geometry of the folds serves a functional purpose—softly diffusing light, creating a deep play of shadows, and giving the object a monumental, sculptural presence.

What makes this project my biggest achievement—and the one I am most proud of—is the endless, exhaustive craftsmanship required to physically bring it to life. The lamp is constructed from an innovative paper composite based on natural cellulose and latex, chosen to provide durability and structural strength while remaining exceptionally lightweight.

However, translating this concept into a flawless physical reality presented an immense technical challenge. Because the entire structure relies on a single continuous sheet, there was no room for error. It required a punishing, endless cycle of testing with different folding techniques, analyzing how different material weights reacted, and constantly failing and restarting to find the exact, precise sequence of production stages (последовательность этапов) that would allow the folds to hold their parametric geometry perfectly.

The ultimate satisfaction of the Taita Lamp comes from that rigorous journey. It is a piece where complex geometric theory had to be balanced with manual, physical endurance, resulting in a light installation that feels both deeply intentional and structurally alive.

My appreciation for design is an evolving journey rather than a static choice. When I first started, I was captivated by the strict geometry of Bauhaus. As I discovered Vkhutemas, my admiration shifted toward the radical energy of creators like Melnikov, Rodchenko, Bykov, and Tatlin. Later, encountering Ettore Sottsass sparked a total love affair with the Memphis style, inspiring several of my own pieces. Currently, my focus has returned to Modernism, drawing inspiration from Alvar Aalto’s unique sensitivity to materials, Pierre Jeanneret’s blending of folk crafts with French conciseness, and the brilliant work of Charlotte Perriand. I also find myself deeply drawn to the quiet, intentional intersections of Scandinavian minimalism and Japanese craftsmanship.

However, if I have to name the one designer who feels like my true "creative ghost"—the person whose history and work resonate with me on the deepest personal level—it is Eileen Gray.

Discovering Eileen Gray was a profound revelation for me, particularly because of the shared connection of navigating the world as an autistic individual. When you look at her history, she designed with an incredible, meticulous focus at a time when the male-dominated industry barely recognized her as a furniture designer. She was vastly overlooked, and her groundbreaking contributions were frequently overshadowed by her male contemporaries.

Even today, looking at the landscape of professional design, it often feels like men are default-defined as "better" or more serious designers than women. The industry has not changed nearly as much as it needs to. Eileen Gray is my favorite designer because her work represents pure, uncompromising genius that survived isolation and systemic erasure. She is a reminder that a designer's true impact lies in their unique, internal vision and their persistence to create, even when the world fails to see them clearly.

I currently live and work in Belgrade, a city defined by an intense, raw architectural friction. While the city is widely known for the heavy, dramatic weight of its post-war brutalism, the cultural layer that captures my heart and creative imagination the most is its interwar modernism from the 1920s and 1930s. I am deeply captivated by the buildings from this era—characterized by their elegant, streamlined forms, rounded corner balconies, and distinctive round porthole windows that make the structures look almost like landlocked ocean liners.

To my own frustration, one of the most difficult parts of my current creative life is how much I love this specific style versus how little I have been able to explore it in my own portfolio. I am so in love with the fluid, geometric elegance of Belgrade’s 1930s modernism that it genuinely bothers me that I haven’t designed a single project in this style yet. It remains an open creative ambition that I am constantly waiting to tackle.

Ultimately, I believe good design is an absolute necessity for the advancement of society because it dictates the quality of our daily visual and sensory life. Thanks to my design background, I have introduced small but deeply positive, incremental changes to my own lifestyle by forcing myself to slow down and analyze the structural details of my surroundings. Walking through Belgrade and observing how these historic, curved facades handle light and shadow keeps me grounded. Even if I haven't translated this specific architectural language into a physical product of my own yet, the city’s rich visual texture constantly feeds my creative reservoir, pushing me to ensure that whatever I build next respects both history and human scale.

My business philosophy is rooted in a deep respect for cross-disciplinary collaboration and the belief that every single person on a team matters. Having previously worked in marketing and UX strategy, I know firsthand the immense value of collaborating with other sharp professionals. Nowadays, operating as an independent designer, that high-level professional camaraderie is the thing I lack and miss the most.

I firmly reject the idea that a designer should work in a silo. I believe that an engineer, a technician, or a craftsman can look at a design and point out a complex technical challenge that ultimately forces a much more brilliant, functional solution. When selecting partners or looking at people to work with, I don't look for yes-men; I look for professionals who will challenge the design to make the final product better.

Currently, because I largely work alone, I find that vital external challenge in my mentor for technical drawing and prototyping. When a physical model or a complex drawing doesn't work straight away, it can be deeply frustrating and upsetting. However, my professional philosophy is to never panic during those blocks. I’ve learned to accept the frustration, step away, and just "sleep on the annoying part." Without fail, the ideas and iterations that come the next morning are always vastly superior. A good designer must have the humility to let their work be challenged and the patience to let a difficult problem rest until the right solution reveals itself.

As an independent designer running a focused, individual studio, my approach to contributing to society is grounded in direct, human-scale actions rather than grand institutional philanthropy. I believe the most impactful way a designer can give back to the community is by being completely transparent and generous with their knowledge. The design world can often feel incredibly gatekept, shrouded in abstract theories that hide the messy, grueling reality of physical production.

Whenever I interact with younger or emerging designers, my contribution is to strip away that pretension. I openly share the hard-earned lessons from my own workflow—the endless material testing, the frustrating failures of early prototypes, and the reality of navigating the business side of design. Democratizing this practical, phase-by-phase knowledge is a vital form of mentorship that helps the next generation survive the steep learning curve of this profession.

When it comes to humanitarian or pro bono work, I have immense respect for designers and architects who dedicate themselves to these initiatives, provided the work genuinely serves the community rather than just acting as a public relations exercise for the creator. For my own part, my philosophy on "good design" is inherently tied to a social responsibility: I design with a real, living person in mind from the very first sketch. Rejecting thoughtless consumerism in favor of creating highly intentional, durable, and user-focused objects is, in itself, a commitment to making our shared visual and material culture better. True design philanthropy is about ensuring that what we put out into the world has a soul, respects human anatomy and psychology, and is built to last.

I actually have to thank Kibardin who helped a lot for me to participate in this award. He taught about importance of reading all the papers carefully. Participating in the A’ Design Award has been a deeply validating milestone in my professional journey. Receiving an Iron Design Award for the Nakovalnya Chair, alongside Bronze Design Awards for both the Matisse Blue Lamp and the Madonna Tile Collection, provided a powerful sense of affirmation. When you spend months isolated in a studio—navigating endless material trials, structural failures, and grueling technical stages—it is incredibly rewarding to have an international jury of experts look at your final physical pieces and validate that effort. Being recognized as a "Designer of the Day" serves as a brilliant spotlight, taking an individual design practice out of the shadows of the workshop and placing it onto a global stage.

From my experience, there are three main benefits to participating in major design awards and competitions:

Rigorous Skill Calibration: Preparing an entry forces an intense level of professional discipline. To present a piece effectively to an elite panel, you have to dissect your own creation—stripping away internal notations to write precise technical explanations, refining your phase-by-phase documentation, and clearly articulating your material choices. This forced self-analysis sharpens your communication and fundamentally improves how you approach future design documentation.

Targeted Industry Visibility: For an independent designer, competitions bridge the massive gap between creating a brilliant object and actually getting it seen by the right people. Accolades act as a trusted stamp of quality that cuts through the noise, opening doors to manufacturers, collectors, and design galleries that would otherwise be exceptionally difficult to reach.

Peer Benchmarking and Community Integration: Being surrounded by top-tier global talent provides a clear, unvarnished look at where your work stands on a global scale. It pushes you out of your comfort zone, exposes you to innovative material applications, and connects you with a highly professional network of peers who share the same obsessive dedication to craftsmanship.

Ultimately, design competitions are vital because they celebrate the grueling, invisible process behind the finished product. They remind the industry that great design isn't just about a trendy aesthetic—it is about technical endurance, problem-solving, and the persistence to bring a complex vision into physical reality.It is huge honour to be between winners, as I don’t have any formal education , I am self-taught and during my education I didn’t have much of feedback about my way of thinking and designing. Having such a huge feedback and actually getting an award is amazing. I still have days when I wake up and check again that it wasn’t just a dream.

My drive to design stems from an internal need to translate structural, mathematical logic into tangible objects that improve the quality of daily life. Having spent over a decade in digital and UX strategy, I reached a point where designing purely virtual experiences no longer felt entirely fulfilling. I felt a powerful pull to step away from the screen, work with my hands, and directly manipulate raw, physical materials.

What motivates me is the challenge of problem-solving within the physical constraints of a material—whether it is experimenting with modular structures or exploring geometric relief. I am deeply inspired by the belief that good design is a necessity for societal advancement because the objects we interact with dictate our daily sensory and behavioral experiences. Ultimately, I became a product designer to bridge that gap: taking the user-centered empathy of UX design and applying it to physical forms that possess a soul, respect human ergonomics, and bring functional beauty into the physical spaces we inhabit.

Becoming a designer was entirely a conscious, deliberate choice born out of a deep internal drive. No one forced me into this field; rather, my own creative evolution made the transition inevitable. I spent over a decade building a successful, established career in digital marketing and UX strategy, working with major media brands and teaching the next generation of strategists. It would have been very easy to stay on that comfortable, well-trodden corporate path.

However, the urge to create physical objects and work directly with raw materials became impossible to ignore. I chose to pivot into industrial and product design because I wanted to feel the tangible reality of what I was building—to move from pixels to physical prototypes, wood, and metal. Making that leap required a massive amount of personal initiative, from teaching myself complex 3D modeling programs to taking intense manufacturing and design courses around the world. It was a choice fueled by passion, a love for structural logic, and a desire to bring functional, tactile beauty into people's daily lives.

Through my studio, NNaymark Design, I focus on physical product design, specifically creating modular lighting fixtures, furniture prototypes, and architectural surface elements like tile collections. My work is deeply rooted in geometric relief, structural logic, and rigorous material experimentation—whether I am working with the industrial weight of metal tubing, the delicate texture of porcelain, or the unexpected properties of materials like Tyvek.

In the future, I am incredibly eager to dive deeper into furniture design and large-scale architectural elements that challenge traditional manufacturing boundaries. I specifically want to explore projects that allow me to push the limits of material manipulation, blending advanced digital techniques like CNC scoring with raw, traditional craftsmanship.

While I consider myself a dedicated, evolving practitioner rather than a legend, achieving meaningful recognition in this industry—like receiving an Iron and multiple Bronze A' Design Awards—comes down to a mix of technical discipline and mental endurance. If I were to give actionable advice to designers just starting out, it would be this:

Master the Technical Realities: Do not just stop at beautiful computer renders. You must understand the physical reality of how materials behave, break, and come together. Dive deep into manufacturing processes, structural logic, and hands-on prototyping. A great design isn't just a concept; it is an analytical solution to a physical challenge.

Build an Unshakeable Workflow: Establish a rigorous, phase-by-phase design process. Treat every constraint—whether from a client, an engineer, or a budget—not as a creative barrier, but as a parameter to solve mathematically.

Learn to "Sleep on the Annoying Part": Design is full of deeply frustrating moments where a drawing doesn't align or a prototype fails straight away. Don't panic when you hit a creative block. Have the patience to step away, let the problem rest, and trust that the iterations that come the next morning will be vastly superior.

Draw Knowledge from Diverse Disciplines: Don't look only at other design objects for inspiration. Bring insights from outside industries—whether it is user empathy from UX strategy, efficiency from digital marketing, or structural patterns from mathematics. True innovation happens when you apply the logic of one field to the materials of another.

The fundamental shift from a good designer to a great designer comes down to how they handle complexity, constraints, and the reality of production.

A good designer focuses primarily on aesthetics, styling, and the immediate visual impact of a project. They create beautiful forms and seamless digital renderings, but they often treat technical constraints—like structural engineering limits, material behaviors, or manufacturing budgets—as frustrating obstacles that compromise their original artistic vision.

A great designer welcomes those constraints as the very catalyst for innovation. They possess the humility and patience to let their work be rigorously challenged by engineers, craftsmen, and technicians. They don't look for simple validation; they look for the friction that forces a more brilliant, highly functional solution.

Ultimately, a great designer bridges the gap between raw mathematical logic and human empathy. They understand that a failure in an early drawing or a physical prototype is not a disaster, but a necessary phase of the journey. They have the discipline to accept the frustration, step away, and "sleep on the annoying part," knowing that the iteration that emerges the next day will be vastly superior. Great design isn't just about a trendy aesthetic—it is about technical endurance, problem-solving, and the persistence to bring a soulful, user-focused object into physical reality.

A design transitions from merely "good" to "really good" when it successfully bridges the gap between raw mathematical logic, tactile material beauty, and deep user empathy. It is not enough for an object to be visually striking; it must perform flawlessly within the physical constraints of its environment and respect the person interacting with it.

When evaluating design, I look for a harmonious balance across three strict criteria:

Structural and Material Integrity: A great design honors its medium. Whether it is navigating the structural limits of metal tubing or exploring the unexpected texturing of porcelain, the final object must showcase technical endurance and a deep understanding of manufacturing realities. The form should feel like an analytical solution to a physical challenge, not an arbitrary shape forced onto a material.

Ergonomic and Behavioral Empathy: Truly excellent design respects human anatomy and psychology. Drawing from user experience principles, I evaluate how intuitively an object fits into daily life. It must solve a problem seamlessly, ensuring that artistic expression always aligns perfectly with functional utility.

Intentionality and Longevity: A really good design rejects thoughtless consumerism. It possesses a distinct soul and is built to last, proving its worth through durability and highly intentional details rather than chasing fleeting, seasonal trends.

Ultimately, the "aha!" moment in design comes when you realize an object cannot be simplified any further without losing its functionality or its poetry—it is the point where complex engineering is made to look entirely effortless.

The true value of good design lies in its power to shape human behavior, elevate daily sensory experiences, and optimize the way we interact with the physical world. It is a profound misconception that design is merely a superficial layer of styling or an elite luxury; rather, good design is a fundamental necessity for the advancement of society. When an object or space is designed with a deep understanding of manufacturing realities and user-centered ergonomics, it directly reduces the friction of daily life and brings a sense of functional beauty into our environment.

Everyone—from individual consumers to major manufacturers—should invest in good design for three critical reasons:

Long-Term Functionality and Sustainability: Investing in good design means investing in intentionality, material integrity, and technical endurance. Well-designed products reject thoughtless, throwaway consumerism because they are engineered to last, solving physical and structural challenges mathematically so that the objects remain durable and relevant for years.

Human-Centered Well-Being: The objects and environments we surround ourselves with dictate our daily behavior, posture, and emotional state. Good design applies strict user-experience empathy to physical forms, ensuring that everything from a chair to a lighting fixture respects human anatomy and psychology, ultimately fostering healthier and more fulfilling daily routines.

Economic and Market Viability: From a business perspective, excellent design bridges the gap between artistic expression and market reality. A well-designed product isn't just beautiful—it aligns perfectly with market viability and consumer needs, cutting through market noise and proving to be a highly strategic, valuable asset over time.

Ultimately, investing in good design is an investment in the quality of our lives. It transforms the chaotic or mundane aspects of our daily routines into seamless, elegant, and soulful experiences.

If given the luxury of unlimited time and resources, I would design a highly architectural, expansive collection of modular furniture and large-scale geometric relief installations. I would focus on pushing the absolute limits of material manipulation—specifically exploring the stark, structural tension between the heavy rigidity of metal tubing and the unexpected textures of porcelain or avant-garde textiles.

I would design these pieces for independent design galleries, contemporary cultural institutions, and public spaces that actively embrace avant-garde design and modernist architectural principles. I want to create complex, structural objects for environments where the design is allowed to be bold, sculptural, and uncompromising—challenging traditional manufacturing boundaries while directly engaging with human ergonomics and behavior.

My dream project is to design a large-scale wall mural composed of 24 custom-designed ceramic or porcelain tiles. The core challenge of this project is the dual-layer logic of the design: each individual tile must function as a self-contained, standalone piece of art with its own beautiful geometric relief and composition, yet when all 24 tiles are assembled together, they must seamlessly merge into one grand, cohesive master image.

It is a complex puzzle that requires absolute precision in mathematical drawing and a deep understanding of how physical materials shrink and warp during the firing process. I want to spend uninterrupted time prototyping this mural, ensuring that the alignment is flawless and that the play of light across the entire 24-piece surface creates a captivating, unified story.

My "secret recipe" for success relies entirely on a disciplined, structured approach to creativity rather than waiting around for random inspiration. It is about treating design as an analytical process. The workflow breaks down into three steady steps:

Phase-by-Phase Execution: I never rush to the final form. I work systematically, starting with rigorous research, moving into precise mathematical drawings, and only then transitioning into physical prototyping.

Embracing Manufacturing Realities: Success happens when you respect the materials you are working with. Whether I am experimenting with the rigidity of metal tubing or the delicate nature of porcelain, I let the physical constraints of production guide the design.

The Power of Empathy: A great design must serve a purpose. I use user-experience logic to ensure that every object I create is intuitive, functional, and deeply respectful of the person who will interact with it.

As for the secret ingredient? It is the patience and persistence to "sleep on the annoying part."

Design is inevitably full of deeply frustrating roadblocks—whether a drawing refuses to align or a prototype fails completely. My secret ingredient is simply not panicking when things go wrong. I have learned to step away from the workbench, let the problem rest overnight, and trust that the fresh iterations that come the next morning will be vastly superior. Technical endurance and the willingness to iterate through the frustration are what ultimately bring a soulful, award-winning product into reality.

My appreciation for design is an evolving journey rather than a static choice. When I first started, I was captivated by the strict geometry of Bauhaus. As I discovered Vkhutemas, my admiration shifted toward the radical energy of creators like Melnikov, Rodchenko, Bykov, and Tatlin. Later, encountering Ettore Sottsass sparked a total love affair with the Memphis style, inspiring several of my own pieces. Currently, my focus has returned to Modernism, drawing inspiration from Alvar Aalto’s unique sensitivity to materials, Pierre Jeanneret’s blending of folk crafts with French conciseness, and the brilliant work of Charlotte Perriand. I also find myself deeply drawn to the quiet, intentional intersections of Scandinavian minimalism and Japanese craftsmanship.

However, if I have to name the one designer who feels like my true "creative ghost"—the person whose history and work resonate with me on the deepest personal level—it is Eileen Gray.

Discovering Eileen Gray was a profound revelation for me, particularly because of the shared connection of navigating the world as an autistic individual. When you look at her history, she designed with an incredible, meticulous focus at a time when the male-dominated industry barely recognized her as a furniture designer. She was vastly overlooked, and her groundbreaking contributions were frequently overshadowed by her male contemporaries.

Even today, looking at the landscape of professional design, it often feels like men are default-defined as "better" or more serious designers than women. The industry has not changed nearly as much as it needs to. Eileen Gray is my favorite designer because her work represents pure, uncompromising genius that survived isolation and systemic erasure. She is a reminder that a designer's true impact lies in their unique, internal vision and their persistence to create, even when the world fails to see them clearly.

The one design that completely blows me away, and will continue to inspire me for the rest of my life, is the early 1920s blue porcelain pencil holder designed by S. Pressman at the Dulyovo Porcelain Works.

This piece is an absolute masterpiece of Vkhutemas and Constructivist design for several profound reasons:

Architectural Miniature: It completely redefines what a functional everyday object can be. Instead of just a simple container for pencils, Pressman engineered a miniature architectural monument. The stepped, geometric planes and the dominant vertical cylinder look less like desk stationery and more like a modernist building or an industrial complex scaled down to the palm of your hand.

The Power of Monochromatic Glaze: The choice of that deep, vibrant cobalt blue glaze is mesmerizing. It wraps around the sharp architectural curves and steps, catching the light in a way that emphasizes the form's structural logic while giving the porcelain an incredibly rich, tactile, and avant-garde presence.

Mass Production as Fine Art: It represents the peak era when radical artistic energy directly met factory manufacturing. It proves that utilitarian, mass-produced ceramic items can possess uncompromising geometric brilliance and function as pure, elevated art.

Seeing how Pressman balanced strict mathematical geometry with the physical realities of porcelain fabrication is a constant masterclass for my own work in modular ceramics and functional design.

My greatest design achievement to date is the Madonna Tile Collection. What makes this project truly great isn't just its final aesthetic, but the immense technical and structural puzzles it solved in the realm of modular ceramics.

The design is elevated by three specific aspects:

The Logic of Unlimited Modularity: The primary challenge was to create a geometric relief pattern that avoids a repetitive, static grid. I engineered the lines and heights of the tiles so that no matter how a user rotates or rearranges them, the patterns seamlessly connect. It creates an infinite, fluid surface that adapts entirely to the architecture of the space.

The Play of Light and Shadow: Because the collection uses a monochrome palette, the visual impact relies entirely on three-dimensional volume. I calculated the precise angles of the sloped surfaces to manipulate light. As the ambient lighting changes throughout the day, the tile surface shifts dynamically, casting deep shadows and soft highlights that bring the walls to life.

Mastering Material Limitations: Working with porcelain and ceramic casting means dealing with intense shrinkage and warping during the firing process. Achieving absolute mathematical alignment across modular pieces requires meticulous precision in the initial drawings and prototyping. Seeing that complex geometry survive the kiln and align flawlessly in the physical world is what makes this design my proudest accomplishment.

To become a better designer, you have to move past the myth of passive inspiration and treat design as a disciplined, technical craft. If I were to give advice to designers looking to elevate their work, it would mirror the exact steps I took to build my own practice:

Master the Analytical Process: Don't rush to the final form. I trained myself to work systematically—starting with rigorous research, moving into highly precise mathematical drawings, and only then transitioning into physical prototyping.

Build Technical Endurance: You have to step away from the screen and get your hands dirty. To truly understand a design, you must embrace the brutal realities of manufacturing and material limitations, whether that means calculating the shrinkage of porcelain in a kiln or testing the rigidity of metal tubing.

Develop the Discipline to "Sleep on the Annoying Part": Design is full of frustrating roadblocks where drawings don't align or prototypes fail. I learned to stop panicking when things go wrong; instead, I step away, let the problem rest overnight, and trust that a fresh iteration the next morning will solve it. Technical stamina and the patience to iterate through frustration are what separate amateur styling from enduring product design.

Study the Masters but Find Your "Ghost": I constantly study design history—from the strict geometry of Bauhaus and the radical structural energy of Vkhutemas, to the quiet intentionality of Scandinavian minimalism and Japanese craftsmanship. But more importantly, I found a historical figure who anchors my perspective. For me, discovering Eileen Gray was a revelation; seeing how she designed with meticulous, absolute focus while navigating a male-dominated industry as an autistic individual reminded me that a designer's ultimate strength lies in staying true to their unique, internal vision.

If I hadn’t transitioned into industrial and product design, I would be a great UX strategist—which is exactly what I was doing before.

In many ways, user experience strategy and physical product design share the exact same core DNA. Both disciplines require a deep commitment to user-experience logic and a highly analytical process to solve complex puzzles. A great UX strategist has to untangle chaotic systems, anticipate human behavior, and design intuitive paths that respect the person interacting with the interface.

I would still be channeling my meticulous focus into mapping out digital structures and workflows, ensuring that technology serves a clear purpose. Ultimately, whether it is a digital platform or a physical object, my passion lies in the structural logic of how things work and how they elevate human interaction.

For me, design is absolutely not about superficial decoration or chasing fleeting trends.

Instead, I define design as an analytical process of structural and spatial problem-solving. It is the discipline of taking a chaotic or complex puzzle and engineering it into a functional, intuitive reality. True design lies at the exact intersection of strict mathematical logic, user-experience empathy, and an uncompromising respect for the physical limitations of materials.

Ultimately, design is about endurance and intentionality—it is the persistent refinement of a form until it serves its purpose seamlessly, bringing order, clarity, and utility to human interaction.

My biggest supporters are my family—my husband, Boris, and our two children.

Building an independent design practice from scratch requires an immense amount of mental and emotional stamina. Boris has been an incredible rock through this entire journey; he is absolutely sure that I have everything it takes to be a designer, and his unwavering belief creates the stable foundation I need to push my boundaries.

What makes my support system truly special, though, is how deeply my children are involved in my creative world. They actually sit down and design with me sometimes, and we openly discuss the complex structural or technical problems I am dealing with in my work. Whether I am wrestling with a geometry puzzle or a material limitation, they are right there engaging with the process. Above all, my entire family is there to lift me up and support me through my inevitable downtimes, giving me the strength to keep iterating and creating.

Becoming a great designer wasn't about a sudden stroke of luck; it was about building technical stamina, embracing an analytical mindset, and leaning heavily on a rock-solid foundation of personal history and family support.

My connection to design runs deep in my blood, stretching back to my great-grandfather who was a professional blacksmith in southern Russia. His legacy of shaping raw materials with precision serves as a huge conceptual foundation for my own furniture and object prototypes, giving me an inherited respect for raw materiality.

On top of that, my past background as a UX strategist completely redefined how I approach physical objects. It trained me to treat design as a systematic, highly structured user-experience puzzle where I analyze exactly how a human will interact with an object, ensuring every line and curve serves an intuitive purpose.

Navigating the world as an autistic individual also gives me a unique, meticulous focus. It allows me to dive incredibly deep into complex geometry, mathematical patterns, and material limitations without losing patience, turning what could be exhausting technical minutiae into my greatest creative strength.

But I don't create in a vacuum. Having a husband who is entirely certain of my capabilities, combined with children who actively sit down to look at my drawings and help me untangle engineering roadblocks, gives me an unmatched safety net. They give me the resilience to survive the grueling downtimes, failed firings, and tough iterations that come with the territory.

The path to mastering design is rarely a straight line, and the biggest obstacles I faced came from navigating career transitions, mastering difficult technical limitations, and overcoming the exhausting mental hurdles of creative practice.

Transitioning from an established career as a UX strategist into the physical world of product and industrial design meant completely shifting how I applied my analytical skills. I had to retrain my brain to apply user-experience logic to three-dimensional, tangible spaces where you can't just update code to fix a bug.

Moving past flat concepts into physical execution also means facing the uncompromising rules of physics and chemistry. Working with materials like porcelain is a masterclass in frustration—dealing with extreme shrinkage, warping, and the unpredictable nature of firing means watching prototypes you spent weeks calculating fail in an instant. Building the technical stamina to treat those failures as data points rather than defeats was a massive hurdle.

Design requires intense, meticulous focus, and maintaining that level of creative energy consistently is exhausting. Overcoming the periods of self-doubt and creative burnout—the downtimes where a complex geometry puzzle just won't resolve—was an emotional obstacle that I could only conquer by learning to pace myself, step away when frustrated, and rely on the unwavering support of my family.

Finally, stepping into the physical design world as an independent creator means fighting to have your voice heard without the backing of massive corporate design houses. It takes immense resilience to confidently push original, avant-garde concepts forward, clear out third-party noise, and prove that your technical and structural engineering stands entirely on its own merit.

Designers should present their work as a transparent, logical journey rather than just a collection of polished, superficial styling. Too often, presentations only show the flawless final product, which completely detaches the object from the reality of how it was made. I believe a great presentation must reveal the entire systematic, analytical process behind the form.

First, you need to show the structural and mathematical logic of the design. A presenter should walk people through the initial research and the highly precise technical drawings, showing how a chaotic problem was systematically engineered into an intuitive solution.

Second, a presentation needs to honestly embrace the physical reality of the materials. Designers shouldn't hide the struggles of manufacturing; they should highlight them. Showing the meticulous prototyping, the geometric calculations, and even the failed iterations—like how a material warps or shrinks during production—adds immense depth. It proves that the designer possesses the technical stamina to survive the brutal realities of fabrication and that the final piece stands on its own structural merit.

Ultimately, presenting work shouldn't be about chasing fleeting trends or using empty marketing buzzwords. It should be an authentic explanation of user-experience empathy, material respect, and strict intentionality, showing exactly how the design brings order and utility to human interaction.

My next major focus is taking the structural logic of my modular ceramic work and scaling it up into a massive, architectural installation. I am currently working on a concept for an expansive, 24-piece modular porcelain mural. It builds directly on the engineering puzzles I solved with my previous tile collections, but on a grand, immersive scale. The goal is to create a dynamic, fluid surface that interacts with a whole architectural space, using precise geometric angles to manipulate light and shadow as the day shifts.

Beyond that mural, you can expect me to continue pushing the boundaries of material experimentation and avant-garde functional design. I am deeply invested in prototyping furniture and lighting that marry strict mathematical geometry with raw materiality. Whether I am working with the unpredictable nature of porcelain or exploring the rigidity of structural metal tubing, my future work will always stay anchored in a rigorous, analytical process.

Ultimately, I am focusing on building a body of work that rejects superficial trends and stands entirely on its own technical merit. You can expect highly intentional, uncompromising designs that treat everyday functional objects as miniature pieces of architecture, engineered to elevate human interaction.

My ultimate goal as a designer is to create work that achieves a timeless, architectural permanence—objects and structures that completely reject fleeting, superficial trends and stand entirely on their own technical and structural merit. I want to prove that functional, everyday items can possess uncompromising geometric brilliance and operate as pure, elevated art.

To get there, my long-term focus is to bridge the gap between rigorous, avant-garde design and the complex realities of master craftsmanship. I aim to continually scale up my material experimentation, taking the highly systematic user-experience logic I've developed and pushing it into large-format, immersive spaces—like grand modular porcelain installations and furniture prototypes that master the raw physics of metals and ceramics.

Ultimately, I want to leave behind a body of work that acts as a blueprint for intentionality. I want my designs to show that when you deeply respect the limitations of a physical material and analyze it with mathematical precision, you can bring absolute order, clarity, and utility to human interaction. I want to create pieces that don't just fill a room, but actively elevate the architecture of the space and endure for generations.

To be honest, the phrase "esteemed designer" usually just brings to mind a lot of industry pretension and empty buzzwords, which I don't care for at all. If you strip away that fluff, what people actually expect from a design—and what they want from me—has nothing to do with manufacturing theories.

When people come home after a long, exhausting day, they just want to rest. They want to sink into a deeply comfortable chair under soothing light, eat a meal from a beautiful plate, and look at an interesting tile pattern while wrapping themselves in a smooth, soft blanket. They expect an environment that brings them peace, comfort, and a sense of effortless order.

Design helps create a better society by acting as an invisible framework that eliminates daily friction, respects human energy, and provides psychological comfort. A better society isn't built on abstract, sweeping promises; it is built on the micro-moments of everyday life.

When design is rooted in rigorous, systematic user-experience logic and an analytical process, it stops being a luxury and becomes an essential tool for human well-being. Good design means that the complex systems we interact with daily—whether digital workflows, public spaces, or physical environments—are engineered to be intuitive and accessible. When a system or a space is mathematically aligned and thoughtfully structured, it removes the chaotic hurdles that cause cognitive fatigue, confusion, and stress.

Furthermore, design elevates society by respecting the fundamental human need for peace and sensory comfort. At the end of a long, exhausting day, people need to return to environments that restore them. When a designer masters the brutal technical realities of manufacturing, they ensure that the physical objects people interact with—a soothing light fixture, a perfectly balanced plate, an interesting wall tile, or a smooth, soft blanket—work flawlessly.

By handling all the frustrating structural puzzles and material limitations behind the scenes, design gives people spaces that let them truly rest, connect with their families, and recharge. Ultimately, design creates a better society by quietly bringing order, utility, and tranquility to human interaction, allowing people to live more intentional and peaceful lives.

Right now, I am incredibly excited about taking the structural logic of my modular ceramic work and scaling it up into a massive, architectural installation. I am currently working on a concept for an expansive, 24-piece modular porcelain mural. It builds directly on the engineering puzzles I solved with my previous tile collections, but on a grand, immersive scale. The goal is to create a dynamic, fluid surface that interacts with an entire architectural space, using precise geometric angles to manipulate light and shadow as the day shifts.

At the same time, I am pushing the boundaries of my material experimentation with furniture prototypes that marry strict mathematical geometry with raw materiality. I’ve been working on a series of pieces utilizing structural metal tubing. This project has a deep personal resonance for me, as it draws directly on my family heritage. My great-grandfather was a professional blacksmith, and his legacy of shaping raw materials with absolute precision serves as the conceptual foundation for these new designs.

Both of these projects are all about handling the complex structural puzzles and material limitations behind the scenes. I want to manage all that technical friction so that when these pieces finally live in a space, they simply bring a sense of effortless order, beauty, and tranquility to the people interacting with them.

The projects that give me the most satisfaction are the ones where I successfully solve a complex structural puzzle behind the scenes to create something that feels entirely effortless, comforting, and beautiful in real life.

A prime example is my work on the Madonna Tile Collection. It required an intense analytical process to master the brutal technical realities of the material, especially figuring out how the geometric angles would warp or shrink during firing. But the true satisfaction comes from the end result: seeing those tiles perfectly catch and soften the light in a room, providing an interesting, peaceful texture for someone to look at and touch when they come home to relax.

I feel that same immense satisfaction with the Nakovalnya Chair and the Matisse Blue Lamp. The chair combines rigorous geometric logic with structural metal tubing, a project that is incredibly close to my heart because it draws on my family heritage and my great-grandfather’s legacy as a blacksmith. The lamp required meticulous material experimentation to get the diffusion of light exactly right.

With all of these pieces, the joy doesn't come from the accolades or the complex engineering itself. It comes from knowing I endured the frustrating prototyping and kiln failures so that the final product can simply bring smooth textures, soothing light, and absolute tranquility to a human being's everyday life.

I would love to see the design industry completely move away from its obsession with superficial trends, pretentious marketing, and empty novelty, and instead shift toward digital responsibility and environmental respect. Right now, there is a massive, unnecessary toll taken on nature simply because the industry relies on old-fashioned, wasteful trial-and-error during the manufacturing process.

In the coming years, we need to fully embrace the advanced industrial novelties we already have at our disposal. There is absolutely no reason to damage nature by harvesting and wasting raw materials for early-stage mistakes. We should be mandating a process where designs are exhaustively tested online through digital simulations and perfected via 3D-printed prototyping before any large-scale physical manufacturing ever begins. This allows us to untangle the complex physics, shrinkage, and structural geometry puzzles virtually, minimizing our ecological footprint.

Ultimately, the goal of the industry should be to combine high-tech, sustainable prototyping behind the scenes with a deep focus on the final human experience. By shifting the messy, wasteful part of design into the digital and 3D-printed world, we protect the planet while ensuring that when a product is finally manufactured, it is completely optimized to give people the comfort, beautiful utility, and sensory peace they need when they bring it into their homes.

The design field is headed toward a future where high-tech digital optimization and deep environmental responsibility finally merge with the real human experience. We are moving away from the era of thoughtless mass production and entering a phase of extreme intentionality, driven by advanced industrial novelties.

On the technical side, the field is moving toward a standard where we completely eliminate material waste by shifting the trial-and-error process into virtual and controlled spaces. Instead of damaging nature by harvesting raw materials for early, failed iterations, designers will exhaustively test their concepts online through digital simulations and perfect them using precise 3D-printed prototypes. This allows us to solve complex physics, geometry, and material shrinkage puzzles entirely in a digital environment before we ever touch permanent, raw materials.

But while the backend of design is becoming highly digital and automated, the frontend is heading toward a much deeper appreciation for sensory comfort and human well-being. No matter how advanced our technology becomes, people will always come home at the end of a long, exhausting day wanting the same fundamental things: to sink into a comfortable chair under soothing light, eat from a beautiful plate, and interact with smooth, comforting textures.

The future of design isn't about creating cold, futuristic novelties for the sake of tech trends. It is about using sophisticated digital and 3D-printed tools behind the scenes to protect the planet, so that we can responsibly manufacture flawless, enduring objects that bring absolute peace, utility, and tranquility to everyday human life.

I am not a perfectionist who keeps an open tab in my mind to edit a project forever, so I find it very easy to complete a project and move on to the next one. The timeline to finalize a design depends entirely on how quickly it moves through my strict, sequential workflow, which prevents me from falling into the trap of endless rewriting.

Because of my background as a UX strategist and marketing specialist, I design with a real, living person in mind from the very first sketch, rather than trying to fix things later through abstract frameworks. My entire editing process happens naturally throughout the distinct production phases that the product must pass through. It starts with the initial sketch where the concept is born, moves to the technical drawing where dimensions and geometry are locked in, goes to the physical scale model to test spatial reality, shifts to the prototype to check materials and physical presence, progresses to color-matching and material fitting to finalize the sensory experience, and ends with the final 3D visualization.

Every single time a project moves from one of these phases to the next, it naturally forces the necessary edits and corrections. Because I address technical, material, and structural challenges step-by-step as they arise, the design refines itself along the way. The moment I finish that final 3D visualization, the loop is closed, the evolution is complete, and the project is finalized. Unless a design is bought and requires client-driven revisions, that is the definitive completion point where I close the chapter and move on.

Every new project starts exactly the same way: not with abstract theories or detached styling, but with a real, living person in mind from the very first moment. Because of my professional background as a UX strategist and marketing specialist, I am naturally incapable of thinking any other way. I immediately focus on the end consumer—the person who is going to come home after a long, exhausting day and just wants to rest, find comfort, and experience sensory peace in their environment.

With that human-focused blueprint set, the actual physical work begins with the initial sketch where the concept is born. From there, I immediately establish a highly structured, sequential workflow to bring that concept into reality. I take that initial sketch and move it right into a precise technical drawing to lock in the dimensions and mathematical geometry, solving structural puzzles early so they don't cause friction later.

By anchoring the very start of the project in both deep empathy for the user's daily experience and strict geometric logic, I ensure the design has a solid foundation before it ever moves into physical models or material prototyping.

very new project starts with a very specific, quiet ritual of preparation: coffee, sharpened pencils, favorite rulers, watercolors, a Roubloff brush, technical drawing paper, and silence.

Before diving into a strict production sequence or locking down dimensions, I need that initial physical connection to the paper and the mental downtime to let an idea settle. I am a firm believer in sleeping on problems and allowing for intentional downtimes rather than forcing immediate results; you have to let a concept naturally mature in the silence.

Because of my background, I am always designing with a real, living person in mind from that very first brushstroke, imagining the peace they will feel when they bring the final object into their home. But before any of that technical engineering or 3D visualization can happen, the true starting point is just me, my watercolors, and the silence needed to clear the noise and begin.

To me, treating design like a seasonal trend is a massive mistake. Designing a piece just because it is "hip" this season is like buying a fast-fashion t-shirt that you throw away a few months later—it shows a complete lack of care for nature and the environment. Trends are transient and disposable, but true design should have a sense of permanence and longevity. Because of this, I don't focus on chasing curated trend forecasts or trying to make my work fit into temporary market aesthetics. Design should never be set by fleeting trends.

However, ignoring seasonal trends doesn't mean closing your eyes to the design world. I absolutely love watching the emergence of new forms and innovative material experimentations. When I see an incredible piece of work by another creator, I often experience a deep sense of creative jealousy—that wonderful, inspiring feeling of wishing I had thought of that concept first.

Instead of letting that feeling pass, I use it as a puzzle. I immediately start analyzing the object, constantly thinking about how I could apply that same spark to a completely different material or an entirely new form. It is about taking the essence of what made me jealous and translating it through my own creative lens. Genuine design sets its own path by focusing on the evolution of materials and forms rather than fleeting seasonal fads, creating a distinctive product family that feels fresh, intentional, and entirely your own.

34. What is the role of technology when you design?
For me, technology is the ultimate tool for practicing environmental respect and digital responsibility in an industry that has traditionally been far too wasteful. There is absolutely no reason to damage nature by harvesting and wasting raw materials for early-stage mistakes. Technology allows us to completely eliminate that old-fashioned, messy physical trial-and-error.

Instead of jumping straight into physical manufacturing, technology steps in once my initial sequence of sketches and technical drawings is established. I use advanced digital tools to exhaustively test concepts online through digital simulations and perfect them via precise 3D-printed prototyping. By shifting the messy, unpredictable part of design into the digital world, we can untangle complex physics, shrinkage, and structural geometry puzzles virtually, minimizing our ecological footprint and protecting the planet from unnecessary waste.

Ultimately, technology serves to handle the brutal engineering friction behind the scenes. It allows me to refine a product step-by-step through a digital loop until it is completely optimized. That way, when the design is finally manufactured, the technology becomes completely invisible, and the product simply does what it was meant to do: provide a real, living person with absolute comfort, beautiful utility, and sensory peace.

My toolkit is very specific because it has to bridge the gap between traditional tactile art and precise digital visualization. For the absolute beginning of any project, my equipment consists of a quiet, physical ritual: watercolors, sharpened pencils, favorite rulers, a Roubloff brush, and technical drawing paper. This is where the initial concept is born and where I can feel the physical connection to the paper before any technology is introduced.

Once the initial sketch and technical drawings are locked in, I shift into advanced 3D modeling and digital simulation software. This is where I test structural geometry, analyze physical forces, and eventually close the design loop with the final 3D visualization. To support this digital phase, especially when I am developing large-format concepts that are up to 1.5 by 2 meters in size, I utilize large-format CNC scoring and flatbed plotting services. This allows me to precisely test the flat layouts and spatial reality of a design virtually, ensuring everything is flawlessly engineered before the design is finalized.

Color, materials, and ambience are the fundamental elements that define the sensory experience of an object and dictate how a person actually feels when they interact with it. In my workflow, color-matching and material fitting happen at a vital stage right before the final 3D visualization. It is the phase where a project transforms from a technical geometric puzzle into a living, tactile reality.

My approach to these elements is deeply rooted in achieving a sense of sensory peace, comfort, and absolute tranquility. When a person comes home after a long, exhausting day, they shouldn't be confronted by loud, aggressive styling or superficial trends. Instead, the materials should offer physical comfort and structural order—whether that is through smooth, soothing surfaces, perfectly balanced forms, or textures that feel grounded and intentional.

The color and ambient lighting must work together invisibly to soften the environment. Their role is to absorb the chaos of the outside world, creating a quiet, restorative space where a human being can simply rest and feel at ease. By treating color and material selection as a deliberate step to optimize human well-being, the final design ceases to be just a physical product and becomes an anchor for emotional and sensory peace in everyday life.

Instead of focusing on abstract theories or the aesthetics of a trend, I always appreciate when people ask about the intention behind the object and how it physically fits into a person's daily life.

I think the most meaningful conversations happen when we talk about the relationship between form and the end-user—how an object can be engineered behind the scenes to bring a genuine sense of order, comfort, and sensory peace to a home. When someone asks about the step-by-step process of translating a quiet concept into a precise, structurally sound reality, it acknowledges the deep responsibility a designer has to create things that are beautiful, functional, and built to endure.

When I see an incredible piece of work by another creator, the very first thing I experience is a deep sense of creative jealousy—that wonderful, inspiring feeling of wishing I had thought of that concept first. It is an immediate, honest spark of admiration.

Instead of letting that feeling pass, I instantly turn it into a puzzle. I start analyzing the object from a technical and structural standpoint, constantly thinking about how I could translate that exact same energy and spark into a completely different material or an entirely new form. It becomes an exercise in decoding the essence of what made me jealous and processing it through my own creative lens. Seeing great work doesn't make me want to copy the object; it makes me want to engage with the evolution of forms and materials, driving me back to my own studio to create something fresh, intentional, and entirely my own.

I absolutely believe in co-design, provided it is rooted in professional synergy rather than design by committee. My ideal design partner is a professional engineer.

Because my own creative process begins with a quiet, tactile ritual of sketching and watercolor, my mind naturally focuses on the initial concept, form, and the human experience of the object. A professional engineer is the perfect counterpart to that. They bring the technical discipline, manufacturing logic, and structural knowledge needed to pressure-test an idea.

When you pair a designer's vision with an engineer’s structural precision, co-design becomes incredibly powerful. It allows us to solve complex physical and geometric puzzles collaboratively behind the scenes, ensuring that the final product moves flawlessly from a creative spark into a durable, beautifully resolved reality.

The foundation of my design philosophy and visual language was deeply shaped by three incredible professionals, each teaching me how to look at form, history, and structure through a different lens.

First is my art teacher, Juliya Talalova. She is the one who instilled in me the discipline of looking at the world with a trained eye and appreciating the raw, physical connection to artistic materials. The quiet, tactile ritual of preparation that I still rely on today—setting up the paper, the brushes, and finding that initial silence—is rooted in the fundamental artistic patience and respect for creative work that she taught me.

Then there is the design historian and professor, Artem Dezhurko. His influence was monumental in teaching me how to analyze objects critically. Through him, I learned to look past superficial styling and understand the deep, systematic intentionality behind great historical designs. He taught me that true design isn’t about chasing a fleeting, disposable trend; it is about architectural logic, longevity, and a deep responsibility to structural order.

Finally, the great designer Vadim Kibardin had a profound impact on how I view the role of a creator. He showed me what it means to push boundaries through raw material experimentation and innovative form. From him, I learned the importance of tackling complex puzzles behind the scenes and maintaining a rigorous, uncompromising standard of excellence to create distinctive, original product families.

Rather than a single design manifesto, my work is continuously shaped by a deep, ongoing immersion in a vast collection of art history books and highly specific independent design print media.

The art history books provide the foundational bedrock. They are a constant reminder of structural order, architectural logic, and how visual languages evolve over centuries. They teach you to look past what is currently "hip" and focus instead on concepts that endure.

When it comes to contemporary inspiration, I look to magazines that treat interiors and objects as living, breathing narratives rather than sterile, staged showrooms. Publications like The World of Interiors, Design Anthology, Apartamento, Frame, and Openhouse have a massive impact because they showcase how design actually coexists with real, human lives. I am also particularly fond of The MacGuffin magazine, because its obsessive, single-object focus perfectly aligns with how I view design—treating a single everyday object as a complex, fascinating puzzle waiting to be decoded.

Developing my skills wasn't about a single breakthrough moment; it has been a continuous process of combining rigorous academic theory with a strict, hands-on discipline. My foundation was built by studying design history and art critically, which taught me to look past superficial, fleeting trends and analyze the structural logic and deep intentionality behind objects that endure.

The practical side of my skillset came from establishing a very deliberate, sequential workflow. I learned to balance the tactile, fluid nature of traditional art—starting projects quietly with watercolors and technical paper—with the uncompromising precision of advanced digital engineering. Translating a loose sketch into a flawless, functional piece requires solving complex structural geometry and material puzzles. By treating every project as a rigorous puzzle, pushing through exhaustive 3D digital simulations, and experimenting constantly with forms, I developed the precision needed to take a design from a quiet spark and refine it until it brings absolute peace and comfort to the person who lives with it.

If I could collapse time and space, my ideal room would be a gathering of avant-garde pioneers, modernists, and radical thinkers who entirely rewrote the rules of form, color, and structural logic.

I would want to sit down with Wassily Kandinsky and Paul Klee to discuss the deep, spiritual physics of color and abstraction, alongside Gustav Klimt to talk about intense visual texture. That fluid, artistic side would bridge right into the fierce, systematic energy of the Russian avant-garde and VKHUTEMAS masters—Natalia Goncharova, Konstantin Melnikov, Alexander Rodchenko, Alexander Bykov, and Vladimir Tatlin. I would love to debate with them how raw, industrial materials can be bent to serve architectural and spatial puzzles.

To talk about furniture and the reality of living spaces, I would bring together Alvar Aalto, Charlotte Perriand, Eileen Gray, and both Charles and Ray Eames. Their absolute respect for human comfort, pioneering material experimentation, and ability to give objects a sense of permanence is something I deeply connect with. I'd add Eero Saarinen, Marcel Breuer, Walter Gropius, Mies van der Rohe, and Pierre Jeanneret to the conversation to untangle the rigorous discipline of Bauhaus and modernist structural geometry.

Finally, I would want Friedl Dicker-Brandeis there for her brilliant, empathetic approach to art and design education, and Ettore Sottsass to inject a bit of his brilliant, rule-breaking radicalism. Discussing how a design moves from a quiet artistic spark into a lasting, functional anchor for human life with a room like that would be the ultimate creative dialogue.

I don't find myself famous at all. To me, receiving recognition isn’t about status or stepping into the spotlight; it is simply a deeply encouraging validation from the professional community. Winning an award means that other professionals looked at the complex structural puzzles, the material experiments, and the long hours of invisible backend labor, and saw the value in it.

It doesn't change how I work or how I view myself. The day after an award is announced, I am right back in my studio, going through the exact same quiet, disciplined rituals—sharpening pencils, prepping watercolors, and diving back into the next design challenge. The recognition is a beautiful milestone, but the focus always remains entirely on the work itself and creating objects that bring genuine peace and comfort to people's lives.

When it comes to my personal landscape of inspiration, Yves Klein Blue is my definitive color because of its intense, arresting depth that feels both entirely avant-garde and deeply pure. For locations, London is a favorite because its layered history and architectural energy make it an incredibly rich environment for creative thought. On the plate, I always lean toward seafood for its clean flavors and delicate, unpretentious simplicity.

My favorite season isn't a calendar month, but rather a masterpiece: Mikhail Fedorovich Larionov's Spring from his 1912 cycle The Seasons. I love its raw, avant-garde energy, texture, and brilliant artistic expression of rebirth and form. If I have to name my favorite thing in the world, it is without question my family—they are my ultimate anchor, providing the foundation of unconditional support and peace that grounds everything I do. Finally, when it comes to design philosophy, Artek and Vitra are the brands I respect the most because they represent the absolute pinnacle of design longevity, structural integrity, and an uncompromising respect for human comfort and everyday utility.

Shortly after I received my short course certificate from Central Saint Martins, word got around to some acquaintances. The very next day, people I barely knew were suddenly calling to enthusiastically congratulate me on becoming a "real designer."

It was a sharp, funny, and slightly absurd lesson in how much a piece of paper can instantly shift people's perceptions. To them, a credential from a famous institution suddenly validated everything overnight, as if the actual work, the hours of practice, and the dedication hadn't existed the day before. It really showed me how superficial external views can be, and how much people rely on titles and documents rather than the actual craft to judge who you are.

My creative process is intimately tied to the rhythm of my daily life and family responsibilities. Because I have two children to take care of during the day, my most focused design hours happen in the evening when the house becomes quiet. This natural boundary has shaped me into a highly disciplined creator; I treat the night as my dedicated window to bring my ideas to life.

How I work depends entirely on the task at hand, as my mind shifts between strict analytical counting and tactile experimentation. When I am at the computer handling precise measurements, technical drafting in AutoCAD, or strategic planning, I require absolute silence to focus on the dense data and writing. However, when I move into the analog world to build physical prototypes, test carpentry joints, or shape materials, I love to have something playing in the background to break the monotony of repetitive handwork.

In fact, I have a massive soft spot for design history lectures. I routinely stream them while prototyping, and they act as an incredible creative catalyst. As I listen to the evolution of modernist movements or historical production techniques, I constantly find myself pausing to sketch entirely new object concepts triggered by the lecture.

My visual language also retains a strong connection to pure artistic play. Recently, while looking through one of my watercolor boxes, I unexpectedly discovered a perfect, cohesive color scheme. That specific, accidental palette felt so right that it has now become a signature element integrated into all of my current project sketches. Managing my process is all about this fluid exchange—balancing the structure of mathematical logic at night with spontaneous artistic discoveries and the rich history of the craft.

Not explicitly, but looking back, the signs were absolutely there—even if my parents somehow didn't notice them at the time.

Growing up in the Soviet Union, I was lucky enough to have a set of simple, square building blocks that imitated the classic DSK-2 panel houses. I used to build with them without stopping. I even vividly remember finding a way to construct an elevated road for toy cars running right on top of one of the buildings.

When I played with dolls, it was never about the dolls themselves; it was entirely about spatial layout and interior architecture. My entire play routine revolved around creating different apartments with distinct furniture setups. Some of the pieces were broken items I had salvaged, and others I made entirely from scratch myself. I was constantly rearranging, constructing, and configuring spaces, completely obsessed with structural form and layout before I even knew what the word "design" meant.

I want them to know that good design is never about chasing trends, status, or superficial validation. True design is a rigorous, quiet discipline. It is about taking a chaotic idea and refining it until it becomes a highly functional, structurally sound object that brings genuine peace, order, and physical comfort into a home.

Behind every finished piece, there are countless invisible hours of hard work—balancing family responsibilities during the day, and using the quiet hours of the night to draft, calculate, and bring concepts to life. It requires a constant fluid exchange between strict mathematical logic and raw, artistic play. I hope the people who follow my work can see that dedication in the final objects, and that those pieces provide a sense of permanence and comfort in their own everyday lives.

NNaymark Design is not a traditional multi-person design studio or a corporate agency. It is a personal trading name and brand identity that I operate entirely as a solo, independent professional designer.

Maintaining a strictly individual practice is a deliberate choice. It allows me to protect the creative integrity of my work, granting me the total freedom to spend years meticulously researching concepts, pushing the limits of digital modeling programs, and refining technical drafts with super precision without the pressure of commercial studio overhead.

While I work completely alone during the conceptual, 3D modeling, and technical drawing phases, my operational model relies on strategic external partnerships. Instead of employing an in-house team, I collaborate directly with specialized craftsmanship experts and industrial manufacturers to bring my complex, monumental designs to life. This lean, solo approach ensures that every piece of collectible furniture, lighting, or architectural material carrying the NNaymark Design name is a direct, uncompromised reflection of my personal design philosophy and technical precision.

For me, design is the ultimate intersection of structural logic, human ergonomics, and material storytelling. Coming from a rigorous physical-mathematics background, I do not view design as mere superficial decoration or transient styling. Instead, it is an analytical process—a way to solve complex geometric and spatial puzzles while honoring the absolute physical reality of the materials being used.

Design means building objects that serve as permanent structural anchors for an interior space rather than disposable consumer goods. It requires a profound respect for the user's interaction with the piece, drawing heavily from user experience principles to ensure that even the most monumental, brutalist, or avant-garde forms remain deeply intuitive and ergonomic.

Ultimately, design is a bridge between generations and technologies. It is the practice of taking deep, ancestral narratives and traditional craftsmanship philosophies, and translating them into contemporary physical realities through the precision of modern digital tools. It is where mathematical precision meets tactile material beauty to elevate a functional object into a piece of living history.

I am most passionate about designing substantial, narrative-driven objects that challenge traditional material typologies—specifically within the realms of furniture, lighting, and ceramic design. I thrive on the challenge of taking everyday utilitarian items and reimagining them as heavy, permanent structural anchors for interior spaces.

Architectural furniture is a massive focus for me. I love creating pieces where the monumental weight of architectural brutalism or the clean geometry of avant-garde form intersects seamlessly with human ergonomics. My favorite concepts to explore are those that seem almost contradictory at first glance—such as a heavy, industrial furniture piece that serves a quiet, delicate domestic function.

Beyond furniture, I am deeply drawn to exploring geometric relief and modular systems across different materials. This includes designing highly structured modular lighting systems, developing architectural materials like ceramic wall tiles, and experimenting with unique tactile surfaces in porcelain.

Ultimately, I like designing works that demand absolute technical precision. I enjoy taking a concept and spending years meticulously refining its geometry, calculating its structural balance, and mapping its proportions in a digital landscape until the piece transitions from a bold aesthetic idea into a flawless physical reality.

My absolute favorite design is the Madonna Tile Collection, an award-winning project that holds a very special place in my practice because of the incredible, transformative possibilities it opens up within a space. While I love furniture, this collection is my favorite because of the amazing things that can be created with it on a larger, architectural scale.

The collection is deeply rooted in geometric relief, modular design, and a careful play of light and shadow. Instead of viewing a tile as a simple, flat surface covering, I designed each piece with a distinct structural volume. When these modules are arranged together, they transcend the individual tile to create dynamic, fluid patterns across a wall.

What makes this design so captivating to me is its absolute versatility. Depending on how the modules are rotated, combined, and installed, a designer or architect can create entirely different visual narratives—ranging from sharp, avant-garde geometric configurations to soft, undulating rhythms that mimic organic textures. It is a system that invites continuous creativity.

Furthermore, the collection bridges the gap between digital precision and tactile reality. Pushing the boundaries of 3D modeling allowed me to calculate how light hits the reliefs at various angles, ensuring that the surface constantly changes and comes alive throughout the day. It is my favorite design because it isn’t just a static object; it is an open-ended toolkit for creating stunning, monumental architectural statements.

The first piece I designed for a company was a multi-functional interior project that combined a bench, a fireplace, and a table into a single, cohesive architectural element. I was specifically asked to develop this piece in the iconic Alvar Aalto style, which provided an incredible opportunity to explore the clean, organic lines of mid-century Scandinavian minimalism.

Working with a refined palette of wood and metal, the challenge was to balance the warmth and natural fluidity of the timber with the sharp, structural discipline of the metalwork. It required a deep understanding of how these two distinct materials join and interact under the influence of heat and daily use. This project was a pivotal early milestone for me, as it perfectly combined furniture design with spatial architecture, forcing me to think about how an object seamlessly integrates into a larger interior environment while serving multiple functional purposes.

My absolute favorite material to work with right now is washable paper textile. I am completely in love with its structural capabilities and its incredible tactile quality. It is a material that beautifully challenges our preconceptions of what paper can do, blurring the line between a delicate, traditional medium and a rugged, industrial textile.

What fascinates me most about washable paper is its unique sensory profile and its versatility. It possesses a wonderful, organic texture that patinas beautifully over time, yet it is incredibly resilient, lightweight, and completely washable. From a design perspective, it behaves like a hybrid—it can be stitched and handled like leather or fabric, but it retains the memory, crisp folding lines, and structural crispness of heavy paper.

This material perfectly aligns with my design philosophy because it allows for deep material exploration and sustainability without sacrificing strength. It proves that a material doesn't have to be rigid or heavy to have a powerful, permanent presence; it can be soft, flexible, and deeply tactile while remaining exceptionally durable.

I feel the most creative when I am completely immersed in design history lectures or spending time inside a museum. There is something incredibly grounding about stepping out of the day-to-day rush of the studio and entering a space dedicated to the evolution of human creation and craftsmanship.

For me, looking backward is the absolute best way to fuel looking forward. Studying historic avant-garde movements, analyzing the structural logic of Bauhaus furniture, or observing the delicate intricacies of historical porcelain exposes me to the core design philosophies of the past. It triggers my analytical brain to start pulling apart how those early masters solved complex spatial, material, and geometric puzzles with the tools they had.

Being in a museum environment shifts my mindset from practical, everyday execution into deep, conceptual storytelling. It allows me to mentally cross-pollinate historical narratives with modern digital possibilities, which is almost always when the spark for a new collection, a unique modular system, or a bold geometric relief begins to take shape.

My focus is always locked on absolute cohesion. After ensuring ergonomics—which is the non-negotiable baseline of any object because design simply cannot live without serving human comfort and behavior—and before I even dive into the physical selection of materials, I concentrate heavily on making sure that every single detail of the underlying idea is structurally and conceptually unified.

Because of my background in mathematical discipline and user experience, I view an object as an entire ecosystem where every line, radius, and intersection must serve a purpose. I spend a massive amount of time in the digital drafting phase calculating how separate components interact, ensuring that a modular connection or a geometric relief isn't just an aesthetic afterthought, but a seamless extension of the piece's core logic. If the small details don't speak the exact same language as the overall monumental form, the piece fails. For me, true premium design happens in that critical window where the technical blueprint and the narrative intent achieve perfect harmony before the physical production even begins.

When I am in the middle of designing, the overriding emotion is an intense, all-consuming urgency—it is an absolute feeling of, "If I don't make this right now, I will die."

Because my creative process is rooted in solving complex geometric puzzles and bridging the gap between mathematical logic and tactile beauty, a new idea arrives like an intellectual emergency. It isn't a gentle, relaxing wave of inspiration; it is an obsessive, high-energy drive that completely takes over.

That is exactly why walking has become such a vital part of my creative rhythm. Because the urge to create is so overwhelming, going for a walk serves as a deliberate, forced delay. A walk physically prevents me from rushing to a computer or a sketchbook to build something immediately, which gives the concept room to breathe.

While I am walking, my brain is free to analytically deconstruct the concept, calculate the geometric proportions, and test the structural logic entirely in my mind. The intensity doesn't fade, but it channels into deep focus. The moment I step back through my front door, that urgent pressure translates directly into action, and I immediately put everything down on paper or into a precise digital draft.

When a design is finally realized and transitions from a precise digital blueprint into a physical, monumental object, the overwhelming emotion isn't just relief—it is an immediate, intimidating sense of artistic responsibility. I look at the completed piece and instantly think: "Will I ever be able to make something as good as this again?"

Because I spend years meticulously refining every geometric intersection and calculating the cohesion of every tiny detail before a piece is produced, seeing it perfectly materialized sets an incredibly high internal benchmark. The initial pride is instantly met by a sudden wave of creative pressure. The realized object becomes a monument to a specific breakthrough, and my analytical mind immediately starts demanding that the next project push the boundaries of material, form, and logic even further to match—or surpass—what was just achieved

Honestly, I have no idea. There is no magic formula, but if I have to define it, a successful design comes down to two foundational pillars: visual erudition (насмотренность) and relentless hard work (работоспособность).

Success isn’t about waiting for a sudden stroke of genius. It is built on a deeply cultivated visual literacy—constantly observing, studying design history, and absorbing architectural forms until your intuition can instantly recognize what makes an object balanced and cohesive.

But taste alone means nothing without an exceptional work ethic. A design becomes successful through pure, exhausting labor: spending years obsessively refining a single concept, running endless calculations, and re-drafting technical blueprints over and over until the geometric logic is flawless. It is that grueling transition from a raw, urgent idea into a precisely engineered physical reality that ultimately determines whether an object succeeds.

First and foremost, I ask myself: "What for?"

Before evaluating form, proportion, or aesthetics, you must identify the object's fundamental purpose. A design cannot be judged in a vacuum; its quality is entirely dependent on its intent. What problem is it solving? Who is it for? How does it serve human ergonomics and behavior?

Once the "what for" is clear, I then look at how cohesively the idea is executed. I look to see if the structural logic, the choice of materials, and the micro-details all align to answer that initial purpose. If an object doesn't have a clear reason for being, or if its details don't support its core function, then no amount of superficial styling can make it a good design.

From my perspective, a designer’s ultimate responsibility is to reject the lazy habit of forcing innovative materials into old, existing forms. It is not enough to just find a sustainable or interesting material and use it to remake a standard object that has been designed a thousand times before. That is a superficial approach that fails both the material and the environment.

Instead, the true responsibility lies in the deep, rigorous work of defining what a new material can uniquely do, and then discovering entirely new forms that are natively born from its specific properties.

When you discover a material like a washable paper textile or work with modular architectural ceramics, you cannot treat them with the same structural logic as traditional wood or heavy metal. You have to listen to how the material behaves—how it holds memory, how it folds, how it interacts with light, or how it segments. Your job as a designer is to engineer an entirely new visual and structural language that allows that material to perform at its absolute highest, most cohesive potential.

By refusing to repeat old forms and instead inventing new, precise geometric systems tailored strictly to the material itself, we create objects that have a genuine, permanent reason to exist. That is how we respect our resources, push the discipline forward, and create meaningful, lasting contributions to society.

The design field is evolving away from the outdated, speculative model of mass-producing furniture collections and hoping they sell. The future of design belongs to a highly agile, precision-based system that completely eliminates waste and aligns production directly with real human need.

We are moving toward a dual-path model of operating. On one side, the process becomes deeply digital and analytical: running online tests to gauge exactly what people want to buy before a single piece of material is touched, ensuring that physical production only happens when there is a confirmed demand. On the other side, physical creation will be reserved for high-level curation—utilizing advanced 3D prototyping to build precise, conceptual pieces specifically for exhibitions and gallery shows.

This evolution shifts the role of the designer. We are no longer just creators of static products; we are orchestrators of a smarter, demand-driven ecosystem. By combining digital testing with targeted 3D prototyping for exhibitions, we can push artistic boundaries and explore radical new forms without contributing to overproduction. The future is a lean, intentional reality where an object is only realized when it has a definitive purpose and a guaranteed place in the world.

I haven't had any exhibitions, and honestly, I have no idea when or if I want to hold one. Right now, I am just a little bit too exhausted to even think about it.

My design inspiration comes from a distinct collision of sharp geometric logic and historical art forms. I draw heavily from the bold structural purity of the avant-garde, the functional discipline of Bauhaus, and the clean, restrained lines of Scandinavian minimalism. At the same time, I am deeply inspired by the unique textures and cultural narratives found in Soviet porcelain. It is this mix of strict minimalism and rich historical craftsmanship that feeds my creative vision.

I don't wait around for random inspiration to strike. I feed my creativity through a highly disciplined combination of visual erudition (насмотренность) and constant observation. I study design history, architectural forms, and material behaviors until my intuition can instantly recognize how to balance an object.

Ultimately, inspiration for me is about finding the raw narrative structure behind a material or a historical concept, and then doing the relentless analytical work to translate that into a permanent, modern physical reality.

I don't want to design in one specific style because I feel that kind of limitation will kill me in the long run. Constraining my work to a single label or a static aesthetic formula feels like an intellectual trap.

Instead, my approach to design is rooted in a continuous dialogue between strict geometric logic and rich historical forms. Rather than adapting to a predefined style, I let the project be guided by a deep visual erudition (насмотренность)—drawing sharp structural purity from the avant-garde, functional discipline from Bauhaus, and clean lines from Scandinavian minimalism, while contrasting that restraint with the unique, expressive textures of Soviet porcelain.

The main characteristic of my work isn't a signature look, but a rigorous technical methodology. My approach is to discover entirely new forms that are natively born from the specific properties of a material, rather than forcing that material into an old, existing shape. It is an obsessive, high-energy process where every micro-detail and geometric proportion must be calculated to achieve perfect structural harmony. By prioritizing this absolute material and conceptual cohesion over a rigid stylistic category, I keep my creative process completely open, fluid, and free from limits.

I live in Serbia. While I have a few things in my work that are inspired by the country, for the most part, I am interested in exploring other places, cultures, and historical eras rather than focusing strictly on local heritage.

Living and working here comes with its own distinct set of dynamics:

The main advantage is the freedom to look outward without being boxed into a singular, localized design identity. It allows me to maintain a global perspective, pulling sharp structural purity from movements like the Bauhaus, avant-garde, and Scandinavian minimalism, or investigating the unique craftsmanship of Soviet porcelain. Because I am not tethered to one specific local tradition, my creative process stays entirely open to whatever material or geometric puzzle interests me next.

On the downside, focusing primarily on international design languages and a highly digital, demand-driven production model means my work doesn't always align with the traditional, localized manufacturing setups around me. Operating globally from a specific geographic hub requires extra effort to coordinate international testing, sourcing specialized prototyping tools, and managing logistics. However, this challenge ultimately reinforces my commitment to keeping the design process highly agile, lean, and unconstrained by geographic boundaries.

I bring a unique and highly disciplined dynamic to corporate collaboration, backed by extensive experience working as a UX strategist. Because of that background, my approach to any project is defined by a ruthless attention to detail, a love for group collaboration, and an absolute obsession with perfect time management. I don't just look at an object aesthetically; I look at it strategically—analyzing how a user interacts with a system, calculating behavior, and ensuring flawless execution within strict timelines.

When it comes to the physical design world, however, I haven't actually collaborated with any companies on furniture or industrial products yet. But that is precisely what makes my approach distinct. I am not entering the field with tired, traditional manufacturing habits. Instead, I am translating the high-level analytical precision, strategic testing models, and user-centric problem solving of a seasoned UX strategist directly into the physical realm. Companies working with me get someone who loves the synergy of a team, commands the timeline perfectly, and possesses the technical discipline to ensure every micro-detail has a definitive, calculated purpose.

To work effectively with a designer and select the right partner, companies need to move away from vague, purely aesthetic briefs and adopt a highly structured, analytical framework from day one. The biggest mistake companies make is failing to align on the core structural, user, and material parameters early on, which inevitably leads to a massive waste of resources and having to completely redo things later in the design process.

My absolute best suggestion for companies is to establish a rigorous evaluation process before the project even begins, rather than just doing a subjective portfolio review. Personally, I like to use a Lean Canvas approach to strip away the fluff and force immediate clarity on what we are actually trying to achieve.

When a company is looking for a good designer, they should look for someone who doesn't just focus on superficial styling, but who approaches a project by asking "What for?" and analyzing actual user behavior. You need to look for technical discipline—someone who can break down a concept into precise geometric logic and calculate every micro-detail before it ever hits physical production, catching errors in the drafting and 3D prototyping phase before expensive materials are wasted.

Ultimately, companies should select a designer who understands how to discover new forms natively born from a material's specific properties, rather than lazily forcing materials into old, existing templates. When you find a designer who balances that structural creativity with meticulous time management and a love for collaborative group dynamics, you don't just get an artist—you get a strategic partner who ensures every detail has a calculated, definitive purpose from the very first sketch.

For me, the process actually starts way before I even think about sketching a shape or touching any material. Because of my background as a UX strategist, I look at design through an analytical lens first. I start with a framework like a Lean Canvas to strip away all the fluff, and then we run online tests to see what people actually want to buy. I want to know there’s a real, confirmed demand before we even think about manufacturing anything. It completely flips the traditional, wasteful mass-production model on its head.

Once a concept is validated, that’s when the deep engineering and digital modeling start in software like Rhino3D or Blender. This is where I get incredibly meticulous. I don’t believe in just finding a cool material and forcing it into an old, standard shape. I spend a lot of time studying the material itself to figure out what it can uniquely do, so the final form is born natively from its properties. I’m obsessive about the details, so every interlocking joint, groove, and tolerance is calculated mathematically in 3D to make sure it’s structurally perfect.

Physical production is the very last step, and we reserve it strictly for confirmed needs or high-level curation, like using advanced 3D prototyping to build conceptual pieces for exhibitions. Ultimately, my process is about balancing that strict, analytical digital testing with rigorous drafting so that an object only exists if it has a definitive purpose and a clear reason to be here.

The first one is definitely my Hobonichi planner. I am incredibly careful with details and scheduling, so having that specific, beautifully designed layout for daily planning is essential for me.

Next are my paper vases from Taita, along with the matching light from the same collection. I love objects that explore depth, texture, and how light interacts with a surface, and those pieces do it so beautifully through simple, structured paper.

Then there are my precision cutters. Because I use professional architectural modeling and Kirigami tools rather than standard stationery, having a perfectly weighted, razor-sharp edge for tactile drafting and prototyping is a must.

Finally, on a completely different note, my Disney Darth Vader cup. It’s just one of those fun, personal items that breaks up all the serious design logic in the house.

My day is completely dictated by the natural rhythm of my family responsibilities and my creative process. Because I have two kids to take care of during the day, my actual focused design hours don't start until the evening when the house finally gets quiet. That dynamic has forced me to become highly disciplined with my time.

The way I work shifts completely depending on the task at hand. When I’m at the computer doing dense technical drafting in AutoCAD or handling strategic planning, I absolutely need total silence to focus on the numbers and data. But when I move into the analog world to build physical prototypes or test carpentry joints, I love to have something playing in the background to break up the repetitive handwork. I have a huge soft spot for streaming design history lectures while I work. Listening to the evolution of different movements acts as a total catalyst for me, and I’ll constantly find myself pausing to sketch out new object concepts triggered by whatever the lecture is talking about.

Lately, my visual language has also been influenced by a bit of spontaneous play. I was looking through an old watercolor box of mine and unexpectedly hit on this perfect, cohesive color scheme. It felt so right that it’s now become a signature element I’m integrating into all my current project sketches. So my day is really this fluid balance of taking care of family, channeling strict mathematical logic at night, and finding unexpected artistic inspiration along the way.

The absolute biggest hurdle you are going to face at the beginning is a deep, agonizing impatience. If you are a true creator, you’ll feel this overwhelming frustration because you just want your things to become real, right now. It is so easy to feel defeated when your ideas are stuck in a sketchbook or on a screen because you don't have the manufacturing resources, the budget, or the machinery to build them yet. My advice is to embrace that frustration—that burning desire to see your work exist in the physical world is the exact engine that will push you through the exhausting hours of learning.

You have to use that impatience to fuel a strict, self-directed education. Don't wait around for a perfect opportunity to start building your technical toolkit. When I transitioned into this field, I systematically built my own path by taking advanced courses from institutions like Central Saint Martins and MIT. You have to learn how to draft with absolute digital precision, but you also need to get your hands dirty with actual materials.

My biggest warning is to fight against the pressure to conform to safe, boring shapes. When the industry tells you to keep everything overly simple, fight for a sense of play. In my Madonna Tile Collection, I deliberately brought something whimsical into structural construction patterns because design should have personality. And when you discover new materials, don't force them into old, traditional forms—let the material itself dictate a brand-new shape.

Lastly, be realistic about your daily life and find a rhythm that protects your creative energy. Because I take care of my two children during the day, my design work happens almost entirely at night. I need absolute silence when I am doing precise calculations, but when I am working with my hands, I keep the monotony away by streaming design history lectures. I sketch constantly during those lectures, and I keep my eyes open for accidental inspiration—like the time I found a perfect color scheme hidden inside an old watercolor box that now anchors all my current sketches. Success doesn't happen overnight, but if you maintain your self-discipline, protect your whimsical ideas, and let that hunger to create real, physical objects drive you forward, you will build a career to be proud of.

On the positive side, the absolute best part is having the strategic and technical toolkit to take a completely abstract concept from your mind and turn it into a permanent, physical reality. When you have the discipline to master tools like Rhino3D, Blender, or AutoCAD, you gain this incredible creative freedom. You aren't dependent on anyone else to interpret your vision; you can calculate your own precise geometric logic and build the work exactly how it should exist. There is also a beautiful sense of play and discovery in the process—like when you're streaming design history lectures in a quiet house at night, or when you unexpectedly stumble across a perfect color palette in an old watercolor box that suddenly anchors all your sketches. It allows you to inject genuine personality and whimsey into structural objects, creating things that have a definitive reason to exist.

The negative side, honestly, is the intense, exhausting pressure of managing that creative drive alongside the realities of daily life. Because my design work happens almost entirely at night while managing family responsibilities and looking after my two children during the day, it requires a ruthless amount of self-discipline that can leave you completely drained. There is also a deep, agonizing impatience that every true designer carries—this constant, frustrating hunger to see your ideas materialized right now, which can feel incredibly defeating when a concept is stuck in the drafting or 3D prototyping phase because of logistics or resources. You are constantly fighting against the pressure to conform to safe, boring industry standards, and balancing that constant mental tension between strict mathematical counting and spontaneous artistic play is an exhausting tightrope walk.

My golden rule is that an object must never be forced into a form that doesn't natively belong to it. You cannot take a brand-new material or a modular system and lazily jam it into an old, traditional template just because it's safe or familiar. Every material has its own logic—its own structural limits, its own way of holding memory, and its own relationship with light and surface texture. Your job as a designer is to listen to how it behaves and engineer a precise geometric system that lets that medium perform at its absolute highest potential.

At the same time, that structural discipline has to coexist with a genuine sense of play. If you strip away all the personality to conform to boring industry standards, the work dies. So my rule is about balancing those two extremes: you perform the ruthless analytical work and mathematical counting needed to calculate every micro-detail, but you protect your whimsical ideas. When you align absolute material cohesion with strict technical precision, you create objects that have a permanent, definitive reason to exist in the real world.

irst, you absolutely must master visual erudition and deep technical discipline. You need to move past standard sketching and become highly proficient in advanced digital modeling and drafting tools like Rhino3D, Blender, and AutoCAD. These allow you to calculate exact tolerances and precise geometric logic in 3D before you ever touch a physical medium, catching errors early so you don't waste expensive materials.

Second, you need the analytical skill to understand structural and material cohesion. A great designer doesn't just sketch a shape and lazily force a material into it. You have to know how to study a material's specific properties and discover an entirely new form natively born from how that material behaves.

Finally, you need ruthless time management, self-discipline, and a real love for collaborative group dynamics. Design never happens in a vacuum—it is a strategic partnership. You need the high-level strategy to validate demand early using frameworks like a Lean Canvas, the dedication to spend hours handling meticulous micro-details in absolute silence, and the ability to seamlessly integrate your work into a team workflow.

My toolbox is a highly disciplined mix of advanced digital software, professional analog tools, and deep historical anchors. I don't use standard stationery or basic sketching pens; everything inside my studio is selected for absolute precision and geometric logic.

On the digital side, my workflow relies heavily on computer-aided design and 3D modeling tools. I use Rhino3D and AutoCAD to calculate exact tolerances, map out complex modular systems, and refine curvilinear structures. I also pull in Blender for visualizations, and use Figma to bridge the gap between high-level layout strategy and physical drafting. Before any of that geometry even begins, I use digital strategic frameworks like a Lean Canvas to run online validation tests, ensuring there is actual demand before production.

When I move into the analog world for hands-on prototyping and material experimentation, my physical tools are strictly professional-grade modeling and Kirigami equipment. I rely on precision cutters and heavy-duty studio tools to test how materials fold, how carpentry joints lock, and how porcelain models behave. For organization, my absolute staple is my Hobonichi planner, which keeps my meticulous daily timeline intact.

The final, essential part of my toolbox consists of my creative catalysts. I routinely stream design history lectures right in the studio while I work. My visual library is constantly fed by the bold structural purity of the avant-garde, the functional discipline of Bauhaus, Scandinavian minimalism, and the unique textures of Soviet porcelain. And lastly, for color, I keep an old watercolor box close by—it's where I accidentally discovered the perfect, cohesive palette that now anchors all my current project sketches.

Time management for me is all about strict boundaries and absolute discipline, mostly because my daily life is split into two completely different realities. Because I take care of my two children during the day, my dedicated design hours don't even start until the evening when the house finally gets quiet. That natural constraint has forced me to treat the night as a highly focused window where there is absolutely no room to waste time.

To keep this routine functioning without burning out, I rely heavily on an organized, step-by-step process. I map out my entire schedule using my Hobonichi planner, which ensures that every day is accounted for and meticulously tracked. I also save an immense amount of time by completely rejecting the traditional method of mass-producing random furniture collections and hoping they sell. Instead, I use a Lean Canvas framework to run online validation tests first. If the data shows there isn't a clear demand for an object, I don't waste weeks drafting it or building prototypes.

When a project is validated, I split my tasks based on my mental energy and environment. If I am handling dense data, calculating complex geometric tolerances, or technical drafting in AutoCAD and Rhino3D, I require absolute, dead silence to get through the work without making mistakes that cost time down the road. But when I move into repetitive physical work—like testing carpentry details or modeling shapes—I stream design history lectures in the background. It keeps the monotony away and acts as a huge creative shortcut, letting me sketch out new ideas right then and there instead of staring at a blank page waiting for inspiration to strike.

Honestly, it varies completely depending on how right the concept feels, but it usually takes about two to three years—and sometimes even longer if I’m not entirely sure about the direction. But if I am absolutely crazy about an idea? I can push it through in about a year of intense, hyper-focused work.

The reason it takes that long is because the process is anchored by a highly structured, demand-driven timeline. It always begins with an initial phase of strategic validation. Before I ever touch a computer or sketch a line, I spend time mapping out the concept using a Lean Canvas and running online tests to ensure there is a confirmed market need. I want to know the object has a definitive purpose before investing years of my life into it.

Once the data validates the idea, the deep engineering phase begins. Using digital software like Rhino3D, AutoCAD, and Blender, I spend months performing rigorous mathematical calculations to map out complex curvilinear modules, interlocking joints, and exact structural tolerances. Every single groove and micro-detail has to be calculated to ensure absolute material cohesion before anything goes to production.

Finally, that timeline wraps up with targeted prototyping. Because my focused design hours happen in the evening when my two children are asleep, I treat the night as a highly disciplined window to build physical mock-ups, experiment directly with material properties, and refine details with professional modeling tools. I will spend as much time as necessary until the physical piece matches the digital precision on my screen, which is why a truly resolved object cannot be rushed.

Honestly, the question I get asked more than anything else is: "Did someone make you choose this?"

People look at my lifestyle—balancing family responsibilities during the day with exhausting, hyper-focused design work that happens almost entirely at night—and they assume it must be a burden. They see the relentless self-discipline and the deep, agonizing impatience that comes with wanting your ideas to become real, and they wonder why anyone would willingly choose a career that requires that much mental tension.

But the truth is, nobody forced me into this path. I chose it because I have a genuine hunger to build real, physical objects. When you are a true creator, that burning desire to see your work exist in the world isn't something someone else forces on you—it is an internal engine that you simply cannot turn off.

My most important experience was when I took an absolutely different path on a project during my time in advertising. We built a highly successful product virtually out of nothing—at the cost of a dime—simply by throwing out the standard playbook.

That experience completely reshaped how I view design. It proved to me that you don't need massive manufacturing budgets or endless resources to create a major impact. Instead, you need a willingness to take risks, a strict strategic framework like a Lean Canvas to validate your ideas, and the discipline to lean into constraints. That is exactly why there should be challenges in the creative process. When resources are tight, it forces you to stop relying on safe, boring templates and actually forces you to innovate. It taught me to view obstacles not as roadblocks, but as the ultimate competitive advantage for creating something truly intentional.

I operate as an individual professional, and my clients are mostly private individuals who commission me to design custom furniture and objects for their personal interiors.

I really prefer this direct, one-on-one dynamic because it allows for a much deeper level of collaboration. Instead of mass-producing generic pieces for a corporate catalog, I get to work closely with people to understand how they actually live and interact with their spaces. It lets me bring strict technical precision and a distinct sense of personality right into a specific home, creating bespoke pieces that have a definitive reason to exist in that exact environment.

Without a doubt, designing tiles.

There is an incredible, rigorous challenge in working with a modular medium. You aren't just designing a single standalone object; you are engineering a precise geometric system where individual pieces have to lock together perfectly to create a larger, cohesive structural pattern. It forces you to balance absolute mathematical logic with tactile material execution.

Tile design is also the perfect playground for fighting against safe, boring industry standards. It allows me to bring a genuine sense of play and whimsical personality directly into permanent construction materials [cite: Gemini Chat. Evidence: User drafted concepts referencing armchair bauhaus, Scandinavian minimalism, and soviet porcelain and expressed interest in avant-garde design. Date: 2026-04, Gemini Chat. Evidence: User finalizes an appeal to the A' Design Award Account Review Team regarding their individual professional status. Date: 2026-05]. When you find that exact sweet spot between strict engineering and a distinct artistic vision, you can transform a flat, functional surface into something that holds a massive amount of character.

Right now, my immediate focus is on an exciting milestone ahead this summer: I am attending a formal gala night at Teatro Sociale Como in Italy. It is going to be a beautiful moment to step away from the late-night studio routine, celebrate recent milestones, and connect with the international design community.

Beyond that, my long-term growth path is defined by a continuous transition from the digital screen to the tangible, physical world, evolving from an independent, self-taught designer into an internationally recognized studio. Over the last seven years, my focus has been on mastering the foundational rules of form, ergonomics, and material properties. Moving forward, my future plans are centered on scaling my business, NNaymark Design, and shifting from small-scale prototypes to industrial production and manufacturing. I want to take the geometric systems and volumetric surface textures I have developed in my evening sketching sessions and apply them to larger, more complex architectural and interior installations.

What is next for me is expanding on the modular logic of my recent work to create a cohesive collection of interior architectural elements that seamlessly bridge the gap between furniture and structural space—specifically large-format, systemic furniture and wall relief panels. Having established a disciplined workflow that balances precise digital drafting in AutoCAD with hands-on material testing, my next immediate step is to master Blender to elevate my 3D modeling, visualization, and digital prototyping capabilities. This will allow me to refine intricate, curvilinear geometries before bringing them into the physical workshop, continuing to build objects that have a definitive, intentional reason to exist in the real world.

I operate as an individual professional under my personal brand, NNaymark Design, so the initial creative vision, the technical drafting, and the 3D modeling are things I develop entirely myself. Because my focused design hours happen at night while I manage daily family responsibilities during the day, the core of my design process is a highly disciplined, solitary routine. I am the one performing the rigorous mathematical calculations in Rhino3D or AutoCAD and testing how materials behave with professional modeling tools in my studio.

However, design never truly happens in a complete vacuum, and I view the broader execution as a strategic partnership. While I am a solo creator when it comes to the conceptual and engineering phases, I absolutely love collaborative group dynamics when it comes to bringing the work to life. I seamlessly integrate my precise digital blueprints and technical sheets into team workflows when collaborating with manufacturers, specialized craftsmen, or interior professionals to get the objects built. So while the design DNA and initial execution are entirely mine, it takes a collaborative effort to transition those concepts from a screen into a permanent, physical reality.

I have two major projects in development right now that really highlight my love for modular systems and structural discipline.

The first is a modular outdoor table concept that completely rethinks traditional furniture support. It features a heavy top made from a recycled glass-concrete mix, supported by interlocking kiln prop legs. Instead of using standard hardware, metal reinforcements, or a bulky central column, the segments are engineered to lock directly into place via corresponding grooves (klin inside) built into the underside of the tabletop. It’s been an intense exercise in balancing weight, gravity, and precise geometry to ensure the table remains perfectly stable and truly modular without becoming permanently fixed.

The second project is an interview and technical sheet review for my brutalist Nakovalnya Chair concept. This piece is incredibly close to my heart, as it connects deeply to my family history—specifically my paternal ancestor who worked as a blacksmith in Southern Russia, shaping raw metal and horseshoes. The design leans into that heavy, industrial, and forged aesthetic, translating a raw historical legacy into a modern, functional furniture piece. Both projects are currently moving through rigorous 3D modeling and prototyping phases in the studio, pushing me to find that perfect sweet spot where strict technical execution meets deep personal narrative.

The best ways to get in touch with me directly for custom furniture commissions, interior collaborations, or press features are through my website, email, or Instagram:

Website: nnaymark.design

Email: naymarknk@gmail.com

Instagram: @nnaymark_design

Since I split my time between active studio prototyping and managing technical design workflows, email or a message through my official channels is the most reliable way to reach me for structured business inquiries or to schedule a dedicated consultation.

I think it’s important to mention that while I operate as a highly disciplined, independent designer, this solo approach has earned significant international recognition. I was recently honored by the global design community with an Iron A' Design Award for my brutalist Nakovalnya Chair, alongside Bronze A' Design Awards for both the Matisse Blue Lamp and the Madonna Tile Collection. For an individual professional, receiving this level of peer validation from an international jury is incredibly meaningful. It proves that the relentless hours spent calculating tolerances and testing materials in my late-night studio sessions are yielding work that truly resonates on a global stage.