Engineering Meaning in an Age of Noise

Professional Manifesto by Ani Han

Abstract

This text is my professional manifesto as a practicing designer working at the intersection of jewelry, product, and tactile design. In it, I frame essentialism not as a style or an aesthetic pose, but as a rigorous method for working with meaning in an age of informational and visual noise.

I treat design as a form of cognitive ecology: every object either reduces the load on a person’s mind or increases it. Minimalism, which for a long time was perceived as the answer to an overloaded environment, in reality too often collapses into “cleaning up the picture” without an engineering reconsideration of what exactly carries the load and why.

By essentialism I mean a discipline in which a designer consistently:

identifies the load‑bearing elements of form, function, and meaning;
removes everything that does not serve those elements;
amplifies what matters tactilely, visually, and semantically;
verifies whether the object has in fact reduced noise around the person.

In this text I draw on the work of Dieter Rams, Donald Norman, and Klaus Krippendorff, as well as the Japanese notion of Ma as “active emptiness”. At the center, however, is my own practice: the concrete filters, questions, and criteria I use to make design decisions every day.

Introduction. Why I Choose Essentialism

Personal context: what kind of “noise” I work with

I work with objects that stay as close to a person as possible: on the skin, in the hand, next to the body, in the immediate field of vision. These can be jewelry forms, leather goods, everyday objects. They live in an environment where there are already too many signals: screens, notifications, logos, advertising surfaces, complex interfaces. Each of these elements demands attention, interpretation, a decision even if that decision is microscopic.

Psychologists call this cognitive load. I see it as semiotic noise in which things cease to be mute. An object is no longer simply there it talks to a person through gestures of form, shine, weight, texture, branding. The only question is what it says and how loudly.

My clients do not come to me for yet another “beautiful thing”. They intuitively look for silence: an object that does not demand constant attention, does not compete with the person, does not provoke fatigue yet remains saturated with meaning and presence. Working in this context, I gradually understood that the familiar design answers to the problem of noise are not enough for me.

Why minimalism turned out to be insufficient for me

For a long time minimalism was sold as a universal cure for overload: remove details, simplify the palette, level the planes and the world will become cleaner. At the level of the image this really works: white walls, smooth surfaces, and strict lines create a sense of relief. But in real practice I have too often encountered objects that looked minimalist yet continued to generate noise:

the form had been cleaned up, but the use scenario remained confusing;
the interface was “clean”, but still forced a person to keep guessing;
the thing looked “expensive and restrained”, but through its weight, angles, or texture created physical tension.

At some point I formulated a simple observation for myself: minimalism answers the question “what can be removed?” but does not answer the question “what truly carries?” Minimalism easily turns into decorative emptiness just another style that must be maintained. It reduces visual complexity but does not always reduce the number of redundant signals and friction points in a person’s experience. That stopped being enough for me. I needed a method that works not with the picture, but with the structure of meaning and load.

What I call essentialism in design

To describe my own practice I needed a word that is stricter and more precise than “minimalism”. I chose the term essentialism and give it a very specific professional meaning. By essentialism I mean a discipline in which:

an object is seen as a system of signals rather than just a shape;
every element of form, material, and interface must either carry a function, amplify meaning, or provide tactile and psychological comfort;
anything that does none of these is treated as noise and should be removed, even if it is “beautiful” or “familiar”.

If minimalism can be reduced to the formula “fewer details”, then essentialism for me sounds like “nothing superfluous that does not carry”. Essentialism is not about a poverty of expression. It is about a richness of selection. In this manifesto I describe how I work with noise and meaning in practice: which theoretical foundations I consider important, which filters I use in the process, how I check that an object truly frees a person visually, mentally, and physically. From this personal choice I then move to a more structural conversation about the world of noise we design in, and about why, without essentialism, that world becomes less and less habitable.

The World of Noise and “Loud Objects”

Semiotic noise and cognitive load

I work in a world where objects, interfaces, and brands behave like media. Each of them broadcasts something: status, emotion, promise, demand. The phone screen asks for attention. Packaging explains why this product is “special”. An app interface conducts a dialogue with the user through buttons, icons, notifications. Even clothing and accessories have become channels of communication with oneself, with the environment, with algorithms. In the language of semiotics this is a constant stream of signs. In the language of psychology it is a rise in cognitive load. Every sign is a micro‑decision: to understand, to recognize, to filter out, to ignore, or to respond. When there are hundreds of such decisions a day, a person’s attention is diluted. Fatigue comes not only from tasks, but from servicing the environment.

Traditional design often behaves here like a participant in an arms race. Brands compete for a share of attention: louder, more contrast, more complex, “smarter”, with one more feature or effect. I look at it differently. For me, design is not a tool for amplifying noise but a tool for tuning the environment. If a thing adds yet another stream of signals without freeing a person from others, I regard it as poorly designed even if it is formally “beautiful” and on trend. Today’s overload of perception demands from the designer not only the ability to invent forms, but the willingness to take responsibility for the quantity and quality of signals that this form introduces into a person’s life. That responsibility is what led me to essentialism.

Where minimalism ends for me and essentialism begins

Minimalism was an important stage in the history of design. It showed that form can exist without ornament and that an object can live without excess decoration. But in mass culture minimalism very quickly turned into a style: a fixed set of visual moves that can be copied without understanding the original logic behind them. White planes, neutral colors, clean lines, “air” around the object all of this can create a sense of order. Yet too often I see how behind that order there is no structural simplification, only cosmetic work.

In my practice I draw the boundary like this:

Minimalism primarily addresses visible complexity: how many elements are in the frame, how strong the contrast is, whether there is visual noise.
Essentialism addresses the load‑bearing structure: which elements truly work - functionally, semantically, tactually and how many signals a person must process in order to live with and use this thing.

For myself I reduce the difference to several oppositions:

minimalism asks:
“what can be removed to make it cleaner?”
essentialism asks:
“what here truly carries, without which meaning or experience will collapse?”
minimalism works with the image;
essentialism works with the load on perception and the body.
minimalism can create beautiful emptiness;
essentialism strives for meaningful silence in which it is easier for a person to exist.

At this point my personal minimalism ended. A “clean frame” stopped being enough for me. I needed a method that demands from the designer not just to remove the excess, but to understand the construction of meaning and leave only what truly works. Essentialism, as I understand it, is no longer a style it is a professional discipline.

Essentialism as cognitive ecology

At some point I began to think of design not only as the creation of objects, but as an intervention in a person’s cognitive ecosystem. Our attention, our capacity to focus, the depth of our perception these are limited resources. Every new object, interface, or service takes its share of those resources. The question is whether it does so for a good reason.

I treat essentialism as a form of cognitive hygiene:

removing from a person’s life those signals that do not add clarity;
reducing the number of micro‑decisions that lead nowhere important;
designing things so that they support attention instead of scattering it.

For me this is not only a matter of taste but a matter of professional ethics. If I consciously create an object that demands more attention than it gives back in function, meaning, or calm, I regard that as a professional mistake. Respect for a person’s attention and resources I treat as a standard of quality. Just as industrial design has standards of physical safety, my practice must have standards of perceptual safety:

do not overload,
do not manipulate,
do not force a person to constantly “think for” the object what could have been resolved constructively.

In this sense essentialism is not just an aesthetic choice, but a way of caring: for the psyche, for the body, for a person’s ability to stay alive and present in their own life. In the following sections I move from this general frame to the theoretical foundations I rely on in my work and to the concrete tools that turn essentialism from an abstract idea into an everyday design practice.

Theoretical Foundations of My Approach

How I Understand Dieter Rams’ “Less but Better”

At some point Dieter Rams’ phrase “Weniger, aber besser” stopped being a quote from design history for me and became a daily working question. It is often read simplistically: “do less.” But if you really listen to it, the key word is “better”, not “less”. I understand this principle in the following way:

“Less” is not a goal, it is a consequence of honest work.
When you consistently remove everything that does not improve a person’s experience, at some point the number of things, details, and effects naturally becomes smaller.
But what drives you is not a craving for emptiness. It is the desire for a maximum concentration of quality and meaning.

In essentialism as I practice it, “less but better” turns into a discipline with a very simple but strict criterion:

If an element can be removed without destroying function, meaning,
or tactile comfort, then it is not load‑bearing.

From here comes an important shift: I start a project not by searching for what to remove, but by searching for what cannot be removed. When the non‑essential disappears, the remaining parts stand under the “studio lights”: there is no ornament left to blame or praise, only the construction and the quality of its execution. In this situation quality becomes the only acceptable “decoration”. That, for me, is the practical content of “less but better”.

The Object as Language: What I Take from Klaus Krippendorff

To work not only with form but with meaning, I had to accept something simple: people interact not with objects as such, but with what those objects are saying to them. Klaus Krippendorff formulates this through the semantics of design: any artefact is a language, a set of messages. This framework is close to me, and I use it in a very pragmatic way.

If we simplify, an object always performs at least four semantic functions:

Describing
With its form it says what it is and what it is for.
A good example is a door handle that needs no explanation.
Expressing
It communicates what it is like: heavy or light, reliable or fragile, strict or soft.
Signaling
It tells us about its state: on/off, open/closed, ready/not ready to use.
Identifying
It allows us to recognize it among others:
“this is exactly the object/brand/type of thing I want to deal with.”

When I speak of essentialism as “management of meaning”, I mean the following:

I look at each object as a sentence composed of these four functions.
Noise appears where the message contradicts itself:
- a thing looks like metal but feels like a plastic imitation;
- a product promises simplicity yet forces a person to think and remember steps;
- a form screams status but does not support basic comfort.

These mismatches create cognitive dissonance. A person may never formulate it verbally, but still feels that “something is off”.

Essentialism, for me, is the work of removing this dissonance:

in description - the form should explain its purpose by itself, not hide behind instructions;
in expression - material and structure must be honest: if something is light, it should not pretend to be monumental, and vice versa;
in signaling - the state of the object should be legible without extra labels and flashing indicators;
in identification - a thing has the right to be unique, but not at the cost of breaking user expectations for no reason.

Put simply, I check:

Is the object lying with its appearance, weight, tactility, or behaviour?

If it is, that lie is semantic noise and must be addressed even if visually everything looks “minimalist”.

Donald Norman’s Three Levels of Design in My Practice

Donald Norman’s theory of three levels of design helps me avoid getting stuck on aesthetics alone.
He distinguishes:

the visceral level - first impression, instinctive “like / dislike”;
the behavioural level - how a thing behaves in use: usability, clarity, predictability;
the reflective level - meanings, associations, identity, attitude over time.

I use this model in a very practical way.

At the visceral level aesthetic minimalism really works: clean lines, clear proportions, absence of visual clutter create a first impression of calm.

But if we stop there, we get a beautiful object that:

may irritate in everyday use;
may become morally outdated after one season;
may demand more attention than it gives back.

At the behavioural level I check how much the object reduces frustration and micro‑decisions: is it clear how to put it on, open it, translate it from one state to another;
are there hidden frictions that a person will run into every day.

At the reflective level I ask a longer‑term question: what will this object be in a year, three, ten? What will it remind the person of? Will it support their identity or turn into visual noise against the next trend?

My essentialism is primarily reflective:

I design things so that they do not burn out semantically;
so that they can age together with a person;
so that they do not constrain them, but accompany them.

This does not mean that I ignore the visceral and behavioural levels: calm beauty and default usability are mandatory conditions. But the final test for essentiality happens on the reflective level:

Will this object still be a source of calm and a recognisable anchor
when the initial “wow‑effect” has long gone?

If the answer is “no”, that is a clear signal that the work is not over yet and I need to return both to form and to meaning.

Emptiness as Material: Ma and the Architecture of Silence

Ma: active emptiness inside the object

In Western tradition emptiness is often perceived as “nothing”: a lack, a gap, a space waiting to be filled. In my practice it is the opposite. Emptiness is part of the structure.

I lean on the Japanese concept of Ma the interval, the gap, the pause that makes the experience itself possible. We hear music not only because of the sounds, but because of the pauses between them. Space works the same way: we feel a wall through the distance to it, an object through the air around it, a piece of jewellery through the skin it leaves untouched.

When I design a piece, I look not only at what is there, but also at what is intentionally absent:

a break in a line that leaves room for movement;
the gap between an object and the skin through which air can pass;
a fragment of surface left “mute” so as not to overload the eye.

This emptiness is neither an error nor a lack. It is a deliberate field for life: for movement, breath, accidental gestures, for light that changes during the day. If you strip an object of all its Ma, it becomes a dense, heavy, noisy thing that constantly demands attention. If you leave too much, you get decorative minimalism a beautiful but dead void. My task is to find the point where emptiness becomes structurally load‑bearing: it does not merely surround the object, it works together with it.

Architecture of silence: what I borrow from Zumthor and Pawson

At the level of space I am close to architects who know how to make silence tangible: Peter Zumthor, John Pawson, and others who consciously work with tone rather than noise. In their architecture silence is not the absence of events but composure: nothing superfluous, yet every detail, texture, and proportion supports the overall mood.

From architecture I bring several principles down into the small scale:

Calm load‑bearing elements.
In good architecture we rarely think about columns and load‑bearing walls, yet we intuitively feel reliability. In an object I aim for the same: structural elements should “hold” form and meaning without demanding separate attention.
Material as a source of quiet.
In architecture a simple rule often works: one well‑chosen material is better than a complex mix for the sake of effect. In objects it is the same: there is usually no need to complicate the composition if you can deepen the tactility and quality of one dominant material.
Light and shadow as co‑authors.
Zumthor and Pawson design space so that light does not just illuminate
but sets the emotional profile of a place. At the small scale this means working with edges, matte versus gloss, surface depth so that the object behaves differently in different light, yet remains calm.

In essence, I treat an object as a small fragment of architecture: it too has load‑bearing parts, enclosures, voids, “windows”, and shadows. The architecture of silence at my scale is the ability of a thing to live alongside a person without dominating them.

How I work with distance, air, and pauses

Ma in my practice is not an abstraction but a set of very concrete decisions.

Between object and body
I always pay attention to:

the gap between the object and the skin;
the number, area, and distribution of contact points;
how the piece behaves in motion: does it follow the body or resist it.

If an object clings too tightly to the body, it quickly becomes tiring, even if it looks neat. If contact is too sparse or accidental, it feels unreliable.

I shape distances so that:

the body can forget about the object when at rest;
and sense its support in motion.

This, too, is a form of silence.

Between object and environment
The next level is how a piece behaves in a room:

whether it leaves air around itself on a shelf, table, wall;
whether it clashes with other objects in scale and tone;
whether it “clogs” the entire visual field.

I try to design so that the object always has a bit of “personal space” even in a saturated setting. Then it does not need aggression to be noticed. Its presence is read through quality, proportion, and tactility rather than loudness.

Pauses in composition
In the form itself I deliberately leave:

breaks in lines that give the eye a place to rest;
patches of surface without texture so the accent does not dissolve;
moments where “nothing happens”, allowing a person to bring in their own meaning.

This is how I treat pauses as full‑fledged design elements. In this context essentialism is the ability not to fill everything in, leaving space for breath, movement, and the meaning a person will add themselves.

Signal and Noise in Objects

Which signals empower a person and which drown them out

Any object is a cluster of signals. Even if the designer is not aware of it.

I distinguish three layers:

Visual signals
Shape, edges, rhythm, color, shine, contrast, scale. They define the first impression and the “loudness” of an object in the visual field.
Tactile signals
Weight, temperature, softness/hardness, resistance, smoothness/roughness, the way the object responds to a gesture. They define how calm the body feels next to the object.
Semantic signals
Associations, cultural codes, status, brand character, the story the object tells about itself. They define how a person integrates the object into their identity.

Complexity in itself is not evil. Complexity turns into noise when:

signals contradict one another;
there are too many signals for the task the object is meant to solve;
a person has to spend effort just to “switch off” the excess.

For example:

A visually calm object that turns out cold, sharp, and slippery to the touch
creates a conflict between appearance and sensation.
A thing that promises “simplicity” but forces you to remember a complex sequence of actions
overloads the behavioural level.
A formally “quiet” object with an aggressive logo slapped on top
breaks the reflective level: a person cannot forget the brand even if they want to.

Complexity starts working for the person when it is:

structured - each layer serves its own function;
readable step by step instead of collapsing on you all at once;
adding depth rather than simply increasing the number of impressions.

In this sense essentialism is not about flattening everything into primitive shapes. It is about selecting the signals that genuinely strengthen a person and rejecting everything that demands attention without giving anything back.

Tactile epistemology: why I trust the hands

The eyes are easy to fool. The hands almost never. On the visual level an object can present itself as “perfect minimalism”: crisp edges, matte surface, beautiful geometry. But as soon as you take it in your hands, it becomes obvious:

it chills the skin where it should soothe it;
it presses where it should support;
it slips when it is supposed to be an anchor;
it catches and scratches where it should be smooth.

I treat the hands as an instrument for testing the honesty of form. They answer questions that no render will show:

does the body relax on contact with this object?
do you want to hold it longer than strictly necessary?
does it fade from consciousness when it is doing its job,
or does it keep reminding you of itself through tiny irritations?

For me, tactile comfort is one of the key criteria of essentiality.

If a thing is:

visually convincing,
conceptually coherent,
but the body does not want to stay with it for long,

I assume that there is still noise in the construction. At this layer, essentialism is not only about removing visual excess, but also about stripping away everything that creates unnecessary bodily stress: sharp edges, redundant stiffness, excessive weight, a “plastic” feel where the body expects contact with a living material. The hands very quickly reveal where the designer “made it look beautiful” but did not bring the solution to a honest, finished form.

Essentialism as a signal filter across different media

My signal/noise filter is the same for different types of objects, but it shows up differently in each medium.

Jewellery objects
Jewellery is traditionally overloaded with signals:

sparkle, reflections, glints;
complex silhouettes;
sound in motion;
status codes and demonstrative stones.

In an essentialist approach I:

keep one or two leading signals (for example, the silhouette and the smooth drift of light across volume);
dampen everything extra: excessive shine, random highlights, unnecessary facets;
make sure that sound, weight, and skin contact do not contradict the overall silence of the form.

A piece of jewellery for me is not meant to shout about itself, but to create a zone of calm presence around the body.

Leather objects
Leather has its own set of signals:

thickness and stiffness of the leather;
the sound of closures and hardware;
resistance of straps, handles, flaps;
how visible the seams are, how often a detail is repeated.

Here, essentialism means:

reducing hardware to what is genuinely necessary;
simplifying the gesture path (one clear way to open, close, carry);
using the quality of the leather and the proportion of details instead of decorative complexity.

If a bag, wallet, or case demands emotional “servicing” it creates noise even if it looks visually restrained.

Product and spatial objects
In objects and elements of space, the signals are larger in scale:

the size of the visual block in an interior;
the shadows the object throws;
how it interacts with other objects;
the presence of cables, fixings, technical components.

Here essentialism makes me ask:

Does this object really have to be “loud” in order to perform its function?

If not, I lower its “volume”:

reduce the number of visual accents;
hide technical noise (fixings, seams, transitions) without sacrificing maintainability;
search for a balance of mass and void that allows the object to hold the space
without taking it over.

Across all media the approach is the same:

single out the primary signal that justifies the object’s place in a person’s life;
remove signals that fight with it or duplicate it;
align the visual, tactile, and semantic levels
so they say the same thing calmly, coherently, and to the point.

My Method: How I Apply Essentialism in Practice

The Four Steps of My Design Process

In everyday work I do not rely on abstract formulas. I have a very concrete, repeatable algorithm. I go through it every time, whether I am designing a jewellery piece, a leather object, or something for the environment.

Step 1. Diagnosing the noise
First I look at the brief and the context as if nothing exists yet.

I ask myself:

In what environment will this object live?
How many visual, auditory, tactile, and semantic signals are already there?
What exactly is in excess: shine, information, brands, corners, functions?

At this stage I do not sketch and I do not model. I describe the noise: where it arises, whom it presses on, how it shows up in a person’s gestures. Sometimes it is already clear at this point that the project should not “add something beautiful” but release tension in a specific place.

Step 2. Identifying what is load‑bearing
Then I formulate why this object has any right to exist at all.

I look for answers to questions:

What single key task does it solve for a person?
What is supposed to be load‑bearing: form, use scenario, tactility, a sense of protection, clarity?
What signal should it leave behind a year from now when the novelty effect has gone?

At this step everything that does not relate to the load‑bearing is treated as potential noise.
I fix the core: one image, one feeling, one function around which everything else can be built.

Step 3. Subtracting the non‑essential
Then the toughest part begins: editing.

I examine every line, detail, and decision and ask one and the same question:

“If I remove this, will the load‑bearing idea or experience collapse?”

If the answer is “no” or “it will get slightly worse, but still hold”, the element is subject to removal or radical simplification.

This includes:

decorative hardware;
seams, panels, ribs added “by habit”;
secondary materials introduced purely for effect;
extra logos and visual accents.

Subtraction is not an aesthetic clean‑up, it is a structural operation. Sometimes after it the project looks too “bare”, but this is exactly the moment when it becomes clear where the solution is honest and where it is not.

Step 4. Amplifying the primary signal
When the noise is stripped away, an object can seem too simple. At this stage it is crucial not to start “decorating” again.

I only amplify what has been recognised as load‑bearing:

if that is tactility - I go deeper into material, edge, seam, lining;
if it is form - I fine‑tune proportions, radii, transitions;
if it is the use scenario - I make the gesture even shorter, clearer, and more predictable.

The idea is not to add “beauty”, but to increase the density of quality exactly where it truly matters.

After this step the object should be:

simple to describe,
rich to experience,
calm in its presence.

An Essentialist Checklist for the Things I Create

Before I consider an object finished, I run it through a simple but strict checklist.

1. Has the object reduced noise?

Are there fewer unnecessary signals in the context it lives in?
Has this person’s life become simpler: are there fewer micro‑decisions, doubts, adjustments, irritations?

If the object has not reduced noise, it has only swapped one type of noisiness for another.

2. Are its load‑bearing elements clear?

Can I explain what it exists for in one or two sentences?
Is that felt without words in its form, weight, behaviour?

If a thing needs long verbal justification, it is not speaking for itself strongly enough.

3. Are the signals aligned?

Do the visual, tactile, and semantic impressions match?
Does the object promise simplicity while remaining complex to handle?
Does it look “warm” while staying cold, or “reliable” while being fragile?

Any serious misalignment is a source of constant internal tension for the user.

4. Is the body comfortable?

Do you want to hold the object in your hands or wear it on your body longer than strictly necessary?
Is it possible to forget about it in the moments when it is doing its job?

If the body wants to get rid of the thing, no matter what concept stands behind it it is not essential.

5. Will the object stand the test of time?

Is it entirely tied to a short‑lived trend?
Will it turn into visual noise next season?
Is it plausible that a few years from now the person will still consider it “theirs”?

An essential object must endure time; otherwise it is just an expensive temporary effect.

The “done / not done” criterion

An object is “done” if:

I can honestly answer “yes” to at least four out of five points,
and for the remaining one I have a clear plan for how to move the solution closer to “yes”.

If the answers are vague or rely on the hope that “the user probably won’t notice” for me that is unequivocally “not done”.

Mistakes I Consciously Refuse

There are three types of decisions I consider fundamentally incompatible with essentialism. I monitor them in myself and in my projects as strictly as I can.

1. Decorative minimalism

This is the situation where:

the form is cleaned up,
the palette is neutral,
the composition is restrained,

but there has been no structural re‑thinking of meaning and function.

Such an object:

looks wonderful in photos and renders;
sells well as “minimalist”;
but in real use does not reduce noise and does not make a person’s life easier.

I consciously step away from projects where minimalism is offered as “let’s just remove everything that spoils the picture” without a willingness to go through the discomfort of real subtraction.

2. Complexity for the sake of impression

Complexity can be beautiful when it is functional: biomechanics, engineering, architecture where every element carries a load.

But there is another kind of complexity that appears for different reasons:

the desire to impress at any cost;
fear of seeming “too simple”;
an attempt to hide a structurally weak solution behind effects.

This kind of complexity quickly becomes noise:

a person gets tired from the sheer number of details;
clarity of use is lost;
the object demands a disproportionate amount of attention.

I refuse complexities that cannot be honestly answered with the question:
“What exactly does this improve for the person?”

3. A form that demands more attention than it gives back

This is my personal professional red flag. If a thing:

constantly reminds you of itself catches, jingles, glares, demands adjustment and servicing;
makes a person think about it more often than about their own tasks;
asks for an emotional relationship without returning calm, clarity, or joy in exchange

I consider that form a failure, even if it is spectacular and gathers compliments. An essential object does not behave like a capricious character that must be endlessly soothed and maintained. It behaves like a quiet, reliable co‑author: present, supportive, but not dragging the spotlight onto itself. Refusing these three types of mistakes is not a matter of taste, but a matter of professional stance. This is how I protect both the person who will live with the object and my own method from being diluted into just another “style.”

Essentialism as a Discipline of the Future

From Object to Space

I began with small forms objects that almost merge with the body: jewellery pieces, leather items, small everyday objects. Over time it became obvious: the method stays the same even when the scale changes. The same four steps diagnosing noise, identifying what is load‑bearing, subtracting the non‑essential, amplifying the main signal work equally well:

at the level of a bracelet that must not interfere with the body’s life;
at the level of a bag that structures everyday chaos;
at the level of an object that becomes an anchor point in a room;
at the level of a whole space in which a person or a team lives.

The only thing that changes is how densely the noise is distributed.

In a bracelet or cuff, noise shows up as extra facets, sharp edges, unnecessary shine, jingling details.
In a leather object, as redundant hardware, too many pockets, overcomplicated open/close gestures.
In a space, as overloaded surfaces, objects competing for dominance, “features” not tied to how people actually live.

In every case I ask the same question:

“Will it be easier for a person to breathe - physically, visually, mentally - if this object or interior appears in their life?”

If the answer is “no”, only the scale of the mistake changes.

For me, essentialism is not “the style of small, neat things”. It is a way of building a semiotic climate around a person: a climate in which one can think, feel, work, and rest without constant battle with background noise.

Essentialism as an Alternative to Decorative Minimalism

The era of the “white box” was a necessary stage: after visual oversaturation it was natural to want to strip away everything and start from a clean slate.

But we can already see the limits of this approach:

spaces that look perfect in photographs yet feel cold and anonymised when people actually live in them;
interiors that exist as backdrops for content, not as environments for real life;
objects that say so little about themselves that they stop supporting a person’s sense of identity.

Decorative minimalism is what happens when emptiness becomes just another stylistic device. White wall, smooth floor, flat furniture but behind that there is no care for cognitive load, no structural logic, no respect for the body.

Essentialism, as I understand it, points in a different direction:

not emptiness for the sake of the image, but silence that carries;
not flattening everything to a uniform zero, but choosing a few load‑bearing elements that create a feeling of grounding and protection;
not sterility where one is afraid to leave a trace, but a space with room for life, marks, and personal history.

I do not think the future belongs to yet another wave of “clean interiors” or “new minimalism”. The real demand is for structured silence:

where every element has passed a test of necessity;
where materials work to calm, not just to display status;
where you cannot say “nothing is here”, but you can say “there is nothing here that does not belong”.

In this sense, essentialism is not a response to a trend it is a way out of the trend trap.

What Designers Can Take from This Approach Tomorrow

I do not see essentialism as a closed, personal philosophy. For me it is a working language that designers from different disciplines can use.

What can be done literally tomorrow:

1. Audit the noise in your project.

Answer honestly:

Which signals are redundant?
What duplicates existing solutions?
Where does the user encounter extra micro‑decisions and friction?

You can do this in:

interface design (number of actions, notifications, states);
product design (details, materials, use paths);
interior and spatial design (objects, textures, sources of visual and acoustic noise).

2. Name your “load‑bearing”.

For any project, it is useful to formulate:

Which one or two signals do you want the person to remember?
In what precise way does this object/space make their life better?

Everything that does not support those answers automatically lands in the “questionable” category.

3. Treat subtraction as a phase, not a side effect.

Add a separate step: not “we’ll keep adding until we like it”, but
“we will remove everything that does not break the load‑bearing”.

This approach works in:

graphic and digital design (interfaces, websites, services);
product design (objects, packaging, service flows);
fashion (silhouettes, materials, details, logos);
architecture and interiors (structural lines, materials, light, noise).

4. Test decisions through the body and through time.

Ask:

Is it comfortable for the body to live with this object or interior every day?
Will this form still be relevant and legible in a few years?

If the answer is “no”, that is a direct indicator that essentialism has not yet been reached.

Essentialism as a common platform for dialogue

I want this manifesto to work not only as a text, but as a shared language for designers, architects, product teams, and artisans.

When we say:

“noise” and “signal”;
“load‑bearing” and “decorative”;
“Ma” and “cognitive ecology”;

we can discuss very different projects across disciplines while relying on the same criteria of respect for the human being. If this approach helps even a few designers to make fewer things that demand attention and more things that free attention, then essentialism will stop being only my private practice and will become a genuine discipline of the future.

Conclusion. Design That Knows How to Be Silent

For me, this text is neither theory nor a brand statement. It is a formalisation of how I actually work and how I want to keep working. I do not romanticise silence. The world will not become calmer just because we start making “minimalist things”. Noise is a built‑in property of modern life. Precisely for that reason, I believe a designer has no moral right to add more noise without necessity.

My position is simple:

If a thing demands more attention than it gives back, it is designed incorrectly.
If a space looks beautiful in photographs but leaves a person exhausted, that is a failure, not an aesthetic choice.
If “minimalism” stops at a clean image and never reaches the construction of meaning or the use scenario, it is just a style, not a discipline.

Essentialism, as I understand it, is not about silence for its own sake. It is about responsibility for the consequences of our decisions:

for the cognitive load we add or remove;
for the number of micro‑decisions we leave a person alone with;
for whether an object will strengthen their life or compete with it.

If we take essentialism seriously, I believe design will move in several directions. First, from form as an end in itself to form as the result of selection. First diagnosis of context and meaning, then structure, and only then visual language. Second, from competing for attention to respecting attention. We already live in a world where attention is one of the scarcest resources. Design that constantly demands more of it will inevitably become toxic, no matter how attractive it looks. Third, from improvisation to clear ethical and professional standards. Just as we accept norms of physical safety and ergonomics, we need norms of cognitive ecology: do not overload, do not manipulate, do not mask weak solutions with effects.

I do not expect essentialism to become a mass trend. But I am convinced it has a future as a professional discipline for those who are ready to think about the human being deeper than about the image. The kind of design I want to see and create is design that knows how to be silent. Not because it has nothing to say, but because at the right moment it can step back into the shadows and leave at the centre not itself, but the person it was made for.

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Essentialism in Design