I'm not writing this for you, I'm writing this for me.
What am I doing here? What am I doing?
I will follow until I know how to lead. And then, by God, I will lead.
Someone once that wisdom begins in wonder. Is that why I put my eyes to the sky and the lights on the mountains and let it hollow out the inside of my head, because then won’t it fill up with something more pure?
Someone once told me that as a designer you're only as valuable as your most obscure reference. Which is why I cast a net to be as broad as can be, French and art and biology, sometimes I feel overwhelmed and so spread thin like butter and afraid that it’s bad that I'm going wide instead of deep, but then I can draw things together in a way that’s never been seen, don't you know that the facade of the Crystal Palace is based on the form of the world's largest water lily—?
I don't understand why my art brain and my design brain are not the same. But visual arts and writing are all that I need for self-expression, and I can turn on my science brain like the flip of a switch—
But I just want my designs to make logical sense. I want them to make sense and to fit a need and to do what they're supposed to do. But in order to get there I am going to throw out all societal rules, take a nap under the table during the freshmen’s final, use that orange peeler to open your pill bottle and use an exacto knife when everyone else is using scissors—
I feel like being a designer is a contradiction. You've got to have that neat block-letter handwriting and tight sketches with thin black lines as straight as an arrow. But then you've got to be able to think like a mess, your workshop is colorful chaos, I don't think that I'd ever be analytical enough to work out the mechanical functioning of any old object but I'll do my research to try to get into peoples' heads?
And what if I'm a bit looser of a human being? Frayed cuffs and pockets filled with gold. What if I sketch in burnt umber prismacolor instead of a black Papermate Flair? But my life is thinking and aesthetic, and I want to do the big-picture research and make 60 degree case mitre trays with sprays of purple and green.
I wrote this on my gold iPod Touch in the sun on my walk home. But then once I walked into my apartment, I looked up and realized that my manifesto had already been written a year ago, and it was hanging up above my air-dried local walnut standing desk.