Design often begins with observation of simple, everyday objects. For me, it began with something ordinary like a bar of soap. A simple, biodegradable object we associate with cleanliness and routine.

But beyond function, I was fascinated by something else: how each time I used it, the soap changed, adapting to my grip. My touch subtly reshaped it, and in return, the object reshaped how I held it. 

It’s a simple observation, but it can make you rethink how we approach our relation to ordinary objects.  

This reciprocal transformation caught my attention. Holding a bar of soap is not like holding a tool with a fixed form, because the interaction evolves. The object and the user adapt to each other. Holding becomes a slow, iterative and haptic process. 

What fascinates me is that the soap is both the object and the experience. It’s held and used simultaneously. It’s a form that disappears through use, like a candle giving light as it melts. In both cases, function, material, and time are fused.

This idea also became the foundation for a different kind of product: my haptic knife.

Most knives are designed around function, sharpness, precision and control. But I wondered: what if a knife could behave more like a bar of soap, of course not literally, but in the way it adapts and integrates with the user over time?

The challenge was to design a knife that, while remaining precise and sharp, also offered a sensory dialogue. A tool you want to hold, not just for its function, but for its feel. One where the handle isn’t just ergonomic in a technical sense, but responsive in a personal one. A form that doesn’t demand to be held a certain way, but that adapts to your behavior, as a bar soup.

This is where my design philosophy comes in, through simple yet fundamental foundations:

• Let the form invite behavior.
• Let the behavior refine form.
• Let the object and user meet in the middle.

Over time the experience of holding a tool like the haptic knife begins to fit into your grip and into your actions, by becoming a part of your hand, following and adapting to its actions. 

It’s all about familiarity of the action and the pleasurable nature of the act of holding and using it. And in the end, the design of tools that speak to your body first, creates a meeting place between the object and yourself in the most natural and pleasurable way. 

Holding becomes something that is also functional to your actions, while inviting a deeper relation through shape and form.

The soap bar taught me that even the simplest object can reveal complex behaviors. By noticing the natural response of the soup bar to our holding, I designed from a change and dynamic perspective.

Whether it’s soap or a knife, good design makes you rethink our actions, by solving real, everyday problems. But this process is also about creating an ongoing interaction, where the object and the user shape each other through use. 

Cooking is something we all do. Across cultures and generations, it’s more than a way to nourish ourselves; it’s how we connect, share stories, and pass on knowledge. It’s a creative act, a ritual, a moment of joy or reflection. Yet for many, cooking can also feel like a chore. Why?

This can happen for all sorts of reasons: physical challenges, visual impairments, age, or just tools that don’t really work for the way we live and work in the kitchen. 

That’s because many kitchen tools are designed with only one kind of user in mind: someone able-bodied, fast, and experienced. When you don’t match that profile, cooking can quickly turn from a simple task into a complicated obstacle.

But design has the power to change that. In recent years, more and more designers are creating kitchen tools that are intuitive, inclusive, and empowering. This has been made not by adding more tech, but by simplifying how things work. These low-tech, smart design solutions improve how people cook, and also make the kitchen a more inclusive space for everyone. Moreover, often these products end up being longer-lasting, more intuitive, and more sustainable too.

Here are three examples of kitchen tools that changed the way we interact with cooking by removing problems, with a low-tech perspective:

1. The Moka Pot: A Democratic Espresso Machine                                                                           Invented in Italy in the 1930s, the Moka pot brought espresso-style coffee into every home. Before, making espresso required large, expensive machines found only in cafés. The Moka pot made it possible to brew rich, aromatic coffee on a regular stove, in just a few minutes. Compact, affordable, and easy to use, it empowered people to start their day with a small ritual of care and comfort. It’s a perfect example of how good design can simplify and democratize daily routines.

2. OXO Good Grips: Tools for All Hands

OXO’s kitchen tools were originally designed for someone with arthritis. That’s why their handles are soft, oversized, and easy to grip. What started as a solution for one person’s need became a universal design success: their peelers, can openers, and spatulas are now beloved by people of all ages and abilities. It’s proof that when we design for accessibility, everyone benefits. 

3. Studio Boey: Design Through Touch

At Studio Boey, our kitchen tools are designed based on the needs of blind and visually impaired users, starting with the sense of touch:

• The Knife: For someone who can’t rely on sight, cutting food might seem risky. But our specially designed knife offers close control. Small, ergonomic, and responsive, it fits naturally in the hand and gives the user precise feedback, almost like an extension of the body.
• The Cutting Board: Keeping chopped food contained is a challenge when you can’t see. That’s why our board has a designated cutting area and a surrounding groove to catch the pieces. A small compartment underneath stores the knife safely, reducing risk when reaching for it again.
• Haptic Measuring Cups: These measuring tools make sense by touch. Their shapes and sizes communicate information without needing sight, offering an intuitive and playful way to measure ingredients. They also raise questions about how we rely on vision in design and what it means to create something truly inclusive.

None of these tools rely on complex technology. They’re not “smart” in the digital sense, but they are incredibly intelligent in how they think about real users. They’re built to make tasks easier, faster, and more enjoyable, while being intuitive, durable, and accessible.

These low-tech tools, designed with real users’ needs in mind, are what can truly revolutionize the kitchen experience and challenge the status quo in both how we think the kitchen and product design. 

We often don't realize how many of the everyday objects we use were originally designed for people with disabilities. Items like the straw or sunglasses, which now feel like ordinary parts of daily life, were once created to address specific physical needs. But over time, these solutions have proven to be useful not just for a select few, but for everyone. This shift reveals something really powerful: when design is born from a broader understanding of human ability and context, it often results in better, more inclusive tools for all kinds of people.

The straw, for example, wasn’t just invented to be convenient in certain situations. In fact, the bendable straw was originally designed to help patients in hospitals, particularly those who couldn’t sit up or had limited mobility. It was a small solution to a specific problem, but soon became a standard item in restaurants, cafes, and households around the world. Its usefulness wasn’t limited to a disability context, it simply made things easier, cleaner, and more enjoyable for a lot of people. The same goes for sunglasses. Most people think of them as fashion accessories or protection from sunlight, but tinted lenses were initially developed for people with light sensitivity, a symptom common in certain medical conditions. What started as a functional adaptation for a small group of users slowly transformed into a product embraced for style, comfort, and everyday practicality.

This process, where solutions designed for a minority become normalized and integrated into broader society, it’s an example of how focusing on function and context, rather than designing exclusively for a typical or "ideal" user, leads to smarter design. 

This principle shows up again and again in technology and urban planning. Voice assistants like Siri and Alexa, for instance, were first envisioned as assistive tools for people with limited mobility or vision. Today, they’re used by millions for convenience, multitasking, or even just for fun. Subtitles, once intended for the deaf and hard-of-hearing, are now widely used by people watching videos silently on public transport, language learners, or anyone trying to follow along in a noisy environment. Even those small ramps at sidewalk corners, called curb cuts, were designed to make cities more accessible for wheelchair users. But they’re now essential for parents pushing strollers, travelers dragging suitcases, and delivery workers with carts.

All of this leads to a bigger idea: when we design for disability, we’re not limiting the user base but we’re expanding it. We’re creating objects and systems that are more thoughtful, more flexible, and more adaptable. Instead of assuming that the majority defines the standard, we begin to understand that human ability is a spectrum. People’s needs change over time, through injury, age, environment, or simply circumstance. By paying attention to these needs from the start, we create products that are both accessible and better for everyone.

Designing this way requires a mindset shift. It means moving away from categorizing people as either "able-bodied" or "disabled" and instead thinking about the range of situations people find themselves in. A design that supports someone with a permanent disability might also help someone dealing with a temporary injury, carrying a heavy bag, caring for a child, or navigating a stressful situation. When we start paying more attention to user context, we discover opportunities to make things more intuitive, more useful, and more human.

This way, inclusion is not as an afterthought, but as a source of innovation. It’s not about adding on features to accommodate “others”, but it’s about starting with those features and realizing they have value for all of us. Moreover, designing from the margins brings us closer to understanding the real complexity of everyday life, simplifying life for everyone. 

This is exactly what we do at our studio. We design kitchen tools that are accessible for blind people but they are made to be used by everyone. By starting with accessibility as a foundation, we explore sensorial and haptic design solutions that improve the cooking experience for everyone. Our aim is to enrich how people interact with their kitchens, through touch, sound, and intuitive use, creating tools that are more engaging, more inclusive, and more human. 

Fear and discomfort are not design flaws, but they’re important part of the design process to make products safer for all. When something feels too hot, too sharp, or unstable, our bodies instinctively pull away. Designers can use this deep-rooted instinct to make objects safer, without needing to add labels or instructions. In fact good design communicates through touch, texture, and form.

Discomfort can guide us. A rough edge, a slippery surface, or an awkward grip might feel “wrong” to hold, but this is the point. These physical signals are powerful because we respond to them instantly, often without thinking. When discomfort is used carefully, it becomes a silent safety feature, helping us avoid harm through our senses. These kinds of details lower the learning barrier, making the design feel simple and honest in its form. They allow the user to approach the object intuitively, and even adapt it to their own way of using it. This kind of design doesn’t impose strict rules, it invites a natural, personal relationship.

Imagine a kitchen knife. You don’t need a warning to know which part not to touch. The handle is rounded, textured, often made to fit comfortably in the hand. The blade, by contrast, is cold, smooth, and thin. Even if you can't see, you could tell where to hold it. The object speaks through material and shape. That’s tactile design at its best: your hands learn the rules just by holding the object. 

Another example is the cast iron skillet. Some have bare metal handles that become dangerously hot. Instead of adding a label, many designs subtly change the shape of the handle or leave a hole at the end, implicitly becoming small signs that say: “Use with caution.” A user learns this not from reading, but from interacting with the object, sometimes even feeling a bit of discomfort as a reminder. 

This approach connects to ideas by designer Christopher Alexander, who believed that design is a process of problem-solving. In The Synthesis of Form, he explains that a successful object fits its context (its physical, social, and emotional environment) like a glove. When something feels off or unsafe, he calls it a “misfit.” A well-designed object removes these misfits until it feels natural and trustworthy.

Alexander also talks about breaking down complex problems into smaller parts. When designing for safety, that might mean looking at how people grip, lift, or interact with an object, what they touch first, what they avoid, where discomfort might help. The design process of creating a product does not come from aesthetic intent, but from an understanding how people feel, and how they move.

In the end, design isn't just about making things look good. It’s about creating objects that teach us how to use them, often without saying a word. A smart design uses our instincts, like our sense of touch, balance, and comfort, to guide us. Danger doesn’t have to be hidden or erased, but it just needs to be felt, for everyone’s safety.