‘A Folly Through the Trees’
The environment we live in today is increasingly untethered. Good is presented as evil, and evil as good; lawless leaders prevail, and uncanny fake realities surround us. The future is uncertain, the present is troubled, and the past is not what we once believed. How do we create a foundation for our existence without a pillar to lean on?
The digital and the real are becoming increasingly blurred. The work in this show seeks to offer an escape from our untethered reality into a tangible fantasy. It is a rejection of the unreal—grounded instead in purely human, authentic fantasy.
The show is conceived as a diorama: a landscape constructed from sculpture and functional objects. A broken fence, a standing tree, and a folly in a clearing are just a few of the elements used to create an abstraction of the artist’s own imagined perfect place.
Six Dots Design presents an immersive show of sculpture and objects designed to pull us out of our uncanny lives and into a real fantasy.
Private View on the 17th Septemeber
18:00pm to 23:45pm
Location: 30 Hancock Road, London, E33DA, UK
'Precious Things'
Last week, we launched a new collection of objects called ‘Precious Things.’ The idea for this collection was to collate a series of objects that were not similar in form or typology but came together because they all felt special and precious in our hands. The collection ended up being a chair, lamp, bin, cup, and trinket box.
I was watching YouTube the other day and stumbled across Sabrina Carpenter's new video for her song ‘Man Child.’ It immediately made me think of another music video that came out last year: A$AP Rocky’s ‘Taylor Swif.’ Both videos were similar in their artistic vision but came from very different perspectives.
The two music videos were made of fast cuts of surreal images that felt weird, otherworldly, but strangely familiar. Personal favorite moments from A$AP’s video included the giant toes, reminiscent of the thumb people from Spy Kids, and in Sabrina’s video, the reference that I understand to be Kiera Knightley’s pond moment in Atonement.
When times get weird, the art gets weirder. The surrealists of the 20th century responded to times of war and chaos through depictions of life that felt confused and distorted. We live in a time with no sense of truth, no sense of normalcy, and chaos surrounding us. What is interesting is that popular culture is once again reacting to this by creating art that is confusing, challenging, and shows uncanny depictions of real life.
When life feels like it has no basis or foundation, and governments can’t be trusted, the pillars of society reveal themselves to be corrupt. What do we do, and how do we operate our daily lives?
For me personally, the chaos, the war, and the imminent, continuous disaster mean I am clinging further and deeper to the places, things, and people that give me a sense of life and livelihood. ‘Precious Things’ is a collection of objects that made me feel grounded and connected to some form of reality while making them.
I think sometimes when I design and make things, I do so because I know it’s real. I know that I have an idea; I bend, cut, grind, and weld it into shape and create an object that is real. This truth means that regardless of the ocean of uncertainty around me, I can connect to myself and to others through the truth that lies in making and working.
When I look at art, design, and media, I find I am less and less interested in trying to make sense of it or put it in order. All I need is to look at something and feel its presence. If I like it and if it connects to me, then that’s all I need and all that matters to me. I have less and less patience for verbose and confusing descriptions of art or design because when I feel a disconnect between what is written about the work and the execution of the work, I lose trust and faith in it. When the world is already full of mistruths and deception, I lean closer and closer to sensations within myself that I can trust.
This collection, therefore, consists only of pieces that I like and that felt right.
I am looking forward to seeing how the collection is received, but mostly I am proud of the way the work is developing in our studio. A huge thank you to the team of people that makes all the work in our studio come together.
Lots of love,
Joe
'It’s amazing what people will pay for these days'
I was sitting in my workshop one day, welding, when I heard a voice yell, “Hello!” I flipped up my visor to see a man in a ripped jumper and muddy trousers who had cycled his bike into the middle of my workshop.
I politely said, “Hello,” and before I had the chance to establish that this was a private workshop and cycling within it was not permitted, he began asking me questions about what I was doing and what the business did.
In response, I showed him one of the cups we’d designed and made for Atelier 100, a grant scheme run by IKEA and H&M. He took it and asked, “So do you grind the welds back?” I said, “No.”
“Do you polish it?”
I replied, “No, no, that’s it.”
He said, “Blimey, it’s amazing what people pay money for these days,” then peddled off out of the workshop, never to be seen again.
When we talk about design and the role it has in our lives, the classic industrial design answer is that it “solves problems” or “enhances our lives through function.” I mean, if you listen to Dieter Rams, design is all about making a product useful and having as little design as possible. Personally, I think this is complete rubbish. Is the design of an Apple Mac really about function and lack of design?
Absolutely not. It’s about demonstrating status through exclusivity, making the customer feel as though they are at the cutting edge of technology. It’s about ego, status, and affiliation with wealth. The design of the product is not at all about making the trackpad ergonomic to prevent arthritis or about its design being a “lack of design.” These are some of the most over-engineered and designed products ever made.
I truly feel we should all stop pretending that design has anything to do with function. Function is the minimum requirement for any product to be saleable. Let’s say I made a water cup and said, “This water cup is all about function. I designed the correct proportions and weight for it to be a comfortable and effortless way to drink water; everything else is secondary to its function.” In my head, any sane reaction would be to respond, “Well, you’ve just done the absolute bare minimum to meet the requirements of a water cup.” The true design challenge is to digest and placate the raw functional requirements of an object and infuse it with culture and decoration, to make it say something beyond its use-value.
The cups we made for Atelier 100 function well as water cups. The conductivity of the aluminium makes the water feel cool and crisp, the edge is a firm but not too heavy lip, and the proportions fit elegantly in your hand. However, the true value of the cup has nothing to do with these features. Its true value lies in being a statement of values and an expression of humanity in reaction to mass production.
In today’s world, we are surrounded by perfection—perfectly repeated objects, high-polished finishes, and render-to-reality products. I think it’s imperative to have objects around us that remind us that everything is made, everything is designed, and the human hand is everywhere. The objects surrounding us should teach grace and empathy and show that love is not conditional on perfection; in fact, love often requires imperfection.
We make it a requirement of all the pieces we sell in the studio to have an element of variation in the outcome—an opportunity for change or error. We feel this is essential to creating products that show the object was made by someone, somewhere (Waltham Cross, to be precise).
Lots of love,
Joe
'Stone Henge Makes Me Cry'
It’s well known amongst my family that whenever I see Stonehenge, it brings me to tears. There’s something about it—the memories of driving past it to work during Covid, how majestically it sits in the landscape, the mystery surrounding it, and the beauty of its composition. It always feels overwhelmingly beautiful to me and hence: tears.
As a designer of furniture and homeware, my aim is to create work that people look at the same way I look at Stonehenge.
I recognize, however, that the vast majority of people out there—design lovers or not—don’t feel emotional at the sight of objects, structures, or even world wonders, let alone the sight of a candelabra.
Growing up, I felt the same. I didn’t really “get” art. I thought it was mostly ugly and a waste of time. I found architecture boring (despite studying it for seven years) and had to try my hardest to think of any art or design that I really liked.
Still, I desperately wanted to be involved. I would design and make things all the time to try and understand what made something good or valuable, and what interested or disgusted people. Over the years, I still have almost no comprehension of the art and design world, how it works, or who’s who. But in this email, I want to talk about something I do know about: loving objects and furniture.
You might be thinking: what possible benefit could there be to loving objects?
Well, as discussed in my previous email, our objects tell stories. They can open up memories and be the foundations of friendships. Friendships, stories, and memories are what make life special in my book, so anything that encourages them is worth holding on to.
But can objects really do that? To this question, I refer you to the following anecdote:
Some friends have a business making concrete homeware, and one client invited them to their wedding because the marriage was founded on a mutual love of concrete homeware. If that’s not proof that objects can mean something, I don’t know what is.
Assuming you are now convinced that loving objects will bring you love, joy, and possibly a marriage, the next question might be: “But how do I love objects?”
Well, I have a three-stage approach to loving objects:
- Embrace the rabbit hole.
- Physical touch is your object love language.
- Avoid rational thought at all costs.
1: Embrace the rabbit hole.
This part requires a complete absence of personal judgment and a willingness to let the subconscious choose. If you think you might be interested in ancient rock formations, have a Google, watch some YouTube conspiracy theories, and let the hours wash away, immersed in something for no practical end other than intrigue. This will help you understand if you really are interested in the subject, or if you just think you should be. I once spent an evening researching the history of a metal church in Armenia and exploring its connection to concert-based fundraising.
2: Physical touch is your object love language.
I’ve always found that holding objects and making them gives me a much better understanding of them. You begin to grasp how they were made, the craft involved, and the intention behind them. When I first learned to make professionally, we would sand timber with 120-grit, 180-grit, and then 240-grit sandpaper. At each stage, the wood felt smooth. However, in the final product, you could feel the effort and diligence of that extra bit of sanding. Feeling the effort of the maker in a piece helps you build respect for the object and its creation.
3: Avoid rational thought at all costs.
There is truly no logical reason to love an object or piece of decoration, so avoid trying to find one. It’s useless to think that simply because it was well made or created in a certain environment, you should, therefore, love it. Ignore that feeling. Go with the irrational side of your mind that draws you to an object for no reason. Basing your love of an object purely on emotion rather than rationale enables you to explore why it means so much to you. It’s the exploration of why and what that builds the love of the object.
I’d love to know what objects you love and why. If you can think of something, send me an email—I’d love to see!
Lots of love,
Joe
'Plastic lobsters and Apple computers'
When you enter my living room, you are met with evidence of two collections that I’m quite sure you would never find on the front cover of House and Garden. One of them consists of plastic reproductions, as well as woven and painted images of lobsters; the other is an Apple Macintosh Classic, one of several non-working vintage Apple computers I have that live between home and the workshop.
When we embark on the never-ending process of designing our spaces, it’s so easy to refer to Pinterest, magazines, and Instagram to be told how to put together a room or be told how we should want to live.
When we express ourselves truly, irrespective of trends, expectations, or perceived status, we open our hearts to be seen for who and what we are. There’s an intimacy and vulnerability to it, which has a beautiful but quiet power.
When I find an object, piece of furniture, or plastic animal toy that resonates with me, I feel an immediate sense that it understands me and I understand it, whether that’s because of a shared culture, an appreciation of its craft, or because it reminds me of a specific moment in the past.
The object then feels like it becomes an extension of myself, as if something has been pulled from my subconscious and brought into reality.
Because of this deep connection to my lived environment through objects, I find it deeply frustrating when people (I’m looking at you, old-school architects) refer to the design of interiors as frivolous or superfluous. To an observer, the objects in my home might seem decorative, overindulgent, or like random clutter on a mantelpiece. To me, however, they’re little nuggets of information about who I am and who I’m working to be.
If we can learn to love objects simply because we love them and surround ourselves with things we care about, we can build more honest relationships with the environments and people around us. I think that’s something really important in an age of perception, presentation, and online fiction.
I have no idea why I feel compelled to purchase broken computers and toy shellfish, but I do. Consciously or not, that says something about me and my life, and showing them in my home is a way of opening myself up to the people who visit.
When I design and make pieces in the workshop, I’m always thinking about the material, shape, and production, but equally—most importantly—I’m thinking about its magic, and whether it has that inexplicable quality that draws you into it.
Our Pea Head lamps, for example, have been one of our most successful products, and I think it’s because the form has an inexplicable vulnerability to it that some people are drawn to. Teo calls it the "anti-floss lamp," and I think I know what he means. Having the lamp, I think, makes a statement about the world you want to live in and what you value.
Objects, furniture, and interiors, beyond providing basic comforts, are really about communicating ourselves to others. In order to communicate through objects, it’s important that the objects we have say something that means something.
Lots of love,
Joe
'Not in Service'
'Not in Service'
In October of 2024 Six Dots Design Launched a new 15 piece collection called 'Not in Service'
In my head, Not in service isn’t really a collection of furniture and homeware (although in reality it is). It’s a way of thinking about objects and our lives that I would like people to consider. The world is undeniably absurd, it's full of contradictions, caveats and inequalities. To try to order it or make sense of it to me is futile. I believe inherently that to try and find the meaning of life is a quest to despair. Life is really in the moments between the chaos where we can love, create and express our innermost ambitions and desires.
This collection is titled and presented as a closed book of objects but really it’s really an evolution of the work that me and the team have been working on for the past four years. Its testing, pushing and poking at the limits of what people are wanting in their homes.
I am hoping that by opening Six Dots up with new product categories and ranges, more people are able or feel able to have a piece of ours that speaks to them in some way, whether its a table that tells them that their living room is theirs and no one else’s or an illegally affixed toilet roll holder that tells their landlord that they may own this flat but they do not own your spirit.
Not in service at its core is a collection of functional objects that are designed to serve not their explicit purpose but hopefully something more personal.
