Honest Reviews

Longchamp: The Rare Handbag

Some brands shout. Some brands whisper. Longchamp is that calm, well-dressed person at the dinner table who doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t show off, yet somehow everyone ends up asking for their recipe, their tailor’s number, and whether they can “just borrow that bag for the weekend.”

Longchamp is not the loudest luxury brand in the room. It doesn’t fling logos at your face or require a personality transplant to carry it.

And yet—miraculously—it is loved by Boomers, Millennials, and Gen Z alike. This is not normal. Fashion brands usually pick a generation, pitch a tent there, and lob sarcasm at the others. Longchamp, instead, hosts a pleasant multi-generational brunch.

Let’s unpack how this very French miracle works.

Who Longchamp belongs to (and why that matters)

Longchamp is one of those increasingly rare creatures: a family-owned French luxury house, founded in Paris in 1948 by Jean Cassegrain and still run by the Cassegrain family today. No corporate musical chairs. No quarterly identity crises. No sudden “Hello fellow kids” energy.

This matters because continuity creates confidence. When a brand doesn’t need to reinvent itself every six months, it can focus on refinement, not reinvention. Longchamp knows exactly who it is—and that calm self-awareness is oddly magnetic in a world of frantic rebrands.

The brand philosophy: French, but useful

Longchamp’s philosophy can be summarised as:

“Yes, it should be beautiful.

Yes, it should last.

And yes, you should actually use it.”

At its heart, Longchamp stands for craftsmanship, practicality, and understated elegance. It is French chic with sleeves rolled up. The kind of chic that will help you pack, travel, commute, shop, spill coffee, recover, and still look composed.

This is not fashion that demands attention. It is fashion that quietly earns loyalty.

Why three generations love it (without group therapy)

1. Boomers: “It works and it lasts”

Boomers admire things that:

– Don’t fall apart

– Aren’t trying to impress strangers

– Can survive airports, rain, and life

Longchamp delivers. Especially with its iconic Le Pliage, which folds, unfolds, travels, and behaves like a very well-trained dog.

2. Millennials: “It’s practical, but still chic”

Millennials live in the land of:

– Work-life imbalance

– Weekend travel

– Tote bags that must carry laptops, emotional baggage, and snacks

Longchamp fits neatly into this lifestyle. It says, “I have taste, but I also have a meeting at 10.”

3. Gen Z: “It’s ironically… not ironic”

Gen Z has rediscovered Longchamp the way one discovers vinyl records or film cameras—with a mix of irony and genuine affection.

Why?

– It’s functional (big win)

– It’s customisable

– It’s not screaming for validation

– It looks great on TikTok without trying

Longchamp didn’t chase Gen Z. It simply stayed itself long enough for Gen Z to circle back.

That’s brand karma.

The product line: More than “that foldable bag”

Yes, Le Pliage is the crown jewel. Nylon body, leather handles, foldable like origami, recognisable without being obnoxious. It is arguably one of the most successful product designs of the last 30 years.

But Longchamp is not a one-hit wonder.

The brand also offers:

Premium leather bags (Le Foulonné, Le Roseau)

– Small leather goods

– Travel luggage

– Ready-to-wear collections

– Shoes and accessories

What ties everything together is consistency. Nothing feels like it wandered in from a different brand after a long night out.

What Longchamp does better than others of its ilk

Luxury peers often fall into one of two traps:

– Over-logo-ing (branding so loud it needs subtitles)

– Over-conceptualising (beautiful, but unusable in real life)

Longchamp avoids both.

It offers:

– Luxury without intimidation

– Design without discomfort

– Heritage without dust

It doesn’t demand that you “belong” to a fashion tribe. It simply asks you to carry the bag and get on with your day.

This makes Longchamp quietly democratic—an unusual and powerful position in luxury.

Celebrities who carry Longchamp (without it carrying them)

Longchamp’s celebrity appeal is best described as effortless approval rather than aggressive endorsement.

Over the years, the brand has been associated with:

Kate Middleton – proof that practical elegance can be regal

Kendall Jenner – modern, global, fashion-forward A steady stream of models, creatives, editors, and airport paparazzi sightings

The common thread? Nobody looks like they’re trying too hard. Which, ironically, is the hardest look to pull off.

Advertising & branding: Calm, cultured, and clever

Longchamp’s advertising rarely shouts. It prefers:

Elegant campaign visuals

Strong art direction

Collaborations with artists and designers

Fashion-week credibility without snobbery

Campaigns feel fashion-aware, not fashion-obsessed.

There’s joy, movement, and a sense of Parisian playfulness—never the feeling that someone is explaining art to you in a whisper.

Marketing & content strategy: Heritage with a social media passport

Longchamp understands somethingmany legacy brands struggle with:

You can respect your past and speak fluent Instagram.

In a world obsessed with the next big thing, Longchamp reminds us that good design, done well, done honestly, and done consistently, never really goes out of style.

Its strategy includes:

– Visually rich Instagram storytelling

– Collaborations with contemporary designers

– Influencer partnerships that feel curated, not chaotic

– Region-specific activations (especially strong in Asia)

– Sustainability initiatives communicated without self-congratulation

Longchamp doesn’t try to be viral. It simply stays visible and relevant. Virality, when it happens, feels like a bonus—not a goal.

Sustainability: Quietly doing the work

Rather than releasing manifestos thicker than the bag itself, Longchamp takes a measured approach:

– Increased use of recycled materials

– Long product life cycles (the most underrated sustainability flex)

– Responsible production practices

In other words, sustainability without sermonising. Which consumers increasingly appreciate.

What brands can learn from Longchamp

Longevity beats hype

Design products people want to keep, not replace.

Accessibility is not dilution

You can be premium and practical.

Don’t chase generations—earn them

If you stay authentic long enough, younger audiences will come to you.

Consistency is the new innovation

Knowing who you are is more powerful than endlessly reinventing yourself.

Understatement scales beautifully.

Final thoughts

Longchamp is not the bag of the moment.

It is the bag of many moments—first jobs, first flights, daily commutes, spontaneous trips, quiet wins.

And that, frankly, is a very French mic drop. 👜✨

Black Sheep Bistro, Panaji, Goa

Restaurant Review

There’s something deeply satisfying about returning to a restaurant you once knew under a different name. It’s like bumping into an old friend who’s ditched a questionable haircut, acquired better taste in music, and now knows exactly who they are. That, in essence, is our Sunday lunch at The Black Sheep Bistro — formerly Black Market, now confidently, stylishly, unapologetically itself.

It was one of those end-of-the-year Sundays where you’re neither frantic nor lazy — just gently inclined towards good food, decent drinks, and the promise of not cooking. A pleasant drive through Campal later, we arrived with expectations shaped by memory and appetite. Happily, Black Sheep met both with a grin and a well-shaken cocktail.

Inside, the room hummed. Not crowded enough to feel like a Saturday night mistake, not empty enough to feel tragic. Just the right number of people to generate warmth, chatter, and that subtle restaurant energy that says: yes, people are having a good time here.

Christmas décor was tastefully sprinkled — festive without screaming — and the service remained gracious, alert, and refreshingly unpretentious.

Now. Cocktails.

We ordered the Theek Mirsang, and this, dear reader, is where loyalties were formed. This drink doesn’t announce itself loudly. It arrives calm, composed, almost polite a concoction of feni and pineapple— and then the jalapeño kicks in. Not aggressively, not foolishly, but with intent. A measured heat that sneaks up, warms the palate, and leaves you grinning like someone who’s just heard a slightly naughty joke at a dinner table. This is a cocktail that makes you sit up straighter and consider ordering another purely out of respect.

The Chibud, by comparison, is gentler — a well-crafted, smooth, and perfectly pleasant feni cocktail with musk melon and egg white. A local variety of musk melon, the chibud is deeply rooted in Goan summers, especially in villages where seasonality still dictates what lands on your plate. What makes the chibud special isn’t just flavour — it’s nostalgia. For many Goans, it’s the taste of summer afternoons, of fruit sellers calling out in the heat, of kitchens where nothing needed embellishment to feel complete. It’s seasonal, fleeting, and all the better for it.

The cocktail itself does everything it’s meant to do. But when you’re sitting opposite a drink with jalapeño swagger, someone is bound to fade slightly into the background. Still, it holds its own — and would be a solid choice on a less spicy day.

Starters followed, beginning with the garlic bread, which arrived warm, fragrant, and unreasonably good for something so deceptively simple. Crisp on the outside, soft and indulgent within, it melted into buttery oblivion with alarming ease.

The jackfruit tostada was next. A dish that wears its modern sensibility proudly. Jackfruit, thoughtfully seasoned and texturally pleasing, perched on a crisp tostada base. While it may not have become my personal obsession, it was reasonably decent. The kind of dish you appreciate even if it doesn’t lodge itself permanently in your memory.

For mains, we ordered the Salcete Chicken Rice, and I will admit — this was done with a small cloud of skepticism hovering overhead. Skepticism that promptly packed its bags and left after the first bite. Minced chicken, savoury and comforting, threaded through fragrant rice, topped with chicken pieces and a half-fried egg that did exactly what a half-fried egg should do: ooze gently and enrich everything it touched. It’s a dish rooted in comfort but elevated through balance and restraint.

And then came dessert. The Basque cheesecake.

Look, I’ve had my share of Basque cheesecakes. I’ve nodded approvingly at many. This one? This one made me pause. Creamy without being cloying, and crowned with that glorious caramelised top. It was, quite simply, outstanding — one of the best I’ve had, full stop.

By the time lunch wound down, the room still buzzed softly, the Christmas cheer lingered, and plates were cleared with a smile. Black Sheep Bistro delivered exactly what we came looking for: good food, good drinks, good vibes — and the reassuring sense that some places only get better with time.

Would I return? Absolutely. This is the sort of lunch that makes you forget the rest of the week. And on a Sunday, this kind of amnesia is most welcome!

Culture Hacking in Advertising

Once upon a time, brands turned up on social media like guests who arrived an hour early to a dinner party and immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password.

They posted.
They announced.
They hashtagged #Engagement with the enthusiasm of someone clapping at their own jokes.

And then something changed.

Someone, somewhere, realised that culture moves faster than campaigns — and that if brands wanted attention, they’d have to stop interrupting conversations and start joining them.

Welcome to culture hacking.

So What Is Culture Hacking, Really?

Culture hacking is not:

Trend-jacking badly
Slapping your logo on memes
Pretending your brand “gets Gen Z” because someone used the word slay in a caption

Culture hacking is when a brand:

Understands what people are talking about right now
Knows why it matters
And responds in a way that feels timely, relevant, and slightly smug (but in a good way)

It’s not about being funny.
It’s about being right.

Right tone.
Right moment.
Right restraint.

Think less “Hello fellow kids” and more “Ah yes, we were thinking the same thing.”

How Culture Hacking Is Actually Done (No, It’s Not Magic)

Good culture hacking usually follows a very simple formula:

Listen → Understand → React → Exit gracefully

Key rules:

You don’t explain the joke
You don’t over-brand
You don’t stay too long

The best culture hacks feel like:

“Wow, they posted that fast.”

The worst feel like:

“Why is this brand here?”

Timing is everything.
Tone is survival.

Indian Brands Doing It Right (Shockingly Often)

1. Mumbai Police

The Gold Standard of Unexpected Cool

Mumbai Police’s social media presence is what happens when authority develops a sense of humour without losing dignity.

They:

Use memes sparingly
Comment on trending topics without sounding thirsty
Deliver public service messages that people actually share

It’s culture hacking with boundaries — which is why it works. You laugh, you nod, and you obey the traffic rules. Mostly.

2. Zomato

Pop Culture, With Fries

Zomato’s entire personality is built on cultural awareness:

Celebrity news
Breakups
Cricket losses
Collective hunger at 11:47 pm

They don’t just post about food — they post about feelings, with food as emotional support.

The trick?
They know when to joke and when to shut up. A skill many brands still haven’t mastered.

3. Swiggy

Gentler, Smarter, Slightly More Polite

Swiggy culture-hacks like someone who’s clever but doesn’t need to shout about it.

Wordplay.
Visual jokes.
Occasionally brilliant timing.

They don’t chase trends — they adapt them to fit their voice. Which is the difference between culture hacking and cultural panic.

Global Brands That Basically Live Online Now

4. Duolingo

The Owl That Knows Too Much

Duolingo’s social media strategy appears to be:

“Let’s fully commit to chaos.”

And somehow, it works.

The brand leaned so hard into internet absurdity that it became a meme first and a language app second — which, in today’s economy, is probably correct.

This is culture hacking at its most fearless.
Also at its most exhausting.
But undeniably effective.

5. Ryanair

Self-Awareness at 30,000 Feet

Ryanair hacked culture by doing something revolutionary:
Admitting it’s not luxurious.

They roast themselves.
They lean into complaints.
They make fun of their own brand.

They also did their own version of Spotify Wrapped.

It’s not aspirational — it’s honest. And honesty, on social media, is a novelty.

6. Wendy’s

The Original Internet Menace

Wendy’s has been culture hacking since before it was fashionable — roasting competitors, customers, and occasionally the concept of dignity itself.

But here’s the key:
They never punch down.
They punch sideways.

Which is why people cheer instead of complain.

The Best Way to Do Culture Hacking (Without Ruining Your Brand)

Let’s be clear: not every brand should culture hack.

If your brand voice is:

Formal
Serious
Regulated
Trust-based

Your culture hacking should be quiet, observational, and rare.

Key principles:

Less posting, more impact
One good post beats ten desperate ones
If you have to explain it in a meeting, it’s probably not funny

And for the love of the internet:

If the trend is already on LinkedIn, you’re too late.

Common Mistakes :

Using memes incorrectly
Chasing trends without understanding context
Over-branding the joke
Posting during tragedies because “engagement”
Trying to sound young instead of sounding human

Culture hacking fails when brands want applause more than relevance.

Key Takeaways

Culture hacking is about timing, not talent
Listening matters more than posting
Not every trend is for you
Silence is sometimes the smartest response
The internet can smell desperation instantly

In Conclusion: Don’t Hack Culture. Respect It.

The brands that do culture hacking well don’t treat culture like a tool.
They treat it like a conversation.

They show up.
They say something smart.
And then — crucially — they leave.

Which, honestly, is how most of us should behave on social media.

And possibly at dinner parties too.

Emily in Paris: Season 5 Review

Season five of Emily in Paris feels very much like comfort food you didn’t need but ordered anyway because it was right there on the menu. If you’ve binged the earlier seasons (as many of us shamefully have), this one is almost inevitable—escapist, glossy, and mildly absurd in a way that feels familiar rather than thrilling.

Let’s start with the obvious: the clothes. Yes, still fabulous. Yes, still Instagram bait. But noticeably more restrained this season. Emily’s wardrobe leans heavily into black-and-white palettes with the occasional pastel cameo, as though even the costume department decided to mature slightly—or at least lower the saturation.

Lilly Collins, however, does look unusually thin this season. This isn’t body-shaming so much as visual whiplash: she sometimes appears closer to a precocious pre-teen than the late-20s/early-30s marketing wunderkind she’s meant to be playing. Whether this reflects current fashion standards or simply aggressive styling, it’s hard not to notice—and harder not to be distracted by it.

Narratively, the season feels oddly fragmented. Gabriel’s presence is so minimal that you genuinely start wondering whether the show is slowly ghosting him. Is this a quiet goodbye? A narrative pause? Or just indecision dressed up as character development? Either way, Gabriel feels less like a romantic lead and more like an optional extra drifting in and out of frame.

The shift from Paris to Rome should feel exciting—and visually, it does—but emotionally, it’s thinner than expected. Enter Marcello: charming, handsome, very much an Italian fantasy. And yet, the chemistry between him and Emily never quite clicks. It feels more like a postcard romance than something with actual pulse.

Ironically, the most compelling emotional arc belongs to Mindy and Alfie. Their dynamic feels warmer, messier, and more human than Emily’s latest love entanglement. Mindy Chen and Alfie bring a sincerity that the central romance currently lacks—and that imbalance is telling.

The supporting cast continues to do the heavy lifting. Luc’s chaotic love triangle is genuinely funny, leaning into the show’s self-awareness.

Sylvie, meanwhile, feels increasingly exaggerated—her endless carousel of lovers borders on parody. It’s glamorous, yes, but also exhausting. You stop being intrigued and start needing a flowchart.

Then there’s the Minnie Driver wildcard—an aristocratic, slightly absurd presence who feels parachuted in from a different show altogether. Fun, but tonally odd. If she’s set to play a bigger role going forward, one hopes the writing grounds her a little more.

And finally, the elephant in the couture showroom: the work. Every crisis is still magically resolved through a single conversation and a conveniently viral social media campaign. Emily insists she’s working relentlessly, yet we mostly see lunches, dinners, cocktails, and existential sighs over wine. One can only assume actual work happens off-screen, somewhere between outfit changes.

Overall, season five is… fine. Perfectly watchable. Perfectly fluffy. But not particularly memorable. Earlier seasons felt sharper, more playful, and more chaotic in a way that worked. This one feels like it’s coasting on its own reputation.

That said, Emily in Paris has officially crossed into cult-classic territory. And cult classics don’t lose viewers easily. You may complain, critique, and roll your eyes—but when season six drops, chances are you’ll still press play.

Younger : Netflix Series Review

There are some shows you watch to feel intellectually superior.

There are some shows you watch to feel emotionally wrecked.

And then there’s Younger — a glossy, bubble-gum, escapist fantasy you watch because the world is exhausting and you just want to lie on the couch thinking, “What if my biggest problem was choosing between two very attractive men and a cool publishing job?”

I’ve been a Younger fan since its Amazon Prime days, where I devoured the first five seasons with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a new dessert that doesn’t judge you.

So when the series finally landed on Netflix and I could catch up on the seasons I’d missed, it felt like running into an old friend who still dresses well, still cracks jokes — and still makes questionable life choices.

The Premise: Ageism, But Make It Cute

At its core, Younger is built on one gloriously implausible but emotionally resonant idea:

What if a woman in her 40s pretended to be 26 just to get a job… because the job market is casually ageist and quietly cruel?

Enter Liza Miller, played by the endlessly likeable Sutton Foster. Liza is freshly out of a bad marriage, financially vulnerable, and trying to re-enter the workforce after years as a stay-at-home mom. She’s smart, capable, experienced — which in publishing apparently translates to “Sorry, we’re looking for someone younger who knows Instagram.”

So she lies about her age.

Just a little.

Okay, a lot.

And boom — she lands a job in publishing, becomes best friends with a millennial, dates a tattoo artist who thinks she’s his age, and somehow nobody notices that she remembers life before Wi-Fi.

Is it realistic? No.

Is it deeply satisfying? Absolutely.

The Love Triangle We All Pretended We Were Above (But Weren’t)

Let’s address the real hook of Younger: the romantic dilemma.

On one side, you have Josh — the younger man, tattoo artist, spontaneous human Labrador, played by Nico Tortorella. Josh is emotional, open, messy, passionate, and completely allergic to emotional walls.

On the other, there’s Charles Brooks — the older, refined, suit-wearing publisher-boss, played by Peter Hermann. Charles is thoughtful, restrained, ethical, and radiates “I own hardcover books and feelings I won’t express.”

Josh brings out Liza’s youthful, impulsive, bubbly side.

Charles allows her to be her actual age — grounded, thoughtful, and professionally equal.

And honestly? It makes complete sense that she’s in love with both of them. Haven’t we all at some point wanted someone who makes us feel young and someone who makes us feel safe?

You spend a good chunk of the series rooting for Charles — because on paper, he’s the sensible choice. But then you start noticing the cracks. He can be rigid. A little black-and-white. Occasionally… a wet blanket. Meanwhile, Josh grows, evolves, and quietly proves that emotional maturity isn’t determined by the year on your birth certificate.

The most quietly devastating moment comes when Liza turns to Charles in bed and says, almost casually, “I guess we’re not going to make it after all.” And that line? That line pretty much sums up the entire emotional thesis of Younger.

Beyond the Secret: What Happens When Everyone Knows?

Once the big age secret is out — and yes, people do eventually find out — the show smartly shifts gears. It stops being about the lie and becomes about identity, friendship, ambition, and choice.

The emotional backbone of the series increasingly rests on Liza’s friendship with Kelsey Peters, played by Hilary Duff. Kelsey is ambitious, messy, idealistic, occasionally reckless, and fiercely loyal — the kind of friend who will both hype you up and emotionally exhaust you in the same afternoon.

Their dynamic feels real: competitive but loving, supportive but strained, aspirational yet flawed. It’s one of the better portrayals of female friendship on TV — especially across a generational divide.

Men flit in and out of Liza’s life (because television), careers rise and fall with suspicious ease (because television), and problems are often solved with a single meeting, a viral moment, or a conveniently placed venture capitalist (because… you guessed it, television).

But that’s okay. This isn’t realism. This is Escape TV™.

Performances: Charm Does the Heavy Lifting

Sutton Foster (Liza Miller)

Foster is the show’s secret weapon. She makes an absurd premise emotionally credible through sheer charm. Her Liza is warm, self-aware, vulnerable, and deeply human. You root for her not because she’s perfect, but because she’s trying — and Foster ensures she never feels manipulative or smug.

Hilary Duff (Kelsey Peters)

Duff brings surprising depth to Kelsey. What could have been a stock “millennial girlboss” becomes a layered, insecure, ambitious woman navigating power, ego, and friendship. Duff handles both comedy and emotional beats with ease, making Kelsey frustrating, lovable, and believable.

Peter Hermann (Charles Brooks)

Hermann plays Charles with quiet restraint. He’s dignified, sincere, and emotionally controlled — which works beautifully early on, but also explains why the character sometimes feels limited later. Still, he brings gravitas and genuine warmth to the role.

Nico Tortorella (Josh)

Tortorella gives Josh a sincerity that saves the character from becoming a cliché. Beneath the tattoos and impulsiveness is emotional intelligence and growth — and that evolution is one of the show’s more rewarding arcs.

The Ending: Not a Cliffhanger, Just… Life

Younger doesn’t end with fireworks or definitive answers. Instead, it leaves things open — not frustratingly so, but thoughtfully. For me, Liza doesn’t “choose” one man because she doesn’t need to. She’s finally choosing herself.

She’s in love with both Josh and Charles — not as a failure of decision-making, but as a reflection of her complexity. Different people bring out different versions of us, and sometimes the point isn’t permanence, but freedom.

Josh always represented that freedom. That lightness. That permission to live without apology. And at that moment in her life, that feels right.

Final Verdict

Younger is not here to challenge your worldview.

It’s here to soothe you, charm you, and mildly lie to you about how easy adulthood could be.

It’s bubbly.

It’s glossy.

It’s emotionally generous.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what you want.

If you’re looking for smart escapism with romance, humour, and just enough social commentary to feel relevant — Younger is well worth the binge.

The MAYA Principle in Design

Design, much like comedy, works best when the audience feels smart for getting the joke. If you have to explain it, you’ve already lost the room. Enter the MAYA principle—a deceptively simple idea that has quietly shaped everything from your smartphone to your favourite chair, and possibly even that logo you secretly admire but can’t quite explain.

MAYA stands for Most Advanced Yet Acceptable. It’s the design equivalent of serving sushi to someone who’s only ever eaten dal-chawal—as long as you give them a California roll first.

Let’s unpack this, shall we?

What Exactly Is the MAYA Principle?

The MAYA principle suggests that people are attracted to things that are new and innovative—but only up to the point where they still feel familiar and usable. Push innovation too far and users panic. Play it too safe and users yawn.

In other words:

Too familiar = boring

Too futuristic = “I don’t know where the on button is and I’m scared”

Just right = “Ooooh, this feels new… but I get it.”

Designers walk this tightrope every day. The MAYA principle is their balancing pole.

Who Came Up With This Sensible Bit of Wisdom?

Credit where it’s due: the principle is attributed to Raymond Loewy, one of the most influential industrial designers of the 20th century. Loewy designed everything from refrigerators and locomotives to logos for Shell, Lucky Strike, and Greyhound.

Loewy noticed something crucial while designing products for mass audiences:

People claim they want the new, but emotionally cling to the familiar.

So he coined MAYA as a guiding rule—design should advance expectations, not traumatise them.

Think evolution, not revolution.

Or as Loewy might have put it (if he were alive and scrolling Instagram): “Don’t redesign the wheel. Just give it better rims.”

Why the MAYA Principle Exists (And Why It Still Matters)

Humans are suspicious creatures. We say we want innovation, but we also want instructions that make sense. The MAYA principle exists because:

The human brain loves patterns

Familiarity reduces cognitive load.

If something looks usable, we’re more likely to try it.

Risk makes people nervous

Radical design feels risky.

Risk triggers resistance.

Resistance kills adoption.

Adoption beats admiration.

A design that wins awards but isn’t used is basically modern art with Wi-Fi.

MAYA bridges the emotional gap between “That’s interesting” and “I’ll actually use this.”

Famous Examples of MAYA in Action

Let’s look at brands that absolutely get it.

Apple

Apple is practically the poster child for MAYA. Every new iPhone looks just like the old one—until you use it.

Buttons disappear slowly, not overnight

Interfaces evolve gently

New features are wrapped in familiar gestures

Apple doesn’t ask users to relearn technology. It asks them to upgrade their habits. That’s MAYA done right.

Tesla

Tesla cars look like… well, cars. Not spaceships. And that’s the point.

Electric drivetrain = radical

Steering wheel, pedals, seats = reassuringly normal

Sure, the giant touchscreen is a leap, but it’s offset by a familiar driving experience. You feel advanced without feeling lost.

Dyson

Dyson vacuum cleaners look like they’ve escaped from a science lab—but they still vacuum like, well, vacuum cleaners.

Transparent chambers = new

Same basic function = familiar

You’re intrigued, not intimidated. Which is why you end up paying more than you planned, while convincing yourself it’s an “investment”.

IKEA

Flat-pack furniture is a radical idea disguised as affordable familiarity.

Furniture looks normal.

Buying it feels new.

Assembling it feels like a test of character.

IKEA constantly experiments with form and function—but never so much that you can’t imagine it in your living room.

Who Uses the MAYA Principle?

Short answer: anyone who wants people to actually use what they design.

Long answer:

Product designers

UX/UI designers

Brand strategists

Architects

Advertisers

Tech companies launching “new” things that are actually just better versions of old things.

If your audience includes humans (which it usually does), MAYA applies.

When Should You Use the MAYA Principle?

Use MAYA when:

You’re introducing something new to a mass audience

Radical innovation needs familiar framing.

You’re redesigning an existing product or brand

Change enough to excite, not enough to alienate.

You want adoption, not just applause

People don’t buy what they don’t understand.

Avoid MAYA only when:

– You’re designing for extreme niche users

– You want to shock, provoke, or disrupt (art installations, concept cars, haute couture with no sleeves)

Otherwise, MAYA is your friend.

The Advertising Angle (Because Of Course)

In advertising, MAYA shows up as:

Familiar formats with unexpected twists

Known celebrities in surprising roles

Classic storytelling structures with modern attitudes

The best campaigns don’t feel alien. They feel like something you already liked, just sharper, smarter, and better dressed.

The Big Risk of Ignoring MAYA

Ignore MAYA and one of two things happens:

Your design is too safe → No one notices → No one cares

Your design is too advanced → People admire it → Then walk away slowly

Neither pays the bills.

Key Takeaway (Stick This On Your Wall)

Great design doesn’t ask users to change overnight.

It invites them to step forward—comfortably.

Or, in true MAYA spirit:

Be brave. But not so brave that people need a manual, a therapist, and a YouTube tutorial.

That’s the MAYA principle—Most Advanced Yet Acceptable.

And honestly? It’s probably why you like the things you like… even when you can’t quite explain why.

Hermès: Branding & Marketing Strategy

Let’s begin with a simple truth.

Hermès does not chase you.
Hermès does not woo you.
Hermès does not say, “Limited period offer!” or “Swipe up!” or “Use code LUXURY10.”

Hermès stands there, polishing its leather, whispering to itself,
“If you know, you know.”

And somehow… the world nods, queues up, and hands over its life savings.

How did that happen?

1. Brand Identity: Born in a Stable, Stayed in Olympus

Hermès didn’t start as a luxury brand. It started as a horse problem.

In 1837, Thierry Hermès opened a harness workshop in Paris. He made saddles and bridles. Practical things. Smelly things. Things that went clop clop. His customers were aristocrats who needed their horses to look good because Instagram hadn’t been invented yet.

This origin story matters because Hermès never forgot it.

While other luxury brands evolved by shouting “FASHION!” louder every decade, Hermès quietly stuck to:

Craft
Materials
Longevity
And a faint air of “we’ve been doing this longer than your country.”

The bags? Came later.
The scarves? Later.
The perfume? Much later.

But the identity never changed:

We make things properly. Slowly. By hand. And we don’t care if you’re in a hurry.

That’s not just brand history. That’s brand philosophy disguised as origin myth.

2. Brand Differentiator: Scarcity Without the Sweat

Most brands manufacture scarcity like it’s a marketing stunt:

Limited edition drops
Countdown timers
“Only 2 left!” (which is a lie)

Hermès does scarcity like an aristocrat does silence.

What Hermès doesn’t do:

No mass production
No aggressive expansion
No sudden discount seasons
No influencer begging

What Hermès does do:

Makes bags slowly, by artisans trained for years
Refuses to scale beyond what craftsmanship allows
Keeps supply lower than demand by design
Forces you to build a relationship before buying a Birkin

Yes, a relationship.

You don’t buy a Birkin.
You are eventually allowed to buy a Birkin.

This is marketing genius disguised as stubbornness.

Scarcity here isn’t a tactic. It’s a consequence.

And consequences feel more authentic than campaigns.

3. Key Competitors: The Loud, the Fast, and the Fashionable

Hermès technically competes with brands like:

Louis Vuitton
Chanel
Gucci
Dior

But philosophically?
Hermès isn’t even in the same pub.

Let’s be honest.

Gucci is fashion-forward, trend-hungry, dopamine-driven.
Louis Vuitton is scale-forward, logo-forward, everywhere-forward.
Chanel is heritage-meets-modern, with a lot of celebrity oxygen.

Hermès, meanwhile, is standing in the corner saying:

“We’ll still matter in 50 years. Will you?”

Their competition isn’t other luxury brands.
Their competition is time.

If Gucci is a headline, Hermès is a footnote in history books.

4. Positioning Strategy: Quiet, Unbothered, and Deeply Superior

Hermès’ positioning is not:

“The most luxurious”
“The most fashionable”
“The most exclusive”

It’s something far more dangerous:

“The most correct.”

Hermès doesn’t sell aspiration in the Instagram sense.
It sells belonging to a certain way of thinking.

Owning Hermès says:

You value longevity over novelty
You don’t need logos screaming your net worth
You understand that real luxury whispers

This is anti-flex luxury.

You don’t buy Hermès to be seen.
You buy Hermès to recognise yourself.

That’s positioning so clean it almost feels rude.

5. Celebrities : Yes, But Make It Look Accidental

Hermès uses celebrities the way old money uses yachts.

They exist.
They are present.
But nobody makes a fuss.

You’ll see Hermès on:

Jane Birkin (by accident, historically)
Quiet royals
Artists (Victoria Beckham)
Actors who look like they read books

What you won’t see:

Hermès ambassador announcement
Forced red carpet placements
TikTok dances with a Kelly bag

Celebrities don’t endorse Hermès.

They simply… wear it.

Which is far more powerful.

Because endorsement says:

“We paid for this.”

While Hermès says:

“They chose us.”

And choice always beats payment.

Celebrities that use Birkins include Victoria Beckham, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Lopez, Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Kardashian and Kylie Jenner

6. Content Marketing Strategy: Art, Craft, and Zero Panic

Hermès content does not shout “BUY NOW.”

It whispers:

“This took 40 hours. Thought you might like to know.”

What Hermès creates instead of ads:

Films about artisans
Abstract, artsy visuals
Editorial-level storytelling
Campaigns that feel like museum exhibitions

Even their digital presence is… restrained.

No clutter.
No urgency.
No desperation metrics.

Hermès understands a truth most brands ignore:

Content doesn’t have to convert today if it builds belief forever.

They are not in the performance marketing business.
They are in the myth maintenance business.

And myths age very well.

7. Why This Works in a World Addicted to Speed

Let’s address the obvious question.

How does Hermès survive in:

The TikTok era
The attention economy
The “if it’s not trending, it’s dead” world?

Answer:
Because Hermès doesn’t compete for attention.

It competes for respect.

And respect lasts longer than reach.

While brands are busy chasing relevance, Hermès is busy being inevitable.

They know:

Trends expire
Algorithms change
Craft endures

And endurance is the ultimate flex.

8. The Psychological Masterstroke (This Is the Clever Bit)

Hermès flips the power dynamic.

Most brands say:

“Please choose us.”

Hermès says:

“We’ll see.”

This creates:

Desire without pursuit
Prestige without noise
Loyalty without bribery

When customers have to earn access, they value the product more.

That’s not marketing.
That’s human psychology in a silk scarf.

9. The Anti-Marketing Marketing Strategy

Hermès succeeds by doing what marketers are told never to do:

Say no
Grow slowly
Ignore trends
Resist scale
Protect the product at all costs

They don’t optimise for:

Click-through rates
Virality
Growth hacks

They optimise for:

Integrity
Craft
Time

In an industry obsessed with “what’s next,” Hermès asks:

“What lasts?”

That’s not sexy.
That’s legendary.

10. Key Takeaways (Pin These on Your Marketing Mood Board)

Let’s land this plane.

1. Brand identity is not a logo. It’s a belief system.

Hermès knows who it is—and never apologises for it.

2. Scarcity works best when it’s real.

Fake scarcity feels like a tactic. Real scarcity feels like truth.

3. Not all growth is good growth.

Scaling slowly is sometimes the bravest strategy.

4. Celebrity endorsement is optional. Credibility is not.

Being chosen beats being promoted.

5. Content should build myth, not just metrics.

If people believe in your brand, sales will follow.

6. Luxury isn’t about price. It’s about patience.

Hermès charges for time, skill, and restraint—not just leather.

Final Thought: Why Hermès Is the Brand Marketers Secretly Admire

Most marketers study Hermès.
Few dare to copy it.

Because Hermès requires:

Confidence
Discipline
And the courage to disappoint people in the short term

It’s a brand that proves you don’t need to shout to be heard.
You just need to be worth listening to.

And that, in a world of noise, is the rarest luxury of all.

A lil bit of Slurr and a whole lot of Kokum Curry

Panaji, Goa : Restaurant Review

There are evenings that feel like they’ve been lightly dusted with cinnamon and goodwill, and this particular Saturday in Panjim was very much one of them. It was Christmas season — that glorious annual window when calories don’t count, spirits are high (both metaphorically and in glasses), and even the most cynical among us are susceptible to twinkling lights and a well-timed carol.

So naturally, we found ourselves in Fontainhas, Panjim’s Latin Quarter, which at Christmas looks as though it has been curated by elves with excellent taste and a deep love for fairy lights. The pastel Portuguese houses were dressed up like debutantes — stars dangling from balconies, windows glowing warmly, and strings of lights looping their way across narrow lanes. Carolers wandered about in cheerful packs, tourists strolled slowly (as if afraid to disturb the magic), and every little restaurant window looked like a still from a European Christmas film — cosy, candlelit, and begging you to come in and sit down.

We ducked into Slurr – Casa Lusitana, a place that can best be described as charmingly skeletal — more shell than showpiece, and all the better for it.

We grabbed a window seat, the best kind of urban theatre ticket, and ordered ourselves a couple of rosemary G&Ts. Outside, Fontainhas carried on performing: laughter floated by, footsteps echoed, someone burst into song.

Inside, we sat back and let the ambience seep in slowly, like a good short story you don’t rush. The bar bites offered a modest selection of knick-knacks, but we wisely passed. The evening was young, and restraint — rare though it may be in December — felt briefly achievable.

After a leisurely wander through the lanes, soaking in the sights, sounds, and general Christmas cheer, we turned our attention to dinner and headed to Kokum Curry — a restaurant with a reputation for authentic Goan cuisine and, crucially, the confidence to let its food do most of the talking.

The restaurant greeted us dressed for Christmas, but in a way that felt thoughtful rather than theatrical. Brick-toned interiors gave the space a warm, rustic feel, softened by a Christmas tree, stars scattered about, and just enough glitter to signal celebration without tipping into tinsel chaos.

It felt cosy, welcoming, and reassuringly confident — the kind of place that doesn’t need to shout because it knows exactly what it’s doing.

We began with Vegetable Foddi — brinjal and bhindi fritters coated in rawa and fried until golden. These weren’t your greasy, regret-laden fritters, but crisp, delicately seasoned parcels where the vegetables retained their integrity and flavour. The semolina coating added texture without heaviness, making each bite crunchy, light, and deeply satisfying. This is comfort food at its most honest — the sort that reminds you why simple things, done well, are often unbeatable.

For the mains, we chose the combo meals, which felt both sensible and indulgent — a rare crossover. The Bharilli Vainggi arrived first: baby brinjals stuffed generously and cooked in a semi-dry coconut and peanut gravy. The gravy was rich without being overpowering, allowing the sweetness of the brinjals and the nuttiness of the coconut to shine through. Served alongside fried onions, and soft rice flour rotis, it was a plate that tasted like heritage — the kind of dish that feels passed down, not invented.

Next came the Chicken Shagoti, a classic Goan Xacuti preparation, thick with coconut, layered with spices, and unapologetically robust. Served with paav and a crisp onion salad, it was bold, aromatic, and deeply comforting. This is the sort of food that makes you slow down instinctively, because rushing it would feel almost disrespectful. If you’re Goan, it will almost certainly remind you of your grandmother’s kitchen — that unmistakable flavour of love, patience, and experience. If you’re not, it will make you wish you were. Chef’s kiss, without question.

Dessert was Myndoli Kelleacho Haalwo — sliced Moira bananas cooked gently in sugar syrup, infused with cardamom and saffron. Soft, fragrant, and quietly indulgent, it was nostalgia served on a plate. Sweet without excess, elegant without fuss, and the perfect end to a meal that never once tried to be clever — only authentic.

The food at Kokum Curry is as authentic as authentic gets. This is not watered-down, tourist-friendly Goan cuisine designed to offend no one. This is food with roots, confidence, and character. Its reputation is well earned and well deserved, and every dish feels like a reaffirmation of why it’s so well loved.

We ended the evening strolling through Panjim once more, letting the Christmas magic linger just a little longer. After all, ’tis the season to eat, drink, and be merry — though the first two do tend to lead enthusiastically to the third. On a night wrapped in fairy lights, good food, and better spirits, being merry didn’t feel like a choice — it felt like an inevitability.

Wishing one and all a very happy, hearty, and thoroughly well-fed Christmas season 🎄✨.

Design Style of 2026 : Horror Vacui

There comes a point in every design era when everyone collectively looks at a pristine white wall, a polite sans-serif headline, a tasteful amount of breathing space—and thinks: Yes, but what if we added… everything?

Welcome to 2026.

Welcome to Horror Vacui.

If minimalism was the calm yoga instructor whispering “less is more” while burning sage, Horror Vacui is the aunt who arrives with jewellery clinking, stories overlapping, three opinions per sentence, and a handbag full of heirlooms. And frankly? She’s far more entertaining.

Horror Vacui—Latin for fear of empty space—is the design style that refuses to let a surface go quietly into the night. No blank walls. No shy margins. No negative space lounging about doing nothing. Every inch must earn its rent.

And before you roll your eyes and mutter “maximalism again,” let’s get one thing straight: Horror Vacui is not random clutter. It’s not design hoarding. It’s intentional excess. Curated chaos. Controlled madness. Think orchestra, not traffic jam.

A Very Brief History of Filling Things Up

Humans have never really trusted empty space. Medieval manuscripts were crammed with vines, saints, demons, marginalia and the occasional angry rabbit. Baroque churches looked at simplicity and said, “Absolutely not.” Victorian homes layered rugs on rugs on rugs, just in case one rug felt lonely.

Horror Vacui has always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting patiently for modernism to exhaust itself.

And exhaust itself it did.

After a decade of clean grids, beige branding, “calm technology” and logos that look suspiciously identical, the pendulum has swung—hard. The world is messy, loud, contradictory, overstimulated. Design, inevitably, has followed suit.

Horror Vacui isn’t nostalgia. It’s psychological realism.

What Horror Vacui Actually Looks Like (And No, It’s Not Just Noise)

At first glance, Horror Vacui designs look busy. Stay with them a little longer and you realise they’re layered.

You’ll see:

Patterns stacked on patterns (florals arguing with geometrics, paisleys photobombing stripes)

Typography that behaves like a dinner-table conversation—interrupting itself, changing tone, getting dramatic.

Illustration, collage, photography, hand-drawn scribbles, embroidery textures, foil accents, all cohabiting peacefully

Colour palettes that refuse to whisper

Importantly, there is hierarchy. The eye is guided, not assaulted. There’s a main story, several subplots, and at least one delightful Easter egg you only notice on your third viewing.

This is design that rewards attention rather than begging for it.

Why Horror Vacui Is Having a Moment (And Why It Makes Sense)

Let’s address the obvious question: Why now?

Because minimalism has become corporate wallpaper.

Once upon a time, minimalism signalled confidence. Today it often signals fear—fear of offending, fear of personality, fear of commitment. When every brand strips itself down to neutrality, standing out requires doing the opposite.

Horror Vacui says:

We have a story. We are not afraid of complexity. We expect you to spend time with us.

In a world of infinite scroll, that’s a radical stance.

Who’s Already Doing It

India: Where Horror Vacui Never Really Left

Let’s be honest: India didn’t discover Horror Vacui. We’ve been living in it.

From temple architecture to wedding cards to textile traditions, Indian visual culture has always embraced density as richness. What’s changed is that contemporary brands are now owning it unapologetically.

Sabyasachi is the most obvious example. His brand universe—stores, campaigns, packaging, Instagram feed—is a masterclass in controlled abundance. Every object feels storied. Every corner whispers lineage. Nothing is empty because nothing is meaningless.

Many new-age Indian craft, jewellery and fashion brands are following suit—rejecting globalised minimalism in favour of maximal identity.

Globally: The Return of Personality

Internationally, fashion houses led the charge. Gucci’s Alessandro Michele era practically rewrote the rulebook, turning excess into a philosophy.

The ripple effects are everywhere—from boutique hotels that look like curated attics to packaging that feels like a collector’s item.

Even digital brands are loosening up. Websites are becoming richer, more illustrative, more expressive—less interface, more experience.

Horror Vacui ≠ Lack of Discipline (This Is Important)

Here’s where many people get it wrong.

Horror Vacui does not mean:

Throwing everything on the page and hoping for the best Ignoring hierarchy Sacrificing usability at the altar of “vibes”

In fact, this style demands more discipline, not less.

Every element must answer a question:

Why are you here? What story do you serve? Could you be removed without losing meaning?

If the answer is “yes, probably,” it shouldn’t be there.

How Brands Can Use Horror Vacui in 2026 (Without Embarrassing Themselves)

Here’s the practical bit. Clip this. Screenshot it. Pretend you thought of it.

1. Start With Story, Not Decoration

Horror Vacui is storytelling first, aesthetics second. Decide what you’re layering towards—heritage, rebellion, indulgence, craftsmanship—and let everything orbit that core.

2. Design Like a Museum, Not a Mall

Curated density beats commercial clutter. Think artefacts, not offers. Narratives, not noise.

3. Create Visual Chapters

Break the chaos into readable sections. Let the eye travel. Let curiosity do the work.

4. Use Digital Thoughtfully

On screens, Horror Vacui works best through interaction—hover reveals, micro-animations, scroll-based storytelling. Make exploration feel intentional, not accidental.

5. Packaging Is Your Playground

If there was ever a time to make packaging worth keeping, this is it. Layers, textures, inserts, surprises. Turn unboxing into theatre.

6. Contrast Is Your Secret Weapon

Dense outside, calm inside. Loud campaign, serene product shot. Horror Vacui works best when it knows when to pause.

The Pitfalls (Because Not Everything Needs More)

A quick reality check:

Clutter without meaning is still clutter. Unreadable typography is not edgy, it’s lazy. Fake heritage is instantly obvious and deeply embarrassing.

Audiences today are visually literate. They know when you’re dressing up emptiness.

So… Is Horror Vacui for Everyone?

No. And that’s the point.

Horror Vacui suits brands with:

Stories to tell

Layers of meaning

Cultural depth

Confidence

If your brand proposition is thin, no amount of ornamentation will save it. If your product lacks substance, the noise will expose it faster.

But if you have something to say—and the courage to say it loudly—Horror Vacui gives you a language rich enough to hold it.

Let’s Talk about Advertising

Specifically, the kind of advertising that looked at a clean layout, a single hero image, and a tasteful amount of white space—and decided that was all a bit… underdressed.

Because while design conferences were busy debating how much air a logo needs to breathe, some brands were quietly stuffing the frame with culture, colour, pattern, attitude, and story.

Not accidentally.

Not messily.

But with intent.

Which is where Horror Vacui sidles into advertising, adjusts its cufflinks, and says, “You rang?”

Nike

Take Nike, for instance. Now Nike can do minimalism in its sleep. A swoosh, a stare, a three-word manifesto. Job done. But when Nike chooses to go visual-heavy—especially in its illustrated and poster-led campaigns—it goes all in.

Look at the Nike posters coming out of collaborations with illustrators and studios (Boomranng Studio being a fine example).

These aren’t sparse motivational billboards. They’re layered cultural maps. Energy trails, graphic elements, motion lines, local iconography, typography that doesn’t sit politely but moves. They feel like the visual equivalent of a city at full volume. Every inch is doing work. Every inch is saying something.

That’s Horror Vacui in spirit. Not clutter, but abundance with purpose. Nike isn’t filling space because it doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s filling space because sport, culture, and identity are not quiet things. They’re noisy. Messy. Emotional. And the design reflects that.

Absolut Vodka

Then there’s Absolut Vodka, the patron saint of “let’s turn the entire ad into an idea.” For decades, Absolut has been practising a very elegant form of Horror Vacui without ever calling it that. The bottle is always there, yes—but everything around it becomes a canvas.

City series ads. Artist collaborations. Cultural references. Illustration-heavy posters where the bottle is woven into architecture, festivals, skylines, fabrics, and symbols. These ads don’t rely on emptiness to feel premium. They rely on craft. On detail. On visual cleverness. On the confidence that the viewer will stay long enough to decode what’s going on.

Absolut understood early what Horror Vacui champions today: density can be luxurious. White space isn’t the only shorthand for sophistication. Sometimes richness—visual, cultural, conceptual—is the real flex.

Coca-Cola

Coca-Cola is what happens when a brand understands minimalism perfectly—and therefore knows exactly when to ignore it.

Most of the year, Coke behaves. Red. Script. Bottle. Restraint. But the moment emotion enters the room—Christmas, the World Cup, a wedding season, a collective sigh of happiness—Coca-Cola throws open the doors and lets Horror Vacui march right in.

Look at their festive and global celebration ads. Nothing is empty. People everywhere. Lights everywhere. Red everywhere. Music, movement, nostalgia, sentiment—all layered into frames so full they feel warm. That density isn’t decorative; it’s emotional. Empty space would feel rude.

Share a Coke did the same thing at scale. Names multiplied. Shelves became visual chaos. Identity piled on identity. And that clutter? Entirely the point. People aren’t minimalist. Celebrations aren’t minimalist. Coke understood that before anyone else tried to “clean it up.”

The genius lies in control. Coke never loses itself in the noise. The logo anchors the madness. The bottle is always recognisable. You’re never confused—just comfortably overwhelmed.

Coca-Cola proves Horror Vacui isn’t about being loud. It’s about being generous. When the moment is full, Coke fills the frame and pours another round.

And then we have the broader category of ads that lean unapologetically into illustration and pattern. These are the campaigns that refuse to be a photograph with a logo slapped on as an afterthought. They build worlds. Collaged worlds. Illustrated worlds. Worlds where motifs repeat, symbols reappear, and the eye keeps finding new details like a particularly rewarding museum visit.

These ads often feel editorial rather than transactional. They don’t scream “buy now.” They whisper—or occasionally sing—“come closer.” They reward attention. And in an era where attention is the rarest currency of all, that’s not indulgent. That’s strategic.

What unites all these campaigns—Nike’s high-energy posters, Absolut’s art-led print legacy, illustration-rich brand advertising—is not just visual busyness. It’s confidence. Confidence that the audience is not stupid. Confidence that people don’t always want things simplified into beige oblivion. Confidence that story, culture, and visual generosity still matter.

That’s where Horror Vacui earns its keep in advertising.

Used badly, it’s visual indigestion. Used well, it’s world-building.

And here’s the important bit: none of these campaigns are dense everywhere, all the time. They know when to pull back. When to let the product breathe. When to let the message land. Horror Vacui in advertising works because it’s selective excess, not chaos for chaos’ sake.

So if you’re a brand wondering whether Horror Vacui has a place in modern advertising, the answer is already on the walls, in the magazines, on the posters you stopped scrolling for.

It’s there whenever a brand decides that one image isn’t enough.

That one idea deserves layers.

That culture can’t be summarised—it must be shown.

And frankly, in a world drowning in sameness, that refusal to leave space unused might just be the most intelligent thing an ad can do.

Final Thought

Horror Vacui is not a rejection of good design principles. It’s a rejection of design timidity.

In 2026, the bravest thing a brand can do is stop whispering.

Fill the space.

Tell the story.

Trust the audience to stay.

And if someone complains it’s “too much”?

Smile politely.

They were never going to linger anyway.

15 Questions You Should Ask Before Designing Anything

Design, we’re often told, is about creativity.
This is nonsense.

Design is about judgement. Ruthless judgement. Preferably exercised early, while fewer people are watching and before someone says, “Can we make the logo bigger?”

The former Chief Design Officer of Apple, Jony Ive, didn’t design by mood board or by committee. He designed by asking very good questions, repeatedly, patiently, and usually while everyone else was still arguing about colour.

So whether you’re designing a product, a piece of packaging, a poster, a website, or something destined to be printed at A0 and ignored in a corridor, here are 15 questions you should ask before you design anything at all.

1. What problem am I actually solving?

Not the brief.
Not the opinion.
Not the PowerPoint slide titled “Objective” that nobody really believes.

What is the problem?

Apple didn’t invent the MP3 player. They invented a tolerable way to use one. The problem wasn’t “music.” It was friction, confusion, and the quiet rage of software that behaved like it resented you.

If you can’t describe the problem clearly, your design will compensate by shouting.

2. Who is this for — specifically — and who can we safely disappoint?

Designing for everyone is a touching ambition and a catastrophic strategy.

Good design makes enemies. It chooses. It excludes. It commits.

Apple products are not for people who enjoy manuals. Or fiddling. Or being reminded how clever the designer is.

If you can’t name your audience in human terms — not “users” or “stakeholders” — you’re decorating, not designing.

3. Will this make sense without explanation?

If your design needs a paragraph of justification, a footnote, or a meeting, it has already failed.

Apple’s greatest achievement wasn’t beauty. It was obviousness.

Ask yourself:

Would someone know what to do instinctively?
Or would they hover, hesitate, and quietly blame themselves?

Good design feels like remembering something you never learned.

4. What can I remove without anyone noticing?

This is where design becomes uncomfortable.

Buttons vanish. Lines disappear. Text is deleted. And suddenly, the design breathes.

Jony Ive didn’t add minimalism for aesthetic reasons. He removed things because they weren’t doing enough work to justify their existence.

If an element isn’t pulling its weight, let it go. It won’t be missed.

5. Is this design being honest?

Design lies more often than we admit.

Packaging that oversells. Interfaces that pretend to be simple. Posters that shout to disguise a lack of substance.

Apple’s obsession with materials wasn’t fetishism — it was honesty. Metal should feel like metal. Software should behave like software.

If your design promises more than it can deliver, expect disappointment. And returns.

6. How will this age?

Design trends age like milk.

Ask yourself:

Will this still look intelligent in five years?
Or will it be introduced at parties as “very of its time”?

Apple avoided trend-led design because trends require explanation. Proportion does not.

Timeless design is simply design that doesn’t embarrass you later.

7. What emotion should this trigger?

Design always makes people feel something. The question is whether you’ve bothered to decide what that something should be.

Calm? Confidence? Reassurance? Delight?

Apple products don’t shout excitement. They whisper competence.

Emotion in design isn’t decoration. It’s intention.

8. Is the first interaction pleasant?

The first interaction is the design equivalent of a handshake.

Is it confident? Awkward? Sweaty?

Whether it’s opening a box, touching a surface, or navigating a screen, the first moment decides whether the user trusts you.

Delight doesn’t need fireworks. Sometimes it’s just the absence of irritation.

9. What does this say about the brand when no one is watching?

Apple famously finished the inside of products no one would ever see.

This wasn’t madness. It was messaging.

Design communicates values even when it’s hidden. Especially when it’s hidden.

If you only care when you’re being judged, users will sense it.

10. Am I designing for the user… or for applause?

Be honest.

Is this useful — or merely impressive?

Design ego is loud. Good design is suspiciously quiet.

If the design draws attention to itself rather than enabling the user, you’ve made art. Not design.

11. Does the form genuinely follow function?

Not theoretically. Actually.

Is this shape necessary? Is this layout logical? Is this interaction justified?

Apple’s forms emerged from use, not mood boards. Change the function and the form must change too — whether you like it or not.

12. Could this be simpler without becoming stupid?

Simplicity is often mistaken for dumbing down. It isn’t.

Simplicity is clarity after effort.

Ask:

Can one thing do two jobs?
Can restraint replace cleverness?
Can fewer choices improve confidence?

Complexity is easy. Simplicity is earned.

13. Is this inclusive without making a fuss about it?

Good design works for more people quietly.

Accessible. Legible. Intuitive.

Apple didn’t make accessibility features that felt separate. They made them integral.

The best inclusive design doesn’t announce itself. It just works.

14. Would I still stand by this if nobody knew I designed it?

Strip away credit. Awards. Likes.

Is the design still right?

Would you defend it years later?

Integrity is what remains when recognition disappears.

15. Does this respect the user’s time?

Time is the only thing your user truly owns.

Every unnecessary step, every confusing moment, every visual distraction is theft.

Apple respected time by reducing friction. By removing noise. By deciding things so users didn’t have to.

Respect is the highest form of design.

Final Thought: Design Is How It Behaves

Design is not how something looks.
It’s how it behaves in the world.

Jony Ive didn’t design objects. He designed relationships — between people and the things they use every day.

So before you design anything, stop. Ask better questions.

Because good design isn’t clever.
It’s considered.