In every studio, there’s at least one object that’s no longer in use but never gets put away.

A Japanese bone folder worn smooth at the edges. A camera lens that’s gathered more dust than light. An old Pantone guide, faded but still sacred. These things don’t work the way they used to—and we don’t ask them to. But we keep them close.

Because sometimes a tool stops being a tool and becomes something else.

In the creative world, we’re surrounded by things meant to serve a function. A brush, a stylus, a screen. A deadline. But there’s a shift when one of those things stops operating solely as a means to an end and starts pulling us in, simply by existing. That’s where fascination begins.

It’s not about nostalgia. It’s about noticing and noticing the weight of a tool in your hand. The patina is gathered over time. The questions it raises. Who held this before? What did they make? What did they try to make?

Fascination is the starting point for exploration.

You look at an object long enough, and ideas start to surface. What if I tried using it again, but in a different way? What if I broke it apart and turned it into something else? What if this shape, this material, this imperfection became the beginning of something new?

Designers live in that space between function and feeling. Artists, too. We’re not just solving problems—we’re chasing instincts, following threads, letting curiosity lead. And sometimes, that spark doesn’t come from a new tool at all. It comes from the quiet presence of an old one. One that reminds you why you started.

Perhaps these objects no longer need to do anything. Maybe their job now is to sit there. To be looked at. To invite questions. To start conversations. To open a door.

And in that way, they’re still doing what they were always meant to do:
Helping you make something.