srekam eht teem
meet the makers
Discover the makers, designers and architects we supported in 2024–2025. In a series of video portraits, they share an intimate look into their creative practices.
Agatha Prieto Jeanty
design
Designer and researcher Agatha Prieto Jeanty (Design Academy Eindhoven, Contextual Design) explores themes such as decolonisation, Afrofuturism and feminism in relation to space. During her development year, she delved into spatial design and the technique of hair braiding. ‘Braiding was one of the female activities in Marron communities that I wanted to learn more about.’
A key starting point in Prieto Jeanty’s work is her fascination with Marron communities: self-liberated people in Abya Ayala (the Indigenous name for the Americas) who founded their own settlements during the transatlantic slave trade. ‘I descend from Marrons in Haiti. During my master’s, I became curious about the female gaze within these communities, rather than the dominant male perspective.’ Earlier, she discovered that braiding in Marron culture was not only aesthetic or practical, but also a strategy of resistance and survival. ‘Women braided maps into their hair—routes to freedom.’ She created a braided map tracing her journey from Madrid to Eindhoven, marking places from her life. ‘For my graduation project, I braided a waterfall from Haiti, as a way to retrace the steps back to my roots.’ She collaborated with her community in Eindhoven for this, an experience that made her realise she wanted to deepen her research.
This led her to a research trip to the Maroon community of the Palenque de Benkos and the Wiwa people in the Caribbean region of Colombia, in search of female Marron perspectives and a deeper understanding of her own roots. In San Basilio de Palenque, she encountered a community with its own language, social structure and oral traditions. ‘The openness of the people moved me. I felt seen and supported.’ Her stay offered valuable insights into the community, both past and present. ‘This embodied experience helped me broaden my perspective – this was what had been missing in the context of my life.’
The journey to Palenque centred on tracing female perspectives within Marron culture, which are often implicit. ‘By doing so, I uncover perspectives that are rarely heard and often subtle.’ She combined interviews and encounters with 3D scans of objects and spaces, laying the foundation for a new narrative—one in which ancestral stories contribute to future possibilities for connection. Through her work, Prieto Jeanty aims to create meeting points and remain connected to the community through the exchange of ideas from the diaspora. That’s why she weaves ancestral techniques such as hair braiding and oral traditions together with digital media. ‘I see myself as a Marron in the diaspora. Drawing on ancestral knowledge from the past is essential for future connection.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Anaïs Saebu
audiovisual
Audiovisual maker Anaïs Saebu works in the world of music, dance and performance. Since she founded her company five years ago, she has worked exclusively on commission. Now, however, the time has come for her to grow as a documentary maker. With that goal in mind, Saebu used her talent development year to go on a journey of research and discovery – professionally, but on a personal level, too.
‘I am half Dutch, half Indonesian. My grandparents were born in South Sulawesi. Their people, the Bugis, have their own unique language and culture, and even though my father grew up in the Netherlands, he was raised with some of that heritage. But he never passed down the traditions or the language to my elder sister and me. I felt a need to explore that unknown part of my identity. I really wanted to go visit our family in Indonesia with my father and my sister, and record our encounters and the local traditions in a documentary.’
Saebu ended up spending two months in South Sulawesi and several days in Jakarta. While her sister acted as a research assistant, she recorded many interviews with her father. Her coach, documentary maker Amanda van Hesteren, provided support from the Netherlands. ‘We communicated every month. Like me, Amanda is interested in family ties: her own roots lie in Suriname. I was uncomfortable at first with the idea of filming the first introductions with my family. Should I ask permission? That was difficult, because they didn’t really speak English, especially the older generation. The only way to communicate with them was through my father. Amanda helped me get over my timidity: just film it, she said. In other areas, she helped create structure – I am interested in many different things, so I took a very intuitive approach.’
Now that Saebu is back in the Netherlands, she meets with Amanda every four weeks. ‘Amanda is helping me with the editing process. I find it incredibly meaningful to be working on such a personal and sensitive project, but it’s also emotionally intense and mentally demanding. It’s about forging connections, seeing through other people’s eyes, zooming in on the details. I have so much footage – weddings, the rice harvest festival, chats with cousins about their daily lives in a culture where religion plays a major role. Where and how do I even begin?’
Saebu will also need time to process her journey emotionally. ‘When I left, I had no connection with my family in Indonesia at all. Now I do. When will I see them again? It’s almost like being homesick, which I hadn’t seen coming. It’s good to be able to talk about it with other people, though.’
Tekst by Iris Stam
Annelieke Rovers
design
For designer Annelieke Rovers, a 2020 graduate of St. Joost School of Art & Design, the development year was an opportunity to sharpen her technical skills and reinvent herself as a maker. ‘I did make a plan, of course, but it’s also a year in which you can do what you want. To make just for the sake of making: absolutely wonderful.’
Rovers did not just want to make, she also wanted to learn how to make. She has a fondness for historic crafts, and spent part of the year following an advanced course in stained glass. For artistic, not practical reasons: Rovers does not want to design stained glass windows. Rather, she seeks to use the traditional craft as a foundation for new combinations. ‘Using historic craftsmanship as a basis, I explore how I can use modern techniques, like 3D printing, laser cutting and visuals.’ She previously applied this hybrid approach to metal casting, merging the classic with the modern by using 3D-printed models to create moulds.
Rovers may have expanded her technical abilities, but she stayed true to her thematic focus. ‘I take a lot of inspiration from nature in all its forms, from the play of light on water to the hidden intelligence of plants. The grandeur and transience of nature is a central theme in my works.’ This mindset is evident in a project where the digitisation of ice caves, corals and seashells culminated in an aluminium artwork.
It is not always a smooth process. Some paths turn out to be dead ends, or are simply not what Rovers is looking for. In her search for a way to integrate light into her practice, she took a programming course, but the content did not align with her goals. Still, these digressions have their value: they teach you where not to go. ‘I’m still searching for the direction I want to take my practice in. I want to keep reinventing myself.’
Rovers did not set out on her search alone, however: she connected with a wide range of scientists, artists and other experts, and spent time with artist Heleen Blanken and designer Tharim Cornelisse. She is currently working on a stained-glass installation with the latter: ‘Collaborations like this are a truly enriching experience.’
Everything Rovers learned is being integrated into a single installation. ‘The question is: how do I bring it all together? There are so many directions I can choose at this stage.’ Nothing is set in stone, as befits Rovers’s method. Right now, she is considering a modular installation that can be adapted to different spaces. ‘Location makes such a difference. An outdoor exhibition would be amazing, although that has its own unique challenges. I have a preference for large works: they are the most fun to make.’ Whatever the final result, one thing is certain: Rovers’s fascination with nature and the making process itself will continue to underpin her works.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Batuhan Demir
design
‘I’ve always dreamt of winning an Oscar for best costume’. Fashion designer Batuhan Demir graduated from ArtEZ Arnhem in 2023, and likes to dream big. He searches for different ways to tell his story. ‘My approach is multidisciplinary. This year I’m learning from Esmay Wagemans how to work with silicone.’ Demir is also specialising in making corsets, under Marloes Dadswell. He is applying his new-learnt skills to designing outfits for the characters of a film for which he also wrote the scenario. ‘I really wanted to explore this direction, for which I am working with producer Gio Isenia.’
The film tells the story of ten characters who regularly visit the same dreary casino: a place where people go to escape reality. Demir is very familiar with that world: ‘My mother works there. It is a place that attracts people from marginalised groups, where they gamble away the little money they have. I want to tell their stories in a way that other people can relate to.’ One of the characters is Jolanda, a prostitute whose son looks after her interests. ‘She did what she did out of helplessness. My mother also ended up working here out of powerlessness. I want to portray these people from another perspective. For me it’s all about resilience, that’s the underlying theme of the film.’
Demir translates societal themes into an ‘aesthetic universe’ where film, fashion and art merge together. For each character he is creating an outfit that reinforces the narrative. For his mother it is a construction that makes it seem as if a muscular man is draped around her: that’s the casino owner, an aggressive man. ‘I enlarge and use art-historical references, such as Aristotle and Phyllis (moral: prominent men are just as defenseless in the face of attractive women). Power dynamics and women play a major role in my work, because I look up to them.’ It is not surprising therefore that Lady Gaga and Beyoncé’s videoclip Telephone forms a source of inspiration, as does the Italian film Casanova.
By experimenting, Demir is further developing his signature style this year, thereby discovering who he is as a maker. ‘My approach now is more raw and poetic than at the time of my graduation. You can make better work if you dare to truly show yourself. The practical implementation was tough, but instructive.’ Demir is seeking to collaborate with a magazine for the publication of his work. He hopes to present his brief, trailer-like film at Arnhem’s Focus filmhouse this November. ‘The trailer is the announcement of a film, and at the same time my debut. It is a preview of the world I wish to create.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Bruno Baietto
design
‘Designers need to talk about the problems in our profession – like how exclusive it still is,’ says critical designer Bruno Baietto. ‘Inequality persists across race, class, and gender. We’re in a field where a handful of schools, institutes, and individuals define the profession’s global narrative.’
Baietto studied Industrial Design in Montevideo, Fine Arts in Rio de Janeiro, and Contextual Design at Design Academy Eindhoven. With his practice, he questions the privileged bubble of the design world, discussing the problems of the profession and making them accessible to a more diverse audience.
To get his message across, Baietto likes to use animatronics – moving puppets and objects infused with humour and satire. He investigates how characters can encourage self-reflection and social dialogues. While studying for his master’s degree, he created Justin the Dustbin, a grumbling trash can that cynically comments on the endless flow of ‘great ideas’ discarded without much thought. In 2023, Teun the Raccoon was born: a scruffy raccoon who dreams of becoming a designer. Teun’s journey mirrors the challenges many emerging designers face – rejection, gatekeeping, and systemic hurdles. As a critical voice at Dutch Design Week, Teun dug through design waste, asking sharp questions about what the event’s sprawling programme will actually achieve in the longer run.
‘Characters seem to be a powerful way to connect design ideas with a broader audience,’ Baietto explains. This year, he is honing his storytelling and filmmaking skills. ‘Designers have a lot to learn from role-playing and scriptwriting. These are tools that can help us build collective critical narratives.’ Currently, Baietto is being coached by film professionals as he develops a new script for Teun together with a group of designers. They are exploring how collaborative storytelling can become a method for generating critical discourse in design. ‘As a director, I offer others a platform to speak about inequalities in the profession,’ he says. ‘Who gets seen as a talented designer – and who doesn’t? Who is included, and who gets left out?’ The project aims to uncover and challenge the systemic forces shaping the design industry, and will culminate in a film premiering at the end of this year.
Text by Willemijn de Jonge
buro Appelmoes
architecture
Boukje Klaver and Anne Taeke Meijer first met at the Academy of Architecture in Groningen. During and after their study they would often get together after their work to talk about their discipline, often with a beer in hand. Meijer: ‘We talked about the things in our sector that troubled us. Which was mainly the operational sequence, geared to consumption: first do the design and after that start looking into materials, without much attention for the origin of those materials. Writing a plan for the talent development year was a good way for us to formulate more concretely how we would prefer to see the world of designing and construction.’
Klaver: ‘We find it very important to first look at the actual place where the prospective construction will be built. Which locally available raw materials could you use for it? And how can you augment those with recyclable materials? We want to create aesthetical designs according to this method, for instance for public benches, awnings and barns. Projects for which we don’t need to engage with the building code and stringent regulations. With our young office– called Buro Appelmoes – we are now seeking assignments. The somewhat odd and evocative name is a metaphor for our design methodology, since making apple sauce is also a matter of using local materials.’
This year Klaver and Meijer are concentrating on a self-devised project for which they use clay sourced from different locations around the northern Netherlands. Meijer: ‘We use a big press and a mould to form the clay into square blocks, resembling stools. We let them dry naturally in our studio, and then place these seats back at the spot from where we sourced the clay. This way we increase the public’s awareness of using local materials.’
Klaver and Meijer are very pleased with the coaching they received during their development year – and with the assignment given by PeetersenDaan. This design agency, focusing on landscape and urban design, asked Buro Appelmoes to create their first seating object. Meijer: ’The clay comes from a spot near Leeuwarden, and that’s where the stool will be placed. Boukje and I are happy to put Buro Appelmoes on the map in this way, and thereby to highlight our still fairly uncommon design methodology.’
Text by Iris StamChris ‘Ci’ Rickets
audiovisual
Audiovisual maker Chris 'Ci' Rickets was selected at the Scout Night Amsterdam. In the development year, the maker aims to challenge themselves more and learn about methods of sound recording and production, and in this way further profile themselves as sound designer. In the development plan, Rickets describes four learning goals including personal development, practice development, technology and design development and professionalization. During the year the maker orients themselves in professional networks, specifically those where women of color have built up a practice in audio technology and sound design. Furthermore, Rickets works on the project Resting in Plain Sight together with Black Speaks Back, Braver Spaces Antwerp, Tahira Koulen and Vlaams Cultuurhuis de Brakke Grond. The maker also experiments with analog sound recording techniques and focuses on obtaining new assignments. For this, Rickets works with a communications advisor and works on a professional website, press kit and branding strategy.
Clara Schweers
digital culture
Artist and designer Clara Schweers works at the intersection of craft and storytelling, translating computer-generated gestures into sculptural glass forms. From her studio in Eindhoven, she’s spent the past year immersed in the alchemical world of glass – a high-precision material that demands slowness and complete presence. ‘Glass is unforgiving, but it’s also full of potential if you understand its language.’
Trained in design, Schweers was lured to the transfigurative world of glassblowing after her MA. ‘I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone, to really gain craft skills.’ She began with delicate glass jewellery, a small-scale practice that shaped her technical precision and paved the way for larger neon sculptures and installation, glass mirrors and collaborative floral studies.
Schweers sees her work as deeply embedded in the material and digital, even if the work is presented in a three-dimensional glass sculpture. ‘I work with materials that are not considered digital at first, yet my visual language comes from the virtual world. It’s often very sculptural and figurative, but also symmetrical and precise – an abstract form language, which to me has a digital character.’
Drawing on digital storytelling, Schweers has been researching intimacy and sensuality on screen. Using 3D modeling software, she manipulates stock motion files to reframe violent game-engine gestures into more intimate ones. If we freeze and manipulate a zombie neck bite, can we get a glimpse of affection? Can a glitch in the code become a kiss? ‘The kiss has become quite prevalent in my work,’ she explains. ‘The kiss is a symmetrical gesture. It allows me to suggest a narrative and choreography between at least two characters in endless configurations.’
Turning back to glassblowing, these digital concepts are blown, bent and flame-worked into expressive, physical forms. ‘I’m trying to apply this distorted digital motion language to flameworking,’ she says. Describing her latest sculptures, Schweers paints a picture of fragile solid and hollow glass structures that rely on perfect welds to avoid cracking. Reflecting on what the technique has taught her, she speaks of practicing resilience. ‘You get really resistant to things not working out, because that’s just part of it.’
Reinterpreting the divide between the physical and the digital, whether through 3D software or open flame, Schweers continues to blur the line between body and machine – until gesture becomes object, and both seem to breathe.
Text by Roxy MerrellConnor Cook
digital culture
California-born media artist and researcher Connor Cook explores the evolving relationship between the body, performance and technology. With a background as a competitive cheerleader and a deep engagement with media theory, Cook brings both a personal lens and academic rigour to what he calls computational performance – a blend of physical movement, information systems and machine logic.
His current research focuses on cheerleading as a technological practice, looking at the sport beyond the spectacle. ‘Cheerleading renders bodies into machine components,’ Cook explains. ‘It embodies synchronisation, division of labour and specialisation – turning discipline into an aesthetic form.’ Drawing from philosophy of technology and information theory, he reframes cheer routines as information circuits, transmitting technique across bodies and borders.
To Cook, cheerleading is a sport rooted in militarised precision, sharing affinities with robotics and mechanisation. Yet he is equally drawn to its ecstatic excesses – glitter, rhinestones, drag-queen aesthetics – that ‘reject total mechanisations in favour of ecstatic expenditure.’ That duality rings loudly throughout his work.
Blending hardware and software, Cook builds custom audiovisual systems using motion capture, MIDI controllers and video game engines like Unreal Engine, paired with soundscapes built in Ableton Live – tools that enable a form of digital puppeteering. In his live performances, a virtual cheer squad rendered in 3D software responds to real-time input, turning code into choreography and computation into expression.
Working with the Dutch national cheerleading team, Cook embedded himself in the squad as an athlete. ‘It changed my perspective profoundly – balancing the brutal physical demands with moments of surreal beauty and intense synchronisation.’ This embodied practice reintroduced a sense of collective accountability, ‘something rare in my usually solitary art practice.’
The past year was marked by bold and bodily exploration, stepping out into the world and pushing human-machine relations into new performative territories. It’s a dynamic interplay between the corporeal and the coded, pointing towards modes of expression that stretch our imagination of performance in the digital age. What’s possible is just beginning to reveal itself.
Text by Roxy MerrellDaniela Tokashiki Kunigami
design
In the past year, social designer Daniela Tokashiki has been quietly reshaping her approach. Born in Lima and now based in the Netherlands, her practice sits between art, design, material research and social connection – with ceramics at its core. ‘I don’t really consider myself a ceramist,’ she says, ‘but clay is the method that helps me explore deeper questions.’
Originally trained in industrial design and ceramics, Tokashiki entered her development year with a plan: to explore how her material background could engage with the social fabric of a new environment. ‘A lot of my insights for different design solutions and choices come from working with a material.’ At first, she pictured conducting interviews, speaking to others with migrant backgrounds. But the process turned inward. ‘I realised there were a lot of things within me that I hadn’t expressed yet,’ she says. ‘It became more of an introspective approach to my practice.’
This inward turn led her to recalibrate the role of research in her work. Rather than pursuing formal methods, Tokashiki began to trust her instincts – supported by mentors and a business coach who helped her clarify practical steps. ‘In the beginning I thought I really wanted expert opinions, but what has helped me is that I now believe in myself more.’
Tokashiki sees ceramics not as a product, but as a process for bringing people together. ‘Working with clay doesn’t mean I want to produce goods,’ she says. ‘It’s a way to create soft spaces for connection.’ Her recent work explores how shared making can spark curiosity and foster informal encounters. In her current community project in The Hague, she uses tactile practices – including clay, food, foraging and crafts – to foster a sense of community and encourage communal reflection. ‘It’s a form of community building. Not a coaching model. It’s just people making things together. This curiosity to learn can help connect people.’
Another key thread in her research is repair. Inspired by Lima’s informal economy around fixing and repurposing – ranging from electronics and clothing to furniture – she’s now exploring how to re-integrate ceramic waste into her own production loop. ‘I want to build something small-scale and self-sufficient – to make an impact at my own level first.’
What ties it all together is a quiet but persistent search for autonomy – creative, material and emotional – rooted in her background and evolving through touch.
Text by Roxy MerrellDelphine Lejeune
design
In the hands of designer Delphine Lejeune, digital technology becomes an intimate, tactile thing. Her practice blends traditional craft techniques with contemporary fabrication methods, producing objects that feel both emotionally resonant and computationally precise. Working across weaving, ceramics and digital sculpture, she investigates how tools like the jacquard loom, CNC mill and 3D printer can be reclaimed as extensions of the body. ‘By translating digital files into textured, tactile forms, I aim to create objects that are both technically coded and emotionally resonant.’
Throughout this development year, Lejeune advanced her self-defined approach of neo-craft. ‘For me, neo-craft describes a post-disciplinary approach that dissolves the binary between hand and machine, craft and code.’ The resulting works are hybrid forms: textiles with botanical patterns generated from digital nature files, ceramic tiles shaped through digitally designed molds, each piece echoing organic rhythm without replicating it. ‘I see this process as a form of material translation,’ she explains. ‘Where the digital is not opposed to craft, but a partner in making.’
This ethos shows up in her series of woven ‘data surfaces’ and sculptural ceramics, where visual softness is paired with conceptual rigour. Floral motifs and organic repetition reflect on the domestic space and labour, as well as the long-overlooked connection between women, nature and craft. Instead of nostalgia, Lejeune proposes a contemporary material language – one where algorithmic logic is embedded with care.
Reflecting on the year, Lejeune speaks of the meaningful realisation of how deeply embodied the making process remains, even when mediated with advanced digital tools. ‘The machine is never separate from the body,’ she reflects. ‘It becomes an extension of the hand.’ In that, what stood out the most, was the persistence of imperfection and tactility, an active resistance against the sterility often associated with digital fabrication.
Looking ahead, Lejeune plans to explore and expand her visual language developed through weaving and digital mold-making, and expand her exploration into collectible and spatial design. All while deepening her roots in craft communities, ‘to engage with others who are also rethinking craft’s role today.’
Text by Roxy MerrellDyllan Ahinful
design
Taking stories from close to home, converting them into concepts and then translating these visually into items of clothing. That’s Dyllan Ahinful’s approach, who laid the foundation for the brand L'ORIGINE in Amsterdam Zuidoost, now ten years ago. The story of this self-taught talent, who certainly had a strong sense and style of fashion but never intended to actually do something with that, had started a few years earlier. It was when, in the last year of secondary school, Ahinful sought some distraction from the stress of exams, and a friend suggested he do something with clothing. ‘I replied that it would have to be something special, since so many people were already active in fashion. That’s how the idea emerged to design clothing that reflect my Ghanaian identity. I started creating, making samples. And in that way I discovered my passion and talent.’
After obtaining his secondary school (VWO) diploma, Ahinful decided to not enrol in a creative education programme but to learn the fashion trade on the job. He continued to build the brand and expand the branding, with Ghanaian elements subtly incorporated in the clothing, such as the red-yellow-green flag and the Ashanti symbol on the label. As the core message of L'ORIGINE he chose: Roots Will Grow Flowers. As Ahinful explains, ‘The place where you live, the country where your parents and forefathers came from, personal pride and the things you experience, the setbacks and life’s lessons – all those aspects come together in the word ‘roots’. I believe that your roots can shape you into a beautiful flower or wonderful person, if you take all those experiences on board in a good way. Also in my new project Yenko Fie, which is an expression in Ghana that means “let’s go home”, the focus is on returning to your roots and the lessons you learn.’
In the past decade, Ahinful developed himself into a maker, creative director and designer. For the Yenko Fie project he spent two weeks in Ghana, where a collection of five L'ORIGINE pieces, based on the timeless fashion of the recently independent Ghana in the 1960s and 70s, were captured in a short film and outdoor photo campaign. The collaboration with local professionals was very special and instructive. The project prompted Ahinful to look back on his own journey. ‘At first I saw clothing mainly as a business, but now I understand that fashion is also art. I want to develop further in that respect, and also in the areas of film, design and creative direction. I like the complete picture.’
Text by Iris Stam
Edward July
design
Language – and its alphabets – holds history in its letterforms. When type designer and researcher Edward Dżułaj turned his focus to the Ukrainian alphabet, he uncovered a layered story: of cultural resilience, political erasure and national identity.
As the founder of July Type, Dżułaj works at the intersection of design, language and heritage. Over the past year, he explored the Ukrainian Cyrillic script through a personal lense. ‘I’m half Polish, half Ukrainian,’ he says. ‘I can read and write Cyrillic, but I didn’t grow up in Ukraine. This was a way to connect more deeply.’
Trained as a type designer, Dżułaj became fascinated by the layers of meaning embedded in language. ‘Typography isn’t just visual,’ he says. ‘It’s tied to the history of nations, to poetry and song. It’s deeply political.’ In his research, Dżułaj uncovered how, across centuries, occupiers influenced the Ukrainian alphabet, reshaping it to align with their political aims. In the 20th century, under Soviet rule, Russian policies targeted the Ukrainian Cyrillic script: certain letters were banned, orthographic reforms were imposed to mirror Russian usage and Ukrainian-language printing was tightly controlled. ‘I observed how scripts can become tools of control – or symbols of resistance.’
Throughout the year, Dżułaj collaborated with Ukrainian poets, type designers and dancers – many urgently reclaiming their cultural visual language amid war. ‘There’s a new energy in the Ukrainian design scene,’ he observes. ‘Designers are rediscovering forms and defining a distinctly Ukrainian typographic identity – independent from Russian influence.’
Dżułaj’s practice now balances commercial commissions, such as a custom typeface for the city of Seoul, with slower, research-driven work. ‘This year helped me understand type design as a cultural act. It’s not just about aesthetics, but about the histories it carries and the futures it imagines.’
Dżułaj also develops digital tools to visualise and interact with historical scripts, often using custom Python code. But the work isn’t solitary. ‘I realised I don’t have to do everything myself. Collaboration drives my practice.’
Currently, he’s building a publicly accessible educational platform that shares the hidden history of Ukrainian Cyrillic. Developed with artists and programmers, the platform aims to make this knowledge accessible. ‘There’s a much deeper layer: the language, the national heritage, the culture, the music, the poetry. All of it is identity.’ Looking ahead, he envisions the platform as an open-source tool that lets the Cyrillic alphabet speak again – reconnecting it with its cultural voice.
Text by Roxy Merrell
Eva van Kempen
design
Eva van Kampen is a goldsmith with a profound fascination for filigree. The specialism is inextricably tied to her professional practice. She is using the development year to reinvigorate her own work and visual identity through in-depth research, a new website, and new collaborations. But as founder of The Filigree Embassy and self-appointed Filigree Ambassador, the craft continues to play a pivotal role in her artistic practice. ‘I want to give the craft a contemporary twist, and that’s a quest.’
Van Kempen combines age-old techniques with modern methods such as 3D printing and laser cutting, for which she works with Delft University of Technology. She wants to revive the relevance of filigree using contemporary materials and technology. This is important, as the labour-intensive technique is gradually disappearing from view. ‘Along with granulation, filigree is the oldest and most challenging goldsmithing technique,’ she explains. Van Kempen was immediately captivated by filigree during a goldsmithing course at the Vakschool in Schoonhoven, in 2010. During her master’s programme at the Sandberg Instituut, she researched the current state of filigree in China and the Netherlands. ‘The craft is reemerging in China, but is dying out in the Netherlands. I find it important to preserve the technique for future generations.’ She wrote an article for the Journal of Jewellery Research, based on her dissertation, in which she shares strategies to preserve filigree as an instance of intangible heritage. She actively contributes to the preservation effort. ‘I examined all sorts of non-precious metals as alternatives and found stainless steel to be the best option.’ Working with hazardous substances and techniques such as electropolishing adds to the challenge. ‘This year is giving me the opportunity to discover things that I can continue to develop further later, and with which I can hopefully reach a new public.’
According to Van Kempen, the craft is underappreciated in the Netherlands, despite its prominent role in Dutch history. Filigree has been part and parcel of local dress and jewellery customs since 1600. Perhaps it now has the image of being old-fashioned, for that reason? Whatever the case may be, Van Kempen is putting it in an entirely new light. In the Bodemjuweeltjes exhibition at the Zeeuws Museum in Middelburg, visitors can see both the past and the future of the craft, including a piece by Van Kempen: a hexagon lattice of laser-cut stainless steel, decorated with hand-crafted filigree flowers. ‘I think it’s all coming together beautifully. In the place where the Zeeuws button became the country’s best-known filigree ornament, you can now view the traditional craft as well as the new twist I am giving to it.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Flo Meijer
audiovisual
Flo Meijer graduated from Central Saint Martins London in 2021, in the discipline of Fashion Communication. Fashion, separated from glamour, is the underlying theme of Meijer’s work as an audiovisual maker. In her films, Meijer plants fashion among ‘ordinary people’ as a way of resisting fashion’s image of unattainability. Instead of documenting grand events, Meijer goes in search of modest stories. As she explains, ‘I always try to address a societal issue, but in a subtle manner. Though you might not directly notice the hidden messages or viewpoints, you may become aware of them gradually.’
Dutch identity is a recurrent theme in her work. Her film Dutch Dreams, produced by mint2 in collaboration with Lief, emerged as a reaction to the PVV’s political programme. One of the spearpoints of this programme is the ‘protection of Dutch traditions’. Meijer: ‘During the election period I saw the party leader Wilder’s vision on the Netherlands: AI-generated pictures of a Dutch landscape populated by blond people only. In Dutch Dreams I push back again that idea of ‘Dutchness’. My film shows a windmill, cows in pastures and other typical Dutch scenes, complemented with traditions that are just as much part of the Netherlands but which Wilders would probably not acknowledge as such. For instance, by showing my Indonesia-born grandfather filling a bun with a piece of typical Indonesian spice cake, and a group of Surinamese men holding a songbird contest. My film also shows the work of various Dutch fashion houses such as Extreme Cashmere, Botter, Camiel Fortgens, KASSL Editions, G-star Raw, Lack of Guidance and Tim Christiani, who produced an item of clothing called Dutch Dreams. With this project I have sought to create a new kind of fashion film, in which each brand has its own scene.’
Dutch Dreams was screened at various outdoor locations, often accompanied by numerous cast members dressed in the clothing of the fashion houses. ‘It turned out to be an ambitious plan. I am grateful for all the work put in by producers Kathy Sihavong, Rosa Duvekot and Margo Mars. And for all the other collaborations: with Jaap Velenturf, who composed the film music, Sandor Dayala that consented to the use of his song, all the fashion houses that were involved, camera crew Sami El Hassani and Bart Hoveijn, stylist and casting director Jip Boxstart, and all the other members of the wonderful crew. The film is now undergoing post-production and will premiere during the Dutch Design Week 2025. I couldn’t help but shout for joy when I got the news!’
Text by Iris Stam
Flora Lechner
design
Imagine a flower shaped from aluminum – sharp-edged yet delicate. This visual tension is at the heart of Vienna-raised designer Flora Lechner’s practice – where brute materials meet intricate forms, and craft becomes a quietly radical statement. Working at the intersection of design, sculpture and feminist inquiry, Lechner bends metal and meaning in equal measure.
‘I don't want to produce solely for aesthetic reasons,’ says Lechner. ‘I want to create works that tell a story and stimulate discussion. I understand the world through creation. I start with the creation and only then reflect on where the forms and gestures that intuitively come to mind originate.’ For her, this is a continuous dialogue between creation and learning, in which both processes influence each other.
A recurring theme in her practice is the questioning of contrasts – hard and soft, structured and organic, minimalist and ornate. These contrasts often intersect with cultural interpretations of aesthetics as they relate to ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ qualities.
Lechner’s practice challenges the gendered stereotypes of tools and crafts. She draws parallels between welding and sewing and describes metalwork as a form of tailoring. Still, she feels women are often faced with prejudice when it comes to metalwork. Rather than resist, she leans into the contradiction: using industrial processes to craft delicate, ambiguous forms that challenge stereotypes of both material and maker.
Her creative method balances intuition and calculation. Starting with flat patterns reminiscent of clothing design, she cuts, bends and screws fragments into dynamic compositions. This approach draws attention to the relationships between individual elements and the way meaning is created through composition.
Lechner embraces openness in interpretation by the viewer, preferring her work to spark dialogue rather than dictate literal messages. As she evolves her studio practice through collaboration and experimentation, Lechner reflects: ‘Throughout the year, I realised I just need to keep going.’ Grounded in material exploration and feminist research, her voice invites reflection, dialogue, and a quiet questioning of conventions.
Text by Roxy Merrell
Gabriel Giordano
design
Designer and ArtEZ graduate Gabriel Giordano combines craft and sci-fi aesthetics with societal issues. His designs explore self-expression and the relationship between carrier and environment, in which his background as a Venezuelan immigrant plays an important role. For Giordano, the development year is very much devoted to a reorientation and finding a balance between conceptual and commercial work. ‘I mainly want to tell stories through my work.’
Giordano worked on various projects including the group exhibition Dark Ages in 4bid Gallery. ‘This involves so much: from a lighting plan to spatial design to making arrangements with the team and all the performers. It was very instructive, but stressful too.’ The exhibition became an opportunity to present his conceptual work. The theme – the Middle Ages – highlights the relationship between the past and the present. The suit of armour that Giordano created, using chain mail, denim and laser-cut aluminium, symbolises protection. ‘Working with chain mail is a labour-intensive process that combines the past and present, craftsmanship and modern technology. I combine hard and soft, old and new materials.’ Giordano’s armour reflects an insecure world, and at the same time casts back to his unsafe childhood in Venezuela. ‘I remember my childhood as living in fear. There was a lot of violence, but the police were also unsafe.’ As such, identity forms a red thread throughout his work: as an artist, an immigrant, and as a human being in a changing world.
His desire to make more conceptual work also found an outlet in his ongoing Nomad collection. It consists of modular parts that, just like immigrants, are permanently adaptable. ‘We are hundreds of miles from home, and need to adjust to different cultures and temperatures. I wanted to incorporate that element of adaptation in my work.’ And so he designed a cap made of Velcro strips to which you can easily attach earmuffs, and is working on a T-shirt with loose sleeves and collar. ‘Immigrants constantly need to adapt and still stay true to themselves. I want to make that tension visible and tangible.’
Besides his current projects, Giordano wants to establish a platform where other creatives can also share their work and exhibitions. In the meantime he is trying to find a balance between his autonomous work and commercial assignments. For instance, he designed a pair of shoes for TEARS. ‘This way I learned more about the choice of materials and production methods.’ It feels as if he needs to choose between his artistic practice and managing brands. He reflects on this issue in discussions with coach Joeri de Vos and mentor Suzanne Oude Hengel. The ideal scenario? To use commercial assignments as a way to finance his autonomous work. ‘I don’t need to compensate for one or the other, both are welcome in my life.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Gino Martina
design
With Palu Palu - Papiamentu for ‘wood wood’ - Gino Martina carves more than just another form. He combines history, ecology and memory through the wood of his island, Curaçao. His project is rooted in the political and poetic layers of the island’s trees, many of which are bulldozed without recognition of their ecological or cultural value.
‘We used to understand the value of these trees, not just for their wood, but for the water they helped keep in the ground,’ he says. ‘Now their wood is seen as palu pa tira afo: something to discard.’ He sees memory and meaning in every trunk he integrates into his works.
Martina finds inspiration in local music, especially the song No Bandona Korsou by Oswin Chin Behilia, which tells the story of Mou, a carpenter and father of seven. Mou considers leaving Curaçao for the Netherlands but hesitates: Ai, dushi Kòrsou, Dikon tur bo yiu ke bai Hulanda? (‘Oh lovely Curaçao, why do all your children want to leave for the Netherlands?’).
The song’s core message is both a plea and a warning: if a tree’s roots are unearthed, it cannot grow again. Dera mester dera: the roots must be buried. For Martina, this metaphor is personal. His own return to Curaçao six years ago, after spending some time abroad, became the foundation for Palu Palu: a process of re-rooting, remembering, and reclaiming what was nearly lost.
Thanks to the development grant, Martina left his tourism job to fully dedicate himself to fieldwork, gathering wood from development sites and personal stories – like a 50-year-old tree that fell after strong winds and became the material for his sculpture The Three Sisters. This work reflects Caribbean agricultural knowledge, specifically planting pumpkin, corn and beans together.
Each sculpture tells its own story, often drawing from cultural memory. One work, a vase shaped like a tree, invites visitors to place flowers on the branches, thereby transforming from observers into participants. Martina balances autonomous work with commissions and collaborations, learning to sustain a studio practice, manage finances and to move toward digital prototyping.
His work is grounded in Curaçao’s landscape but addresses wider questions: ‘How do we value materials? Whose stories are remembered? What structures do we want to build: physically, culturally, ecologically? And, what do we leave behind for future generations?’
Text by Gyonne Zafira
Hanna Rudner
architecture
While studying architecture in Delft, Hanna Rudner lived in an apartment complex for students, where she discovered the close-knit communities that residents can form. ‘We did a lot together, like organising big dinners and making music,’ she recalls. That experience got her thinking: what could informal organisation and shared ownership achieve on a bigger scale? This question became the focal point around which she built up her practice, seeking autonomy in order to research community initiatives whose organisation circumvents governments and market parties. That’s how she became become involved with De Bol community centre in Amsterdam-Noord, a former sports hall claimed by local residents and social workers. ‘Together they investigate what the neighbourhood’s needs are, and organise services and activities to meet them.’
It was at De Bol that Rudner discovered how complex the dynamics can be that underlie collectively sustained initiatives. She turned her attention to holacracy, a framework for non-hierarchical organisation cultures, and became increasingly convinced that helping a community flourish is a true craft. ‘Self-organisation is an essential element in community building, but it doesn’t happen by itself,’ she explains. ‘It requires deliberate effort: you have to learn how to take decisions together, how to solve conflicts. Skills that you can only learn by applying them.’
Rudner puts her insights into practice at De Bol, as well as at housing cooperative Het Krakeel, which she co-founded. The latter project is planned for realisation in The Hague and has attracted a great deal of interest, but is progressing slowly due to its dependence on the municipality and property developers for land. Rudner is therefore also pursuing theoretical interests, supported by Dr Torange Khonsari, an architect and researcher with London Metropolitan University. ‘Right now, I am turning my insights and experiences into publications and presentations, such as the Dag van de Ontwerpkracht (The Power of Design Day). I think of it as establishing a theoretical foundation for my practice, but I also hope that it will help other architects build in a community-oriented way.’
What surprised Rudner during this past development year was the important role that photography has taken on in her research. ‘I use my camera to document how communities take control of the environment they live in, in an attempt to visualise and learn from this process. Because I believe that it’s not up to architects to decide what people need. Citizens need to organise themselves and develop their own buildings, or claim existing locations to meet their neighbourhood’s needs.’
Text by Kim HoefnagelsHsiang-Lin Kuo
design
Since the Romantic era, humanity's smallness in the face of grand landscapes has been a recurring theme in art, literature, and popular culture. Mountains often serve as the backdrop for adventure, reflection, and spirituality. But how does this ‘mountain feeling’ actually emerge, and does it truly depend on height? Wearables designer, artist, and knitting programmer Hsiang-Lin Kuo grew up in Taiwan, where mountain hikes were a regular part of her daily life. When she began her master's programme at Design Academy in 2021 and took her first hike in the Netherlands, the experience was completely different. ‘Of course I knew it would be flat,’ Kuo says with a laugh. ‘It took some getting used to, but the new landscape quickly felt familiar.’
After completing technical fashion training in Taiwan, where she had already designed mountain clothing, her practice took on a more research-oriented direction in the Netherlands. She became interested in the inner mountain experience and how clothing and equipment can contribute to expressing this: ‘I believe wearables are an extension of our body. I'm exploring how they can embody the relationship between humans and mountains, even when high physical mountains are absent.’
During her development year, Kuo is exploring the celebration of mountains in the flat Dutch landscape. ‘By translating my fieldwork into new design methods, I want to break away from traditional fashion design,’ Kuo explains. The fieldwork consists of walks, bouldering sessions, and training courses. ‘Not every walk gives me new insights, but it's essential to my creative process.’
Kuo also acquired more technical design skills during a residency at Schoenenkwartier. With her fashion background, she thought she would quickly master shoemaking. ‘But the first shoe turned out completely different than expected – leather behaves very differently from textiles.’ During the residency, Kuo discovered through experimentation how leather behaves, and she developed 3D skills. ‘I had never designed in that way before. This approach truly opened up a new dimension in my mind.’
She documents both the technical process and fieldwork through photography, sketches, essays and video. In addition to presenting the shoe prototype at the Dutch Design Week, there will be a publication and a film screening at the Mountain Film Festival in Maastricht. ‘By sharing this process, I want to encourage a different perspective on mountains – to show that connecting with mountains isn't about height, but about feeling.’
Text by Cato de Beer
Ilias Bardaa
design
‘I don’t live in terms of full stops but of commas,’ says visual storyteller Ilias Bardaa. ‘I am constantly exploring, playing, investigating.’ Ilias spent six months in Morocco in 2018, the country where his parents come from. ‘It was part of an inner quest,’ he says about that time. ‘I no longer felt at home in the Netherlands and wanted to reconnect with my heritage.’ While there he started devoting more time to photography, and once back in the Netherlands he was admitted to the Royal Academy of the Arts (KABK) in The Hague. Still, Bardaa chose to pursue his own path, personally seeking out mentors under whose tutelage he could continue his development.
In his project Maghrebine, Bardaa portrays people with a North African migration background. Maghreb is the Arab name for the north-western part of the African continent, covering Mauritania, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Libya. It is an area as large as all of Europe, and the people from the region form a huge spectrum of different identities. It bothers Bardaa that they are nevertheless seen as a single group with the same problems, because they happen to share the same religion. ‘I want to show the diversity of all these people, and to illuminate the rich heritage that each one of them represents.’
The map that Baarda developed is not one that highlights borders, but that softens them. With his portraits he aims to create a layered image of people that have found their way, somewhere in between the cultural traditions of their parents and ancestors and modern western society. ‘It’s about finding the strength to be yourself, and the quest for connection. With this story I want to let people simply be who they are.’
Bardaa has gathered together a group of creative makers to convert the physical map of Maghrebine into an interactive digital platform. Qasim Arif is a caligrapher and typographer, Lamiae el Hajjaji is responsible for the graphic design, Yvonne Lu is the web designer, and Nour Awad is the copywriter. ‘I am currently exploring the world of digital storytelling, together with these experts,’ says Bardaa, who hopes to present a prototype of the platform during the Dutch Design Week. ‘They show me new perspectives and help me to expand my horizon. I am learning to work with talents from various disciplines, who each have their own migration background.’
Text by Willemijn de Jonge
Irene Ha
design
Irene Ha graduated from the Gerrit Rietveld Academy with a degree in fashion and, under the name of Baby Reni, quickly carved out a place for herself at the intersection of fashion and art. Her works were displayed at Centraal Museum Utrecht, Tropenmuseum Amsterdam and Design Museum Den Bosch, among other places. Describing her work, she lists a few keywords: ‘Colourful and hyper-optimistic, influenced by youth culture, electropop, memes and information overload.’
As a child of Vietnamese refugees, Ha resides between two cultural worlds that she seeks to connect. In doing so, she increasingly finds herself moving from wearable fashion to autonomous art. ‘My approach has become much more visual,’ she says. ‘I no longer create collections, but I make individual pieces and installations made of textile.’ In addition to her own practice as a maker, she also curates exhibitions of works by other artists, in which she likes to defy convention. With her ‘Baby Reni Foundation’ she organises exhibitions in her own home. ‘I want to take artists’ works out of the institutional “white cube” setting. You can visit my home to see them, by appointment.’
The grant from the Creative Industries Fund NL gave her the freedom to explore her versatility as a maker. She built a new website in collaboration with New York-based graphic designer Ken Wenrui Zhao and took a research trip to Vietnam, where she did an artist residency at A.Farm, immersing herself in Ho Chi Minh City’s design scene. ‘It’s been a long time since I last felt so connected,’ she recounts. ‘Here in the Netherlands, I’m just another Asian maker, but in Vietnam, there are so many more distinct subcultures.’ She roamed the early morning markets for materials to work with, explored the town with young local designers in the evenings, and was inspired to create new installations.
Those installations were displayed to the public during the open studio event that marked the conclusion of her residency: textile sculptures in the form of two enormous bows on a table set with epoxy drinks, as well as small watercolours and riso-printed booklets. On the way home, she made a stopover in Japan. There, she says, ‘I read a lot and reflected on my work, what I want and who I am, while looking out at Mount Fuji. Ultimately, I want to work more spatially; I don’t just make clothes, I am many different things.’
Text by Willemijn de Jonge
Izabela Slodka
architecture
Izabela Slodka is an architect whose research focuses on a single central question: how can productive functions – workshops, storage and logistics – be given a place in the city? Not as isolated zones outside the city limits, but as valuable, long-term parts of urban life. Slodka’s approach began with a clear ambition: to translate her ideas about a ‘productive’ city into a concrete case study. ‘One of my mentors, Jan Kattein [of Jan Kattein Architects, London], told me that if I really want to understand functions and get a grip on circularity, it’s better to start with a case study so that you can see how all the processes come together locally.’
That case study came in the form of a circular hub at ‘t Zoet, the former Suikerfabriek (Sugar Factory) premises in Breda, where all industrial structures were demolished to make room for future housing blocks. It currently houses Stichting Bredase Bomen, a foundation that produces furniture from felled urban greenery, with whom Slodka is currently collaborating to establish a new location – one that might be shared with other businesses, and could be partially accessible to the public. ‘We are looking for a way to create a place in the city for sustainable and circular entrepreneurship, production and storage, by making it interesting for the city.’
Slodka did not immediately start designing – instead, she began by researching material flows, typologies and shared use of space. She worked with a landscape architect to map out buildings, structures and materials, interviewed entrepreneurs and studied their processes. ‘Using that knowledge, we drew up maps and diagrams to further sharpen our understanding of how it all works and what is needed.’ Slodka is currently researching how businesses can share facilities, how design can address their needs, and which additional functions could be implemented to tether the place to the city. Workshops for Breda University of Applied Sciences, for example, an exhibition space for BredaPhoto Festival, or an information centre for future residents.
Involving entrepreneurs proved to be a time-consuming job, one that required patience. Fortunately, Slodka’s mentors had valuable insights to offer: Jan Jongert (Superuse, Rotterdam) walked her through a circular design process with multiple interested parties, and Oana Bodgan (&bogdan, Brussels) offered ideas about function blending. ‘Their feedback helped me realise that this is not just a personal project: it has real value for society.’ And so, what started out as a study of typology grew into a concrete collaborative project with a local impact.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
JB Gambier
digital culture
There’s a curious mind behind the artist moniker JBstuff. Artist and designer JB Gambier seems endlessly captivated by cycles of construction and deconstruction. ‘I’ve always been interested in dysfunction,’ he says, ‘and in the way we build and destroy things, how we decide what works and what doesn’t.’
What began as playful interventions with discarded objects on the street – think fixing a lamppost with a roll of tape – evolved into a brightly coloured world of DIY revival. Tape remains his signature material: a quick fix that doubles as a metaphor for repair and resilience in a throwaway world. ‘Most of the items produced in the world are designed to be destroyed, made with an expiry date. The tape I use is symbolic – I’m trying to heal the damages our society inflicts on nature.’ With wit and subtle subversion, his work encourages us to do the same, to intervene with objects we deem broken, to get creative, to hack, upgrade and reimagine them.
More recently, Gambier combines DIY materials with digital media to create sculptures, furniture and immersive installations – works that invite audiences into surreal environments where function and fiction meet head on. During this year of experimentation, his work sets out to blur the line between the physical and the virtual. ‘I like to use fantasy and fiction to talk about dysfunction,’ he explains, ‘to let people see ordinary things in a new way.’
Always an avid player and strongly inspired by gaming culture, Gambier weaves bold narratives and vivid visuals into his work. ‘There’s always a bit of fiction behind the things I make,’ he notes. ‘A fantasy that sneaks in through the materials.’ Experimenting with video game engines and 3D software, he builds saturated, cartoonish scenes and whole new virtual worlds – not to replace his physical constructions, but to expand his narrative universe. Objects he’s made are scanned and introduced in the digital realm. Digital sculptures are 3D printed. Experiments that invite dialogue between the real and the virtual, that play with our perception, present them as interconnected.
This past year marked a turning point: a deeper dive into digital culture, where absurdity, storytelling and simulation meet. ‘With my work, I’m trying to bring humanity, fun and comfort in a cold and oppressive society,’ he reflects. ‘There’s so many hard things happening around us, which makes escapism all the more enticing.’
Text by Roxy Merrell
Josianne Coutinho
architecture
Aruban creator Josianne Couthino spent the past year not focused on acquiring new knowledge, but on rediscovering the existing treasures of the Aruban landscape. Her initiative stemmed from an ambitious vision: to investigate adobe domes as a contemporary, secure, and eco-friendly alternative to Aruba's traditional mud houses, known as cas di torta.
‘I’ve always felt like an activist,’ she says. ‘But only recently have I taken the heritage and housing aspect under my wings.’ Her earlier work focused on wildlife conservation and environmental education. Adobe domes first caught her attention years ago; their soft curves and grounded forms reminded her of the island itself, from clay wasp nests to burrowing owls. It felt like a natural connection, already part of Aruba’s DNA.
Though trained in graphic design, Couthino dove into architecture with full commitment. She explored cas di torta history on a ranger-led tour at Arikok Park, visited Curaçao to compare techniques, and travelled to Italy for a hands-on workshop with CalEarth Institute and Vide Terra. ‘I brought my father with me. He helped build our dome with a group of thirteen. That process, working with others, taught me trust,’ she says. ‘I always thought I had to do everything alone.’
In Italy, she was struck by the group’s awareness of each other’s physical limits. ‘Their kindness and patience really stood out. It showed deep respect and empathy.’
Back in Aruba, Couthino faced obstacles in building a full-sized dome, encountering permit issues and bureaucracy. ‘I assumed that theory would align with practice, but I discovered that was not the case,’ she admits. Still, she remains determined. A small prototype will soon be created on family land, while her larger ambition continues: establishing a foundation for earthen architecture on the island.
‘For now, the story is that I’m turning my childhood dreams into reality,’ she says. ‘I want to keep learning, especially about adobe bricks and different dome structures. There’s still so much to explore.’
Text by Gyonne Zafira
Kai Udema
design
As a graphic designer, Kai Udema focuses on printed objects and their material properties. In his practice, he very deliberately works with production techniques, ink, paper and binding methods. His strong visual work often contains formal ideas of an abstract nature, from an editorial and typographic perspective. Udema finds it interesting to work with artists and to visually translate the content and ideas presented to him. ‘There is a certain emptiness to what I make, which creates room for personal interpretations. I try to make the viewer aware of his or her own perceptive process.’
Udema was trained at the ArtEZ University of the Arts, where he attained his bachelor of Graphic Design in 2016 and his Werkplaats Typografie master’s degree in 2022. Some time ago he expanded his practice, establishing the Soft concern hard concern publishing house with Johanna Himmelsbach. This year, Udema is concentrating on developing a new format for future publications. ‘I’m working on an experimental series of individually published printed sheets on the theme of exhaustion. All these editions must eventually form a single whole. Each edition is compact but contains a huge amount of layers and information. This is my way of questioning the aspect of efficient production in printed materials. The printing world is all about efficiency, and I want to exploit that.’
How did he conceive of this project? ‘Last year I suffered a burnout. That made me think about achievement in the creative industry. Can you perform and produce as a maker in a way that is not mentally and physically draining? When you’re exhausted, you can only think in terms of small steps and short timespans. My project tries to translate this awareness into a different approach to publishing. One in which you apply the same resources – energy, materials, money – to smaller segments, spread across a longer time period, to arrive at a worthwhile result.’
Udema is now past halfway elaborating the project plan. ‘I have worked on various things, mainly related to my new role as a publisher. There’s so much I am learning, for instance about book distribution and representation. My discussions with Rudy Guedj, who has been a publisher for some time already, and graphic designer Paul Bailey are very helpful. And I had an interesting residency period at Sitterwerk in St. Gallen.’ Udema concludes: ‘This year is a patchwork of different development areas: artistically, commercially, and editorially. In the coming time I want to perform manual printing experiments. I haven’t gotten around to that so far.’
Text by Iris Stam
Kati Qui
design
For Curaçaoan multidisciplinary artist Kati Qui, storytelling begins with silence. ‘I’m drawn to the stories that were almost erased and bring them to life with puppetry.’ With her hands, voice, and carefully constructed puppets, Qui brings neglected histories back into view. Her work blends research, performance, and ancestral memory, using puppets to reflect larger truths.
Over the past year, Qui has developed new work focused on Chronicles of 30 di mei, Nanzi and Èzè, The (out)selling of our local beaches, and children’s nursery rhymes of Curaçao (Un morkoi ku yama moi). All connect to histories from the ABCSSS islands (Aruba, Bonaire, Curaçao, Saba, Sint Eustatius and Sint Maarten). Motivated by the near-absence of puppetry in Curaçao’s archives, she delved into public collections, school libraries, and oral traditions.
Combining creativity, design, and storytelling, puppetry once helped Qui recover from a burnout. Now, she sees putting puppetry on the map as a way to give back to the community. She collaborates with the national library, schools, and cultural heritage centres, offering workshops and performances that merge historical fact with imaginative narratives.
The process has required patience and trust. Even sourcing something as simple as paña (clothes for puppets) or tela (textile) often involves reshaping existing materials before buying new. Recycling is part of her method. For specialty fabrics, she searches in unexpected places: hardware stores, toy aisles, or bedding sections – before turning online, as she did for the fur of her ‘Quiuppet’ cat.
She has created a series of puppets that appear in performances and workshops. Over the past year, she has performed at local festivals and community spaces and experimented with combining puppetry, projection and sound. While much of her work is for children and families, she also staged an adult puppetry performance.
When teaching puppetry as storytelling, Qui emphasises its open possibilities: designing and performing puppets can go in all directions. For her, the goal is always connection: to make people see themselves reflected in the stories that shape Curaçao’s cultural fabric.
Text by Gyonne Zafira
Kotayaman Refwutu
design
In his practice, Kotayaman Refwutu of studio ARCHE combines craft and design, visual art, cultural heritage, music and building instruments. He creates ‘tifas’, which are a traditional type of drum, fusing together centuries-old Moluccan craftsmanship, acoustics, design and heritage preservation. Refwutu: ‘I see cultural makership as a method of self-recollection. Through sound, image and craft, I make tangible that who we are is often already present within us, the memory of our roots and inner wealth. Everything you need in order to create and connect is already inside you. My tifas and art works are like an invitation: like the voice of a community and the carrier of age-old stories for future generations. All we need to do is to recognise it and restore it to life.’
Refwutu is presently professionalising studio ARCHE and creating means to document his craftsmanship. This includes setting up a website and expanding his knowledge of acoustics, materials and painting techniques. At the same time he is documenting the history, creation process and significance of the tifa. About his project idea he says: ‘During my quest, the wish arose to preserve and renew this craft, which is in danger of disappearing. My research on the Moluccan islands, where I was able to collect stories and knowledge from the local communities, was very special. By connecting these oral traditions with my own insights and craft experience, I was able to deepen and enhance my skill. I learned that working intuitively and precision craftsmanship blend together and can reinforce each other. I also discovered that the true craft of manually making these instruments is barely practiced anymore, also not on the Moluccan islands. This underlines the importance of documenting my work process.’
Major stumbling blocks this year were the absence of a mentor and the lack of historical sources. ‘I hardly met any true masters of the craft, but by engaging with musicians, artists and other culture carriers I was able to focus my urgency and refine the direction of my own craftsmanship, in the Netherlands and in the Moluccas.’
Drastic personal circumstances temporarily suspended Refwutu’s development process. ‘But this period of slowing down and reflection did turn out to add a new dimension to my work, and has for me has come to symbolise resilience and dedication.’
Text by Iris Stam
Lei Nelissen
digital culture
Contributing to a fairer internet and giving people more control over their online data: that’s what design-technologist Lei Nelissen aspires to do. He develops digital products that raise users’ awareness of the impact of technology and data. ‘By better understanding the mechanisms at work, it becomes easier to create the frameworks for the kind of society we want to live in.’ That is why, this year, he is working on an installation that renders manipulation visible.
During his training, Nelissen focussed on the General Data Protection Regulation. He created an app that retrieves personal data and gives users insight into which of their personal data are being processed. ‘If you know which data is being used for what purpose, you can exercise your right to have those data removed.’ In practice it turns out that companies are often not well prepared to deal with such requests. ‘I requested my data from Tikkie, and eventually received them on a USB stick delivered by a courier. Suppose that lots of people started doing this? Many companies obey the rules of the law, but are not prepared in practical terms.’ It shows how legal approaches can clash with technological reality.
This year Nelissen is examining how interfaces and algorithms steer behaviour. ‘A cookie banner with a huge accept button requiring you to click ten times to refuse them is a form of manipulation.’ Just like the endless pushing of content. ‘Many people assume malicious intent, but these are systems that recklessly optimize for your attention. Growth is the only metric that matters.’ One of the most important themes regarding algorithms is the human role, Nelissen explains. ‘The fallibility of algorithms can be traced to human motives. This means that we need to hold the people who create algorithms to account, but also that we can design those algorithms based on what we do find important.’
Making this complexity comprehensible is a challenge. ‘I am seeking creative ways to strike the right balance between depth and ease of understanding.’ His latest experiment is a tangible installation: a physical ‘recommender system’ with sliders that allow visitors to adjust the algorithm. ‘That way, people immediately experience the difference, allowing them to step outside their bubble.’ With his work, Nelissen not only wants to make technology transparent but also to contribute to societal debates and legislation. ‘Companies often use the law to estimate the risks, while it can help us to build the society we want.’ He will spend the coming months working towards the Dutch Design Week, where his installation invites reflection and discussion. It is the next step in his ambition: to design technology that does not manipulate people, but connects them.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Lydienne Albertoe
design
Lydienne Albertoe obtained her bachelor's degree in Graphic Design in 2018, followed in 2021 by two master’s degrees, in Fine Arts and in Design. ‘It was around my second year at ArtEZ that I was made aware that I am a woman of colour. From then on, racism and diversity became themes in some of my projects.’
As an independent graphic designer, Albertoe’s work is rooted in social and moral awareness. ‘My work establishes a dialogue between the personal and the public. My themes include identity, heritage, social awareness and self-awareness. My message is that it is time to step out of victimhood. We must go through a change so that we can grow and flourish. That will take courage, resilience and defiance. We must move beyond the social challenges that the past and the present bring with them and focus on the future, in the hope that things will be different for the next generation.’
In her current project, she is taking a deeper look at songs of resistance. ‘I want to use a visually enhanced story to introduce people of all ages to the art form of tambú, which originated on the plantations of Curaçao. The instrument the style is named after was traditionally made using kegs from the slave ships, and it was used to accompany songs and dances that were a way to express emotions like anger, grief, pain and joy and to spread information with wisdom and humour. Tambú was extremely subversive – it was forbidden and violently suppressed for centuries by the church and the State of the Netherlands. In my youth, tambú was not talked about, but it was there regardless. I want to bring this hidden part of our rich, shared history out of the shadows.’
In the course of her research in the Netherlands, Albertoe found some material in physical and digital archives. ‘But there was very little of it. I wanted to go to Curaçao, to experience tambú in real life and to learn the kind of history that is mainly passed on orally. I talked to people, attended celebrations and did two workshops under music teacher Rendel Rosalia, a tamburero. In his family, each generation teaches the instrument to the next. I am now working on a book with him – not as a final result, but as a way to compile information in order to take the next step. This project makes me joyful. It has been a real discovery to not stay stuck inside my own little box, but to set out in search of collaborations. To truly understand tambú.’
Text by Iris Stam
Maarten Plomp
architecture
Designing and building: architect Maarten Plomp has always been interested in the intermediate area, between the two disciplines. This year, he is investigating how he can further develop his own practice in this field. In 2023 he established a studio under his own name. Regarding his path he says: ‘An architect develops slowly. You develop by means of projects that often take a long time and are difficult to obtain. Thanks to the grant, I now have room for reflection: what is my strength, what inspires me and what do I wish to attain?’
After completing his master’s in architecture at Delft University of Technology in 2016, Plomp worked on various projects for architectural offices, mainly in the housing sector and commissioned by housing associations. That’s how he discovered what he mainly values in a design: ‘That a building radiates some kind of obviousness, both in its use and in how it fits within the surroundings. If a building appears to have been around for some time and doesn’t really stand out, then for me that’s usually a good sign.’
In addition to a love of craftsmanship, the architect has a fondness for pragmatic and simple solutions, and for the natural and straightforward application of materials so that the structure and composition of the design remains visible. ‘For example, materials with as little further finishing as possible, such as full bricks that bear the marks of the firing process, or uncoloured aluminium or wood that undergo a beautiful weathering process. No imitation materials for me.’
As regards an architect’s attitude and work method, Plomp remarks: ‘The act of producing and building plays a central role in the design process. I try to zoom in on the practical execution of the design from an early stage on. In the talent development year, I’m focusing on the architect’s role in the technical elaboration and execution of their designs. The involvement with this part of the process has somewhat receded into the background in the past decades. I am investigating the causes, and examine how the collaboration with the implementing parties can be intensified. I am also experimenting with how elaborate and realistic technical drawings, work instructions, construction schedules and physical 1:10 models can elucidate and perhaps even simulate the construction process. Jan Peter Wingender of Office Winhov, Lieven Nijs of BLAF Architecten, Ruben Groot and Michael Tjia are helping me. It’s so nice to have these seasoned and diverse professionals as sparring partners.’
Text by Iris Stam
Mika Schalks
design
As a child, Mika Schalks enjoyed watching the children’s programmes created by the VPRO media company. ‘I loved the absurdity, the vivid colours, and how children were treated as equals in the Villa Achterwerk item. There was no filter, also not regarding sexuality, for instance. Young viewers were taken seriously and were shown the world as it really is.’
Schalks still draws inspiration from this free and straightforward approach. In their creative practice, focused on presenting queer narratives using handmade illustrations and stop-motion animation, the maker continues to view the world from a child’s perspective. ‘I use an exaggerated visual style. I try to criticise the absurdity of society and its many rules with humour, and try to create a sense of connectedness and a space where everyone feels welcome.’
Their current work-in-progress, Het Flikkereffect, is a deeper take on Schalk’s earlier works about queerness in television and how this is made to stand out visually, for instance through the use of certain colours and objects, particularly in children’s programmes. ‘The final result will be a short film with animation puppets, sorts of like drag queens, who physically live inside a television, as if they were electrodes. These characters – that are actually based on friends, passersby or people at a party – wear outfits in the colours of pixels, so red, green and blue. The title of my project refers both to the flickering of a TV screen and to the derogatory term still used for gay people in the Netherlands today, ‘flikker’.’
Over the past period, Schalks has learnt to put more trust into their intuition as a maker. ‘Previously, my initial enthusiasm would sometimes run aground due to worries like: what is actually possible, can I find funding for it, does the person who I want to work with want to work with me? Now I know there’s often a straightforward answer to all these practical questions.’
Schalks attended the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague. Their internship at animation studio Holy Motion morphed into a job. “Half of the week I spend on building sets, the remaining days on my own practice. I am very close to the fire, my mentor is one of the owners of Holy Motion, Mascha Halberstad. I try to absorb as much practical knowledge from her and other professionals as possible, for instance regarding materials or motions. I observe and have already been given a few small assignments, which I carry out at home or in the studio. Stop-motion animation is really a hand skill, so the more often you do it, the better you become.’
Text by Iris Stam
Mint Park
digital culture
Mint Park graduated in ArtScience from the Royal Conservatorium (2020), focuses on sound as multi-sensory material and diversity in language. During the development year Park deepens their practice and audiovisual tools. Park works with mentors such as Dillon Bastan, Brandon LaBelle and Thor Magnusson, and takes part in a residency at the Sound Art Lab in Struer. This leads to the development of a new instrument and various sound productions, presented via Unheard Records. Besides practical goals Park also explores their role as maker, organizer and curator, supported by marketing strategies. The acquired insights are published on a website, while physical results, such as an album and a spatial sound installation, are presented in the Bajesdorp-theatre in Amsterdam. Through this trajectory Park explores a unique position within contemporary sound art.
Nicky Vollebregt
design
‘See this line?’ Nicky Vollebregt carefully lays one of the smocked fabric pieces against her shoulder. ‘The shape is completely adjustable, and it is completely restorable to a single, straight length of fabric.’ It may still be a prototype, but Vollebregt is researching how she can use smocking to design clothing articles – a blouse, in this case – with ultimate reusability. Each stitch is carefully devised at a minute level. ‘Ironically, I was never really concerned with fashion. It’s always been thread that attracted me. Thread feels like the essence of it all, to me. The most logical thing to work with.’
Vollebregt graduated from Willem de Kooning Academy with a degree in product design, before gradually shifting her focus to weaving techniques. ‘These days, it would probably be more accurate to describe myself as a textile designer and researcher,’ she says. ‘Right now, I am mostly working on investigative, speculative projects about our relationship to textiles. The way we experience and consume textile can be extremely personal, but also socially or culturally defined. How can I contribute to that as a designer?’ In her works, Vollebregt examines how the qualities of materials affect the experience and ultimate application of textiles. ‘Researching this will help us increase the lifespan of textile products.’
Emotional durability is one of the main pillars of Vollebregt’s philosophy. ‘Durability is often approached with the idea that any given item will have to be thrown away at some point. With that in mind, designers choose fast-growing, easily recyclable materials. But I prefer to design from the belief that it doesn’t ever need to be thrown away.’ With emotional durability, the designer seeks to reduce the consumption of raw resources and energy by encouraging the long-term use of objects. It’s about the personal meaning or emotional value an object holds, which can motivate someone to cherish and care for it.
Vollebregt intended to use her development year to find her place in the creative industry, which encouraged her to establish contact with other professionals in her field. That was how she met textile designer Milou Voorwinden, who mentored her over the past year and with whom Vollebregt will soon be traveling to Japan. ‘Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto… It’s going to be a textile-focused journey around the country to find inspiration, establish new collaborations and learn about local and traditional crafts, techniques and materials. Hopefully, I will be able to apply the experiences we gain there in the context of my own practice.’
Text by Terry Harmelink
Noa Jansma
design
‘How did I end up on this planet and what is my role here as a human being?’ This is the fundamental question that researcher and multidisciplinary maker Noa Jansma keeps asking. The work she makes and the medium she chooses for the purpose are always geared to the concept. ‘What inspires me is thinking itself. I am fascinated by the visible and invisible aspects of our experience as a person. Which phenomena influence the materials around us? I often investigate what we refer to as nature. This research generally leads to video installations, performances or programmes involving food. The invisible can refer to power structures, but also a more philosophical construction. My message is always that nobody knows how to live. This can cause unrest, but I derive a kind of playfulness from that. It’s all up to me to determine what I believe in, and what I want to pay attention to.’
Jansma, who completed her Man & Communication master’s programme at the Design Academy Eindhoven in 2020, is currently working on two projects involving food. One of them has grandparents and grandchildren prepare a significant dish from one of the grandparents’ childhood, wearing a GoPro-camera on their head. It is very practical and already far advanced, and is a collaboration with the Dutch-Japanese documentary maker and culinary writer Kiriko Mechanicus. The other project Jansma describes as dreamy, philosophical, and not very concrete so far: it is about what it means for a human to be eaten up. ‘I find it an exciting question, which arose from a dream I once had. In the dream, a lion told me he was going to eat me. It wasn’t angry with me, but I was simply a piece of food for it. That’s when I realised that I am just a prey animal, just as say a gazelle. It was a simple yet very unsettling insight.’
Jansma continues: ‘We are also eaten up by small organisms and microbes. Right now and after we die. What is death, what is life? What is body, what is spirit? Everything is connected. The dualities fall away when you realise that you keep changing into other forms of life. I am approaching this theme from every conceivable angle: practically, materially, philosophically, spiritually and politically. It is fascinating, but also overwhelming. It’s nice to have the practical project as a counterweight this year, in which I can further develop my skills in video work. It feels very comfortable to be able to switch between thinking and doing.’
Text by Iris Stam
Noa Mac Donald
design
Animator and mixed media artist Noa Mac Donald treads the line between animation and visual art. During her studies at Willem de Kooning Academy (2023), she worked with techniques such as risograph printing, dry-needle etching and lithography. ‘It’s sad that everything has to be faster and faster these days. When you find something that you enjoy, isn’t it better to take the time to enjoy it?’ For Mac Donald, making itself is the goal, and imperfections and manual work have their own value.
Combining animation with textile techniques does not sound like an obvious combination – but it is the focus of Mac Donald’s development year, as she works on two short mixed media films. She discovered textiles and their similarities with animation during the COVID lockdowns. ‘Both involve working with pixel-form patterns: it felt familiar.’ A collaboration with TextielMuseum proved a turning point: after using a circular knitting machine to produce a short animation, she was immediately hooked on the medium. ‘It’s time-consuming, but that also makes it a form of rebellion against the speed of the digital world. I choose slow and attentive instead of fast and cheap. Every one of my animations becomes a physical object, as well.’
In doing so, she wants to liberate animation from its purely functional image. ‘Animation is often seen as functional design, not as autonomous art.’ That contrast was underscored during the exhibition of her graduation project. ‘A woman came up to me and asked: “Why haven’t you put your signature on it?” Nobody would ask that about a digital file, though.’ Jokingly, she asks: ‘What do I have to do to be seen as an artist – hand-carve every frame out of stone?’
Gradually, Mac Donald also began to investigate the cultural status of the textile arts. ‘I found that all around the world, textiles were seen as a hobby for women, and rarely as art. I want to make that tangible through my work.’ Her project follows the journey of a fictional girl inspired by Pixelchix, the digital toy from 2005. ‘It’s all so hyper-feminine and pink, and it made me wonder: who comes up with that? And what does it say about the female archetypes we present to children?’
To get a grip on her subject, she started by writing a poem, followed by drawings, a storyboard and experiments. ‘I’m looking for an appropriate technique for each scene: felt for small motions, embroidery for more dynamic movement.’ These embroidered frames and felt-crafted scenes will be given a place alongside the film itself. Mac Donald’s first film is nearly complete; once it is, she would like to exhibit her work, preferably on a gallery wall. With a signature, this time? She laughs. ‘Yes, probably.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Noukhey Forster
design
Fashion: a powerful medium for the expression of diversity, equality and empowerment. That is the philosophy behind Noukhey Forster’s label, OHIM. Through meaningful storytelling embodied in his designs, he seeks to inspire and bring new perspectives to the fashion industry. ‘For the past three years, my focus has been on the perspectives of Black people. There have always been fashion professionals with Afro backgrounds, but we still don’t see or hear enough of them. Where do they work? What are the paths they follow? Through in-depth research and interviews, which I translate into my garments along with supporting images and props, I present the stories of Black fashion designers – theirs and mine.’
Being self-taught, Forster’s artistic development was an organic process. ‘I developed a love for clothing and art at a young age, but at first I played it safe and chose a broad media education programme. After that I stumbled into curating exhibitions. Eventually, I developed a desire to create my own works. The challenge was working out how, but with help from others, the answer became clearer. That’s how my idea to highlight the Black perspective in fashion gradually took shape. In 2023 I was allowed to present my own works at an exhibition I was curating. I didn’t really have the background and skills to work out an entire collection back then, but I discovered that there’s actually a lot you can do in practice. Just by experimenting and doing.’
This year, Forster seeks to take his development further still. He travelled to Suriname to learn more about his background and to search for elements to incorporate into future designs. Currently, he is working on a collection and a short film for the occasion of Amsterdam’s 750-year anniversary – all in accordance with his unique approach. ‘This time, the premise is: telling the stories of Black Amsterdammers who work in fashion. In my first project, I stuck to familiar territory and only interviewed men, but now I am also including the stories of women.’
Forster is currently reflecting on the future. ‘What kind of practice do I want to be? My research-based approach takes a lot of time – it’s not a ready-made business model. So could I develop a more wearable line of clothing and accessories alongside my core work? One that is accessible for a broader audience? Consultant and strategist Margit van Looijen is helping me make decisions and plan a timeline. She also put me in touch with professionals in the fashion and film industries, which has been very helpful.’
Text by Iris Stam
Oscar van Leest
architecture
Oscar van Leest devotes his interdisciplinary practice to aspects of audio(visual) design, interaction design, sound design and spatial practices. He describes his work as sensory and exploratory, with room for the imagination and for wonder. ‘I hope that one of things my work achieves is that it encourages the audiences to perceive very intentionally. Especially where sound is concerned, but also with regard to visual aspects and contexts. I want to trigger questions through my work, while leaving the audience free to answer them subjectively.’
Regarding his current project, which arose as a sonic and poetic exploration of the concept of feedback, Van Leest says: ‘With Apparatus I am engaging with the development of mobile instruments and other devices that generate sound based on motions and the spatial context in which those motions are performed. The resulting sound then interacts with those same motions, based on feedback. The project originated from my Studies on Disorientation, which was my graduation work at the Sandberg Instituut in 2023. This work revolved around self-made wearable instruments and converting the information they generate into sound. In my current project I am attempting to engage more closely still with this fascinating but complex matter.’
In the past period, Van Leest concentrated on redesigning the wearables of his graduation project, especially on aspects of responsiveness and repairability. He is now working on optimising the new and operational prototype. Regarding the period in which he further expanded his knowledge, Van Leest says: ‘Even more than before, I have started to see code, electronics and microcomputers with their intrinsic properties as the material basis of my practice. It is perhaps comparable to a painter who sees his paint not just as a medium, but also tries to understand how certain pigments and their chemical properties ultimately influence the work he creates.’
After focusing on technology, Van Leest has now turned to expressive development. His coach is interdisciplinary artist and performer Ludmila Rodrigues. ‘What’s possible, what does the instrument let you do? What is my role in terms of facilitating and observing? That’s what I’m exploring now. Ludmila opens up valuable perspectives that help me get more out the collaborations that are rooted in movement. But her perspectives also help me get more out of my solo performances.’
Text by Iris Stam
Promphan Suksumek
design
What would happen if you designed a Latin script starting from Thai letterforms? Would the result still be legible? This was the central question during the development year of Promphan Suksumek, type designer and 2022 graduate of the Royal Academy of Art The Hague. She immersed herself in bi-scriptual design, aiming to develop a new typeface that takes the Thai script as its starting point, rather than – as is usually the case – the Latin. The final product will be a unison of the two.
‘I am Thai, I design Thai scripts as a job, and I had been wondering for a while: what would happen if I turned the design process back to front? Is it possible to build a typographic bridge between these two script cultures?’ Through experimentation, research and boundary-pushing creativity, Suksumek is working to answer that question. She also launched an online archive of vernacular Thai lettering as a valuable source of inspiration for other designers and researchers.
Suksumek spent her year, as it were, between two scripts. It was a year of freedom, but also of uncertainty. Instead of starting with calligraphy, the traditional foundation for many Latin typefaces, she started by playfully experimenting with form. Letting go of convention felt awkward, and that was not the only difference. She was free to ‘play’ as she liked, to call her own shots, instead of having to dance to the customer’s tune. ‘Normally, I have a customer and a target audience, but now I don’t even know if anyone is actually interested in what I’m making.’
By focusing less on logic and letting feeling guide her instead, she found her motivation growing. ‘Following my heart keeps me interested and motivated. I’m trying to involve more emotion in my decisions, instead of rationalising everything.’
Suksumek developed a typeface family and sought guidance from experts in Thailand, India, and Malaysia. When she needs to confirm something, she turns to a Thai professor who specialises in the history of Thai typography. ‘The experts I ask for advice use Latin scripts in daily life, but live in a society based on a script of Indian origin.’
Of all the phases in the project – sketching, decision-making and, ultimately, digitisation and production – Suksumek looks forward most to the final phase: the moment when her typeface is available for download and use by graphic designers, printers and other creatives. ‘I’m very curious to see how it will be used, and the feedback I’ll get. But first, I have to deliver a good product.’ And that means having the courage to trust in her own intuition as she chooses, tests and refines – running through both the process and the alphabet from A to Z.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Romy Zhang
audiovisual
Self-taught image maker Romy Zhang was selected at the Scout Night in Rotterdam. In her interdisciplinary artistic research practice, Zhang combines audiovisual creatorship, social design and sociological research. She focuses on metropolitan issues, youths, people of colour and women. With Politicizing her Madness, Zhang makes a short film and a digital archive about how women of colour are made sick by a socio-political system. She wants to refine her technical skills in photography and film, further develop social design both substantively and methodologically, develop a strategy for a sustainable practice and investigate her personal artistic identity away from collective activities, commerce and cultural institutions.
Rosana Escobar
design
Colombian biologist and textile designer Rosana Escobar goes back to the source with her research and art. In her work, she interweaves curiosity about the nature of raw materials, the environment where they grow and the crafts, tools and stories that go with them. For instance, in her homeland she spent five years researching the agave plant. She delved into its transformation from fibre to coffee bale, looking at social, ecological and political aspects. She also shaped agave fibres into objects that can be worn on the body. 'With my art, I explore how to give the materials agency. I always work with the raw product, because I feel that's when the conversation really gets going. I don't direct that, the fibre itself lets me know which way it wants to go.'
Passionately: 'In mass production in the global market, materials have been forced into the identity of usage. Consumers have therefore become alienated from what things are made of, that products have a source, that they are a living organism before they are used. Few people still know that a linen shirt, for example, is made from the crop flax.'
With her current project The FiberLAB, Escobar is exploring the use of raw fibre in hair salons. She sees the hair salon as a playful spot that provides space for experimentation, wonder and dialogue. 'What would it be like if someone wears an extension, or a wig made of plants? Do you then change the identity of humans and plants? In my previous research in Colombia, I discovered that the fibre of agave is long and wide and very beautiful, and behaves like human hair. Recently, I made prototypes of wigs in collaboration with wig makers, who told me all kinds of things about the construction process. I also visited a hairdresser, and she visited me, to learn about each other's tools and techniques. Hairdressing is a craft, I discovered through this project.'
After several exhibitions on the agave fibre, Escobar is now expanding her practice to apply her methodology to fibres other than agave. 'For example, linen. I recently entered into a collaboration with Craft Council Netherlands. And in TextielLab Eindhoven I learned a lot about developing a more industrial approach for other applications with natural fibres. I also visited places in Spain and the Netherlands where linen is grown and harvested. All in all, it’s a great journey of discovery!’
Text by Iris Stam
Roxana Rodriguez
design
How do you tell a story that’s bigger than yourself? For Aruban illustrator Roxana Rodriguez, the answer began with comics: short visual narratives about culture, memory, and the people who carry that forward. What started as a project exploring heritage evolved into an act of remembrance - not just names, but also voices and legacies often forgotten.
Rodriguez’s focus shifted from the broad idea of ‘culture’ to the individuals who shape it. Through Fundacion Mi Cutisa, and specifically Ruby Eckmeyer, she found people who could help trace these individuals. One of these individuals is Bernadina: one of the first women to join Aruba's tumba music tradition, long dominated by men. In 1977, Bernadina performed Galiña di Carnaval at the Tumba Festival, as the only female participant. ‘When I learned what Galiña di Carnaval meant, and what Bernadina made possible for others, I knew her story had to be visualised,’ Rodriguez says.
Another central figure is Vicente, deeply involved in the Dande tradition (an Aruban New Year’s tradition) and rooted in Aruba’s agricultural history. He is among the most cherished cultural figures in tambú within Dande and was formally recognised by the Aruban Government as a Gran Baluarte Cultural (Exemplary Cultural Contributor). Rodriguez had previously contributed to a documentary about Vicente and is now translating his story into comic panels.
Drawing has always been Rodriguez’s language, but condensing a life into a few frames is a challenge. To strengthen her storytelling skills, she took online courses in narrative development and digital comic-making. She created new Procreate brushes and adopted a cooler blue palette, different from her usual warm tones, giving the series its own visual identity.
The work will live both online and offline. On her website, Rodriguez shares behind-the-scenes insights, interviews, and a roadmap for aspiring comic creators. Offline, the stories will appear as storytelling cubes - box-like installations in public spaces such as Aruba’s national library - creating interaction between the stories and the public.
This is only the beginning. Rodriguez sees the project as a multi-year series: a growing archive of stories told from within the community. ‘That’s why I document every step,’ she says. For her, it’s about more than drawing — it’s about who the Aruban community is, and how they remember their heritage.
Text by Gyonne Zafira
Runo Hernandez
audiovisual
As a self-taught storyteller, photographer and archivist, Runo Hernandez uses photography, poetry and other media to show and tell the stories of Black queer immigrants. During their development year, Hernandez investigated how to build an enduring archive. They began their research by visiting libraries and archives in various cities and locations, including New York and the Harlem Library, diving into manuscripts, and interviewing people in the field. ‘I want to learn about the history of Black queer people, like me.’
Hernandez’s drive to bring Black queerness out of the shadows come from a yearning to see their community represented in the historic record. ‘There are archives that focus on the general aspect of queerness – those tell us something about white people. But people like me are all but invisible in history.’
Hernandez spent a month doing research in New York, where what started out as a positive art project about survival slowly evolved into something different. The research was a sobering experience: the lack of information, the invisibility, the sense of powerlessness as an observer – it all gave rise to feelings of anger that sent Hernandez’s work down a different path. ‘At first, I made visual poems, but I started writing more because I wanted to channel my knowledge and emotions. That grew into a manifesto in which I essentially use myself as an archive. It’s a discussion with myself, a conversation between the present and the past.’
While working on this internal dialogue, Hernandez also wants to create more portraits of people in the community. ‘I don’t want to just photograph them, I want to capture their essence. I’ve found plenty of old photographs of people in archives, but those only show what they looked like – I know nothing else about them at all. I want to change that with a new method of archiving.’
Hernandez sought out people with archiving experience and gained valuable insights. Archiving, they learned, is not just about gathering materials, but about making them accessible and bringing them to life. Just storing photos is not enough: you need to add context in the form of text, sound and image. ‘I want to create archives in which people recognise themselves and know that they exist, that they are remembered.”
Where to start, then? In Hernandez’s own community in Rotterdam. Over the course of the year, Hernandez is building a future in which Black queer histories are preserved, one small, concrete step at a time. ‘The result will be a living archive that honours who people were.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Sammy Does
design
A few years ago, makeup artist Sammy Does started designing and 3D printing nails that send shivers down your spine. They seem like something straight from a post-apocalyptic sci-fi series: alien, monstrous, and the perfect choice to make a truly defiant fashion statement. Before long, they were featured on the cover of CAP 74024 magazine, and orders began coming in from various fashion brands and artists.
Inspired by video games, fantasy, anime and manga, Does evolved her nail extensions into spikes that transform their wearers into X-Men-style mutants. Her 3D-printed and skilfully airbrushed prosthetics are a way to explore what she terms ‘the fluid body’ and the mental impact of corporeal transformation, while emphasising how important it is never to stop playing and imagining. ‘They are tangible versions of my dream world,’ she explains. ‘I am a creator of worlds.’
In 2023, the spikes she created for use in a film were included in an exhibition at Design Museum Den Bosch, which subsequently purchased the work. That inspired Does to consider creating autonomous works. ‘Until then, I never really thought beyond the idea of commissioned production, and all the work that brought with it completely consumed me. Which kept me small and dependent on the wishes of others.’ Seeking her own artistic identity, she created a new series of spikes, which she took to New York for a series of networking meetings with photographer Ashley Markle, under the direction of Does herself. ‘We did an amazing shoot there with models wearing mutant spikes on their heads. I could actually feel my soul growing.’
Next on the schedule was a study trip to Japan, a major source of inspiration for Does. She returned with a suitcase jam-packed with visual culture: books by various Japanese game illustrators, Wayne Barlow’s Guide to Extraterrestrials, a book about the suits from Ultraman, a Japanese science fiction series from the sixties... The greatest treasure of them all was found in a Kyoto bookstore, where she was handed a box containing a rare book of Japanese woodblock prints from 1920. ‘I actually broke down in tears on the spot, it was so overwhelming: a hundred kabuki masks printed on beautiful paper made using seashells.’
Back in the Netherlands, the first thing Does did was some intensive tidying-up. ‘My brain is full. I need to start by making physical space for this overload of information and inspiration. After that, I’ll start doing something with those masks. This is the beginning, so that I can feel as free as I possibly can as a maker.’
Text by Willemijn de Jonge
Souheila Chalabi
design
Amsterdam- and Paris-based Souheila Chalabi is a multidisciplinary artist who has spent the past years building her own world, a souk: reimagining the traditional North African and Middle Eastern marketplace. My Imaginary Souk began as a graduation project, a multimedia installation critiquing the stereotypical ways Algerian identity is represented in Western media. Through an expansive year of research, the project has evolved into a layered body of work on the intersection of textile design, digital media and storytelling.
‘This year, I really wanted to pay tribute,’ Chalabi explains. ‘To honour the heritage and visual culture I grew up with, and to see how it moves, changes and lives on across cities and generations.’
What began as a 3D model exploration became a far-reaching visual investigation into souks, and the worlds they contain. Chalabi travelled from the Medina of Sfax in Tunisia, to the tourist shops of Djerba, and from the immigrant-run corner stores of London, Paris and Amsterdam – spaces shaped by overlapping diasporas and cultural lineages, from North Africa to South America. ‘I wanted to archive these spaces; not just the objects, but the textures, the overload, the sound,’ she says. The result is a growing ‘sensitivity database’ – an archive of hybridity, where traditional heritage and culture meets modern iterations. ‘My work tries to translate this collection of everyday objects into textiles and a fashion collection.’
The year marked a professional turning point. ‘I worked with a brand strategist and a 3D designer, people who helped me think about my work differently,’ Chalabi says. ‘Not to become a fashion designer, but to create a coherent language for the souk. A world people can step into.’
At its core, the project is about belonging and representation. How do you claim space for your heritage, on your own terms? How can an artwork or collection become a place of shared imagination?
‘I want to create my own space, and a fashion brand, that expresses what it means to live in-between,’ Chalabi says. ‘To build a visual world that offers recognition, community and joy for people from North Africa, the Middle East – and beyond.’
Text by Roxy Merrell
So-Yeon Kim
design
Interdisciplinary designer So-Yeon Kim operates in the fields of graphic design, art and culture. With her work she attempts to take the viewer on a visual and associative journey of discovery full of stories, details and surprises. She does so in the form of books and installations, sometimes supported by moving images. Kim gained her master’s degree in 2022 at ArtEZ’s Werkplaats Typografie, where one of her instructors was Batia Suter. This Swiss artist is also supporting Kim in this development year. Kim: ‘I was eager to expand and refine my own image archive, and to focus on collecting images from printed materials, especially books and magazines. And I wanted to explore my interest in books, paper, printing and binding techniques. Batia Suter also created an extensive image archive, so there was a lot that she could teach me. I felt honoured when she agreed to be my mentor.’
The idea for the theme of her archive already came to Kim during her education: the body as a seductive carrier of language, expression and communication. Seduction, desire and longing are words that she is contemplating deeply at present. ‘For me, language itself is already a seductive instrument of human expression. Just see all the rituals that exist around telling stories, with roots stretching back to ancient cultures. But language, when used carelessly, can also become banal and can destroy the seductive, unspoken mystery. The way the body expresses itself is also something very primitive, just like desire, but how about language? Is that a primal phenomenon, or a system made by people?
In my work I play with visual elements on the dividing line between language and non-language, things that don’t entirely fit in conventional linguistic categories but can still be understood as such by the viewer, for instance gestures and visual symbolic forms. This project will preferably culminate in a publication, although I also want to surprise myself, to just see what happens once I get the feeling that my image archive is complete. I am now examining different making processes, especially with respect to book production. I am also visiting archives and libraries, such as those of the Amsterdamse Rijksakademie van Beeldende Kunsten, and of Sitterwerk and Andreas Züst in Switzerland.’
Kim is also seeking to further professionalise her practice. Part of that is developing her website with the help of graphic designer and coder Bram van den Berg. ‘I see my website as a door. Visitors can enter from the outside world to catch a glimpse of my practice, my work and my creative identity.’
Text by Iris Stam
Stefan Boerkamp
design
After attending the Design Academy Eindhoven, Stefan Boerkamp chose to concentrate on accessories design. Not in the form of rings or earrings, but speculative and often mixed-media objects. This development year was therefore an opportunity to expand his practice in the direction of film, as a medium in which storytelling, image, object and sound come together. ‘For me, film is the ultimate medium in which every detail counts. I wanted to experiment with that.’ That is why he is producing a short film in which object and story reinforce each other.
This year, Boerkamp struggled with the question whether he would not rather become a filmmaker. But along the way he discovered that he needed the physical making process in order to generate narrative. His objects are standalone ‘storytellers’. He had already adopted this approach for his commissioned work: to any request he responded with a narrative object. This year he shifted his attention to a bigger whole, in which his specialisms and his fascinations merge. Step by step he developed a surrealistic story set in a world where technology functions as new nature. ‘I designed a stylised tree that carries an artificial fruit that contains seeds, which are thoughtlessly consumed by my protagonist.’ It is a clear reference to the forbidden fruit in the biblical Garden of Eden and to our mindless consumption of technology.
To write his scenario he attended lessons at the Amsterdam Writing Collective. He also studied silicon techniques during a course at the Delamar Academy in London. ‘I learnt how to make protheses, which is technical and specialised work.’ He is becoming increasingly confident as to whether he is a filmmaker, designer or storyteller. ‘For me, a story starts with the object. Making a lamp for the sake of the object doesn’t interest me. My design needs to have meaning and needs to be part of a bigger story.’ As a production designer, he can build a world in which objects support the narrative.
Boerkamp works autonomously, but seeks collaboration if that can add something meaningful. For example, for Design Museum Den Bosch he worked with his girlfriend – also a designer – to create cyborgs with faces from the Pacific, as a contrast to the stereotypical robot visuals. To paint his silicon fruits he obtained the advice of artist Esmay Wagemans. ‘I gradually discovered how a collaboration can add value in a way that truly helps my project forward.’ Although he is slightly behind schedule, all the preparations for making the film are ready; it was a year of learning and of anticipating. Boerkamp plans to submit his short film to film festivals. This seed has been planted, now it time to wait for it to bear fruit.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Steffie La Haije
audiovisual
One ray of light after the other: that is what this year has brought Steffie Lahaije. The editor and director spent many years working exclusively on commission for others: the last time she published a work of her own was for a film festival a decade ago. ‘Now, I finally get to step forward again as a creator. I have the space I need to write and grow creatively. That’s something I celebrate every single day.’
Life has its ups, but it also has its downs. The core message that Lahaije wants to convey is that every emotion deserves its place. ‘Feeling out of sorts sometimes is only human. The key word in my work is “emotion”. I want to bring sensitive topics into the open. To speak frankly about things that many people would rather turn a blind eye and deaf ear to.’
Now 31, Lahaije speaks from experience, having gone through a lot as a child and as an adult. Her documentary Later als ik rijk ben (One Day, When I’m Rich), which she started working on this year, is about living in the present, mental health, and what it takes to build a stable place in the world for yourself. When asked about the title, she says: ‘It’s something I’ve heard so many people say, in all walks of life. But what does “one day” mean? And what does it mean to be “rich”? When you’re young, you think you’ll have everything sorted by the time you’re thirty. But very few people actually do. My documentary focuses on the day of today: how are people doing now? What gives them hope? What are they afraid of?’
Lahaije’s personal ‘now’ is focused on completing some difficult paperwork. ‘I’m not used to working with funds and grants. Drawing up budgets, project plans, schedules… I’m something of a perfectionist, which means I never feel like I’ve done enough. So it’s great that I’ve got help, otherwise I’d still be writing six months from now. I’m also very happy with the guidance I’m receiving as I write the film – it’s very useful and educational. I’ll probably also ask my coach to help with my personal branding, something that I’ve never actively engaged with before because if I’m honest, I absolutely hate social media. I also want to grow my skills in journalistic research, fact-checking. And I want to learn more about setting up informational tours and campaigns. Right now, I am looking for dedicated professionals who are eager to share their knowledge with me.’
Text by Iris Kamp
Theetat Thunkijjanukij
design
For Theetat Thunkijjanukij, making replicas is less about creating flawless copies and more about exploring the tangible tension between intention and imperfection. Drawing on his background in graphic design and print, he is fascinated by multiplication – the process of turning one original into many, and the subtle transformations that occur along the way.
‘The intention is precision, but things change through the process. I like the tension,’ he says. ‘The charm is in the complexity of the intention. You try to get it accurate – but because of the tools or the process, it shifts. Maybe very slightly. If I didn’t mention it, maybe you wouldn’t even notice, but it’s there.’
Over the past decade, Thunkijjanukij has developed an intuitive, skilled approach to book replication. His editions – carefully curated, printed and bound by hand – are produced in small runs for exhibitions, collaborations and his own online shop. What began as a side project has grown into a distinct practice. ‘I’m kind of an expert in copying and making replicas,’ he says. ‘With that skill, I know exactly how to replicate one book.’
This year, he’s focused on professionalising: building his one-person print operation into a self-sustaining business. He takes inspiration from small local print shops in Bangkok, places void of hierarchy between a creative print and an experiment. He describes: ‘They’re low-key, run by just a few people, with limited tools. But they take every kind of work: research books, business books, exhibition catalogues, student theses, prints.’
In his business plans, Thunkijjanukij channels their spirit of accessibility and utility. ‘A lot of creative work gets printed in these places,’ he explains, ‘but nobody considers them “art printers.” It’s just business.’
‘When I studied art, I never saw a real art print. Everything came through facsimiles, copied by professors at copy shops, printed in black and white, small. But that’s how we accessed it. That approach – the informality, the practicality, the idea of printing for your peers and not the public – really inspired me.’
Still, sustainability remains a challenge. ‘Even the most successful people I talked to said it’s not really possible to sustain this kind of model without institutional money,’ he notes. Even so, he’s undeterred. ‘I always think in series. How to replicate, how to produce. I like to see things multiplied.’
Text by Roxy Merrell
Tomi Hilsee
architecture
An architect of relations and processes: that’s how one could describe Tomi Hilsee’s role. While studying in Delft he became fascinated by the aspect of personal relations within construction projects. ‘Every project boils down to relations, to listening and responding to each other.’ In his development year, Hilsee is investigating how architecture can contribute to self-reinforcing and resilient collaborations. The focus is on participation and collective ownership, with particular attention for choreography. Hilsee: ‘I love how choreographers treat structure and rules. How they can create a score, or a framework for movement, and how the dancers respond to that as a way of finding their role within it. That’s how I see participation in architecture as well. We improvise, but do not operate randomly. We do not design the final form, but a framework that makes various forms possible.’
One place where Hilsee puts this approach into practice is the DIY workplace in Rotterdam’s Agniese neighbourhood: a communally operated, freely shared place to work and learn. ‘For me it’s like a laboratory, where I learn to forge connections between the municipal authority, local stakeholders, neighbourhood residents and volunteers in building up an urban commons.’ The workplace is flourishing, but there remains work to be done. ‘We are seeking more resilience and the knowledge and dedication of yet more people.’
It’s been the busiest year of his life so far. The grant gave him the opportunity for research and experimentation, but personal reflection remains challenging. ‘Precisely because my projects are collective, the focus naturally tends to be on the communal output.’ For Hilsee, it’s all about the process, and his approach is being noticed: he was asked to create a design for Amsterdam’s prominent exhibition venue W139. ‘They were interested in the democratic process of collectively designing and building.’ With a group of eight people they symbolically founded the Political Party for the Potato, for which they also designed an office. It wasn’t the end result that mattered but the process. ‘The point is to investigate together, to acknowledge that my problems are your problems too, and vice versa.’ Shared values are then translated into physical elements. ‘One person wants to have a bar, another wants a potato patch or a new floor. We make those ideas concrete, and by repeating this, like performers do, we become experts in each other’s needs.’
A mentor recently triggered an important insight. ‘How do you enter a space as a person holding values, but without leading with those values?’ This question struck a chord. ‘We do things together, but have different roles in that. For instance, I like to take the lead, it feels natural to me, but it is important to say so. Only in that way can truly shared leadership emerge.’
Text by Priscilla de Putter
Ülkühan Akgül
design
Multidisciplinary designer Ülkühan Akgül, a 2023 graduate of the Amsterdam Fashion Institute, is fascinated by clothing as a carrier of meaning. Fashion can be aesthetic, a feast for the eyes, but it can also cause friction and serve as an instrument of politics and the body. It can be a medium of criticism, challenging people to think – and that is what Akgül seeks to do. In his artistic practice, which moves between contemporary visual art, performance and digital media and technology, he questions established standards and creates room for identities within the world of fashion, tongue confrontationally in cheek. ‘I reveal the tensions around representation, power structures and the body, in relation to themes such as ancestry, gender and sexuality,’ he explains. ‘In my work, that translates to tactile, sculptural shapes and provocative images.’
‘In my current art project, Etnisch Profiteren [Ethnic Profiting], I focus on diversity and inclusiveness. It is a visual and fashion-focused investigation of the way cultural identity is leveraged as economic and symbolic capital. Especially in the creative sector, but in the corporate lifestyle as well. I ask questions like: who is allowed to profit from ethnicity? And who gets reduced to an aesthetic, inspiration or trend? Like a houseplant that people keep photographing because it makes for such a nice, inclusive picture.’
As such, the houseplant – in the form of an artificial grass creation – is one of the looks featuring in the lineup for Akgül’s show at De Hollandsche Manege during the Amsterdam Fashion Week. ‘All twenty pieces tell the story of my development as a Dutch-Turkish designer,’ he says. ‘I have the narrative structure in place, the visual designs are all but ready, my team is sewing the collection together. Because I know how to make clothes – that’s not something I need to develop further. I want to use this year to deepen my knowledge around performativity and scenography, to learn how to make my physical work resonate more strongly in digital presentations, so that I can create a lot more depth in them. I’ve picked up so much from my mentors and the other professionals working on the project. About shoe design and the atmosphere at a location, about creating campaign visuals and storytelling. I learned how to choose my words so my message is clear without hurting others – that’s really wonderful. It’s a serious subject, but that doesn’t mean it has to be this whole angry thing. It’s fine to have a bit of a laugh about it, too.’
Text by Iris Stam
Vera Yijun Zhou
crossovers
Vera Yijun Zhou has just returned from Shanghai, where her work was included in a group exhibition at private museum Tank Shanghai. It is also where her development year began in 2024 after graduating from the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague (KABK) in 2022. Although intended collaborations, for instance with Dutch photographer Ruben Lundgren, did not go as planned, Zhou looks back with satisfaction. ‘The grant gave me the opportunity to hear and record other stories, which led to new insights.’ Those insights in turn spawned new work, displayed in group exhibitions. ‘In Tank Shanghai, and from September in Shenzhen’s Hexiangning Museum, and then a solo exhibition in Rotterdam’s Verhalenhuis Belvédère.’ It’s the cherry on the cake, not just of her research year but also of her journey as a maker and a human being.
Zhou launched the online platform Mutual Office while still in Shanghai, serving to link up artists with commissioning clients. The website is due for an update this year. This reorientation was prompted in part by conversations with Erik Kessels (of KesselsKramer). ‘We talked about my struggle with online presence and social media. Erik gave me ideas about striking a balance between commercial work and art.’ Substantively, Zhou is breathing new life into topics that are often ignored, for instance through her magazine AsianHow. ‘AsianHow is an attempt to show other aspects of Asia than people in the west tend to expect, by portraying authentic daily life. China is so much more than politics and cheap labour.’ Following the publication she was invited to create 24 pages for Granta magazine, where she shows China ‘beyond the western modernist framework’.
Another important theme in her work is migration. She for instance presents the story of Che Chai Zee, who was one of the first Chinese immigrants to arrive in Rotterdam. ‘I digitalised his family history, in collaboration with Zee’s great-grandson. Together we embarked on a research trip to China, more than a century after Zee departed from there.’ Zhou unexpectedly found other family archives as well as new questions. Why do people depart? Why do some stay while others return? ‘I developed a new term for my research: image migration. How do images play a role in depicting migration?’ Before this year, Zhou felt more like a manager of projects, but: ‘This year I could really embrace the role of an artist, and there was time for research.’ In the end, it all should come together in a book, for which she would most like to work with Jiazazhi Press, a well-known Chinese publisher of photo books. ‘They happen to be based in Ningbo, which is where Che Chai Zee’s journey began.’ There is no such thing as coincidence.
Text by Priscilla de Putter
WEINBENAMI
architecture
WEINBENAMI is in the business of transforming space. Since 2016, architects and life partners Charles Weinberg and Shai Ben-Ami have been developing a practice on the intersection of spatial design and creative direction. ‘Our work explores how constructed environments shape perception and belief, treating space as both a subject and a medium.’
The past year marked a pivotal shift. With support of the grant, they focused on sharpening their identity and developing a professional business strategy. ‘We used to have trouble defining what we do, jumping between artist, architect, experimental, multidisciplinary,’ Weinberg reflects. Eventually, the duo defined themselves as a studio focused on critical spatial design and creative direction. ‘We design with space and research through space.’
Their recent work investigates how built environments simulate order while concealing deeper layers of uncertainty, exclusion or inequality, they refer to this as The Illusion of Control. A key moment of the past year came with their visual field research at the Osaka World Expo. ‘The site behaved like a temporary city,’ Ben-Ami recalls. ‘We became fascinated by how visitors behaved in this scripted, in-between space.’ Held on the artificial Yumeshima Island, the Expo’s infrastructure revealed itself as a kind of spatial fiction – charged with the symbolism they encounter in theory.
‘We’re fascinated by the ‘set’ as spatial fiction: temporary yet designed to appear real and frame specific perspectives,’ Ben-Ami explains. ‘We see world expos as massive symbolic sets – staging power, ideology and control.’ WEINBENAMI returned charged with expansive ideas and new insights. These will culminate in a forthcoming publication – part travelogue, part visual essay, part spatial theory – and a spatial installation in Paris, both offering a new ‘spaces’ for audiences to explore.
Alongside this research, they’ve built a long-term strategy for the studio, clarifying their positioning, audiences and opportunities for future collaboration. ‘A team of nearly ten people exchanging thoughts and molding perspectives,’ Weinberg says of their expanding network of mentors and contributors. ‘It’s become a collective effort – and that’s changed how we think and create.’ With new exhibitions, publications and immersive environments on the horizon, WEINBENAMI continues to explore the blurred boundaries between reality and fiction.
Text by Roxy Merrell
Wouter Stroet
design
Wouter Stroet is a graphic designer, artist, and activist committed to building a city founded on solidarity. A city where everyone has access to safe, healthy housing, with parks and shops selling affordable goods within walking distance. His sense of social engagement was born when he moved to Amsterdam-Noord at eighteen. ‘In my neighbourhood, I saw the impact poverty can have on people,’ he says.
In recent years, Stroet has increasingly focused on social justice, climate inequality and how cities develop. ‘I’m worried that cities are becoming less liveable for certain groups. Every available bit of space is being built on. Yes, neighbourhoods are getting greener, houses are being made more energy-efficient. But the result is often that rents skyrocket, and the original residents can’t afford to live there anymore. I studied this process of eco-gentrification in a former working-class neighbourhood in Barcelona: the project was called Onder de straatstenen ligt het strand [Under the Cobbles Lies a Beach].’
Presently, Stroet is active in Amsterdam Nieuw-West, an area where houses were thrown up en masse during the post-war reconstruction years. Among them are the Knijtijzer buildings in the Slotervaart neighbourhood, which are municipal listed buildings and therefore cannot be demolished. Stroet’s project Onze kinderen worden ziek van de schimmel [The Mould is Making Our Children Sick] focuses on these apartment buildings, which were renovated in 2014, but not thoroughly enough. ‘The people living in the buildings complain, but the housing association does almost nothing about it. I want to amplify the residents’ voices using visual communication. I put up posters all around the area in the housing association’s colours, with the kind of slogans property developers use to promote up-and-coming neighbourhoods, like: 364 mould-riddled homes within walking distance of Sloterplas. Rochdale: start caring. In short: a name-and-shame guerrilla campaign.’
Stroet works according to the principle that people should be involved in any decisions that affect them. His experiences this year have reinforced something he already knew: ‘You have to go and visit people in their homes. If you want a social project to succeed, you have to put in the time. The biggest compliment I got was from an active resident who had been left hoarse and exhausted by the endless struggle. She said to me: “You really hear me. Thanks to your posters, I don’t have to yell as hard anymore.”’
With this project, Stroet established himself as a designer of direct, graphic statements. ‘But filmmaking still feels urgent to me, too,’ he says. ‘I am currently expanding the campaign with video footage of residents. Also, I’ve been talking with Werker Collective. How do I archive and present my work? I have a lot left to learn in that area.’
Text by Iris Stam
Yannesh Meijman
audiovisual
Yannesh Meijman is fascinated by life in the city and its incessant changes and dynamics. The films and videos that he both makes and collects often show how spatial design shapes personal lives. He refers to this as spatial justice, or injustice. The latter refers to matters such as housing shortages, but also about small but nasty interventions, such as the arm rests fitted on city benches to prevent homeless people from sleeping on them.
His film Hotel Mokum, about the squatting of an empty Amsterdam hotel, was screened at IDFA 2023 and in several Dutch film houses subsequently. Those screenings whetted the appetite for more. This year Meijman organised a series of film evenings and set up an online archive under the name de Kromme Stad. Several times he has paired two films that are connected by a shared or similar setting: an old classic movie with a contemporary film by a young and still unknown maker.
‘I really like to give young makers a go at showing their stuff on the cinema screen,’ says Meijman. For the first edition, hosted by the Amsterdan film house De Uitkijk, he chose De toekomst is failliet from 2024, in which an elderly couple documents the demolition of social housing in Rotterdam. He paired this film with Pinkel from 1982, in which a free-spirited working class youth from the same neighbourhood grows up to become a right-wing dad. The location and form of the screenings are variable, and Meijman likes to search for the perfect setting. For example, he screened the forty-year-old documentary about a fanatical football supporter, titled Babylon valt, in the squatted football club cafeteria of SC Overamstel.
In the meantime he is compiling an online archive of films about life in the city. ‘I enjoy seeing old images and making new ones for the coming generations,’ he explains. This summer he is working on an art project in this vein. One early June morning he made a remake of Ed van der Elsken’s extended single take in Een fotograaf filmt Amsterdam. It has become impossible to do so using a car, as Van der Elsken did in the early 1980s. But Meijman found someone at Dam Square with a motorised cargo bike who was willing to collaborate. Together they mounted a spring-loaded tripod on the cargo bike to keep the analogue film camera as steady as possible.
The result premiered at an exhibition held at the W139 cultural centre. It doesn’t bother him that it isn’t the first remake of Van der Elsken’s film: ‘I would love to see a whole collection of these tributes to the city emerge, as it will only make each temporal portrait more interesting.’
Text by Willemijn de Jonge
Talent Development
Makers need room to grow. Given the freedom to experiment and take risks, they uncover new possibilities – not only for the future of their own practice, but also for the development of their field, or even society.
Yet that space rarely appears by itself. The Fund therefore helps designers and makers in the field of design, architecture and digital culture to develop both artistically and professionally. We do so through grant schemes and open calls tailored to the different stages of a creative career. Whether you are just starting out after graduating from an arts programme, have built op your own practice as a self-taught maker, or are already well established in the field, the Talent Development programme puts you and your development centre stage.
Grant Schemes and Open Calls
The Talent Development Grant Scheme is intended for makers who have completed a relevant higher education programme in the arts or design. If you have developed your practice independently or completed a senior secondary vocational design programme (MBO), you can apply through a different route, starting with the Open Call Self-Taught Designer. If you are based in Aruba, Bonaire, Curaçao, Saba, Sint Eustatius or Sint Maarten, the Open Call Emerging Design Practices ABCSSS is your starting point.
Those selected for the Talent Development Grant Scheme receive more than a grant: they also benefit from dedicated guidance. Through themed days focused on personal growth and network-building, and a collective public presentation at the end of the development year, we aim to ensure that the grant becomes a genuine step towards a stronger practice, new collaborations, follow-up projects and fresh commissions. We see our support not as an end point, but as the beginning of something bigger.
Research on ten years of Talent Development
To gain a better understanding of the impact of our support, the Creative Industries Fund NL commissioned a study into the Talent Development Grant Scheme. What contribution does the scheme make to creative practices and to the fields of design, architecture and digital culture? The impact study highlights both short-term and long-term effects.
Wat gebeurt er nadat makers ruimte hebben gekregen om te experimenteren en zich te ontwikkelen? Veel deelnemers van het talentontwikkelingsprogramma bouwen na hun ontwikkeljaar verder aan hun praktijk, met bijvoorbeeld internationale residenties, tentoonstellingen en presentaties op toonaangevende podia.
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