Why Existentialist Designer? - How I Moved from Interior Design to Design Innovation

Poster of my BA Interior Design diploma project

Much like existentialism itself, my journey in design education — and ever since — has been defined by the freedom to create my own meaning, but also by the uncertainty and anxiety that come with having no clear path ahead of me. Looking back, I found myself orbiting around questions rooted in the philosophical existentialist struggle. I spent so much time orbiting around the responsibility my design decisions carried— both to myself and to society.

Existentialism basically says that life doesn’t come with a pre-given purpose; but the individuals have freedom to choose their own paths. But with that freedom comes the weight of responsibility. Asserting that life has no inherent meaning — it’s up to each of us to create our own sense of purpose through our actions. But with this radical freedom, comes the uncertainty of choices and their consequences, which can feel overwhelming, even paralyzing, and lead to anxiety and self-doubt.

Design, like life, comes without a clear purpose

Since I began studying design in uni, existential crises — in the philosophical sense — have become a constant part of my reality. Over the last 7 years, my friends have listened to hours and hours of me trying to define myself professionally, constantly re-evaluating how political ideas, moral guidelines, and design theories shape my work and what kind of designer I want to become.

Looking back, I would say that the education I received at The Glasgow School of Art itself had its own existentialist flavour. Whether intentional or not, the lack of clear direction had me questioning the nature of interior design and my role in it. Perhaps this is exactly what education is supposed to do, especially in a field as diverse and fluid as design, with its blurry disciplines.

The vague briefs

Every design project starts with a brief, right? Well, the root of my existential crises was, for sure, the very vague briefs. GSA Interior Design had a commercial focus, so we were usually asked to design stores, shops, and hotels but without complex imagined client identities and service logic. The briefs were essentially just a list of physical requirements: it needed a kitchen, had to be wheelchair accessible, and so on. But they lacked depth by ignoring the emberi human element that’s at the core of design — at least according to my values.

By emberi, I don’t just mean human in the sense of physical needs and requirements. I mean emberi, as in the human capacity for abstraction, for filling spaces with meaning. The designs were human-centered in that they considered physical dimensions, but they overlooked something deeper: the unique human ability to infuse things with significance.

The blurred boundaries

I had no choice but to step into roles beyond interior design to make decisions in brand identity and service design, too. Obviously, without any of the knowledge of service design methods and UX tools at that time. I just followed józan paraszti ész common sense and my guts. I was designing my own challenges as much as the projects themselves. In the process of imagining my clients and their ambitions, I was also shaping my own identity. Those clients were all me and those ambitions were all mine.

These blurred boundaries led me to realize that the spatial experience is far more holistic than designing flows and layouts, following regulations and making material choices. It’s about the entire ecosystem of experiences with a very big emphasis on the human interactions within the space and the cultural and economic context.

Place making instead of space making

In the second year, I became more interested in service design and research for design than designing interiors. I realized I wasn’t just designing spaces anymore — I was tackling sensitive social issues and creating solutions that happened to be placed in a space. That’s when I knew: a postgrad in Design Innovation was the right path for me.

My tutors were incredibly supportive and open to my ideas, never forcing me into traditional interior design. For that, I’m really grateful. But at the same time, I could sense that they didn’t quite understand what I was aiming for, which meant they couldn’t fully help me. So when one of my tutors asked why I wasn’t considering a master’s in interior design, I was genuinely surprised. To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed my mind because I felt a strong need to get help in reaching my goals. I wanted to focus on research for design and research through design, though at that time, I didn’t have the words for it. It was more of a gut feeling that interior design studies just wasn’t my place anymore.

Searching for my own meaning

Retrospectively, not everybody reacted to these briefs as I did, and not everybody has shown an obsession with crafting imaginary clients and doing research. I consider my reaction as a sign of my urge to find deeper meaning in my work. Just as in life, design has no universal metric for what is ‘good.’ Aesthetics, in particular, which seemed interior design’s focus for some reason, are far too subjective to serve as a reliable standard, and it is really just one layer of the much more complex design challenge anyway. I felt there had to be something else — a different measure of value that I could pursue.

In educational projects, “good design” easily could become synonymous with following the process that would secure a good grade. But my expectations were either loftier or misaligned with what the discipline demanded. The research they expected wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to explore the social dimensions of the spaces: their cultural significance, their psychological or socio-psychological impact, and how they contributed to broader societal change.

Self-doubt and anxiety

What puzzled me, though, was the lack of discussion around these social aspects. It seemed as if I was the only one who saw this connection between spatial design and the social sciences. I remember the frustration, the confusion, at how something that felt so obvious and important to me was met with indifference by others. From time to time, it made me doubt my own sense of reality and I sometimes felt very stupid.

However, finally, on the interviews for postgraduate studies, for the first time, I felt like everything clicked. My desire to bring social awareness into design wasn’t just a personal obsession — it was something others saw value in, too. Even more, for them, it was obvious! I still remember pitching my BA diploma project to one of the tutors. Not only did he fully understand my goals, but he even suggested new ideas and authors for me to explore. Can you imagine how reassuring that was?