Raw is the adjective that first comes to mind when looking at the work of German designer Carsten in der Elst. There’s his Graywacke Offcut Series, for which in der Elst exclusively uses the jagged “crust” that’s discarded when turning sandstone slabs into German sidewalks; his Accession chair, whose seat is formed from a sawn carpet of latex tubes resembling pasta noodles; and his ongoing Aluskin seating series, whose shells are crafted from the cast-off skins salvaged from high-precision aluminum production and whose cushions are foam remnants that puff up, lumpily, like loaves of sandwich bread. His designs feel contemporary and fresh but continue the red thread of predecessors like JB Blunk, Max Lamb, and Kwangho Lee (the former two in der Elst cites as inspiration). Like in der Elst, all of these designers seem to tease form from a material, allowing its inherent properties to lead to the final shape. 

The Cologne native has built an impressive catalogue of work — and an enviable network of collaborators, including Tableau in Copenhagen and Side Gallery in Barcelona — especially for a designer just four years into his practice. He graduated in 2020, and, like many graduates that year, his questions of, “What now? What next?” were amplified by a global pandemic. He had, however, anticipated the lack of prospects that graduates experience — the “big black hole” as he puts it — and had developed a process for his thesis that would help him avoid an impending abyss. During his final year of study, he built a network of local material suppliers who allowed him to work on-site, side-by-side with their employees, creating design pieces from the waste products of their processes. Once he graduated, he adapted his methods and utilized this same network, now working in his studio rather than on-site. The pandemic’s isolation — or “lack of,” as in der Elst describes it — became an advantage; he worked and worked. 

In der Elst’s designs appear bold and sculptural due to their proportions and the often singular material from which they’re fabricated. There is an honesty to them. “The forms are quite challenging visually, but also you can understand the heaviness of the heavy stuff,” he says. He describes working in the cold and snow at Lindlar quarry on his Graywacke series, and you can see the hard labor that went into it; the jagged edges and rugged finish speak volumes. Though the pieces don’t necessarily look comfortable — “that’s relative,” he laughs — they are designed for use; when we speak, he tells me that when he stored his work at his parents’ home, they picked out pieces to live amongst the mostly mid-century designs of their own. 

One could argue that if comfort is relative, functionality is not, and in der Elst tells me he ensures designs are up to the task. One of his most challenging recent projects was a nomadic store design for the Spanish fashion label Paloma Wool. Popping up in London and Berlin, fixtures had to be easy to transport, assemble, disassemble, and hardwearing enough to cope with the foot traffic of a cult fashion store. The final interior mixed the designer’s greatest hits — like Rubber Rugs, made from bonded EPDM granules, and a Foam Seat, laminated in PU rubber — alongside site-specific benches and platforms made of bound reeds.

His strategy and careful planning, he admits, is characteristically German — something emphasized by the corner of his studio he shows me during our Google Meet. Here, everything is neatly lined up with precision and by right angles. But in his practice, this formality is balanced by the informality of material-led work; his designs “always have their explanation in the material itself.” Rather than looking for the right material to meet the needs of a preconceived form, in der Elst is looking for “material gestures that could be a bit more prominent or underlined by the design.” He further explains: “As soon as you’re explaining the form by its process, then the end idea becomes quite irrelevant.” He points to his Aluskin Project; the actual proportions of the pieces, he explains, are determined by the size of the panels, not by him. I tell him there is a distinct language developing in his designs, and he says that it isn’t intentional. “The design language is set by this rule that the material has to speak. I am simply in the background.”

We talk about roles and how he sees himself in the process. “A parasite?” he suggests. A bit horrified, I suggest, “A shepherd?” “In ecosystems,” explains in der Elst, “there are the producers and the digesters. And I feel like I’m more in the position of a slug or something like that, that is transforming the material so it can be used again.” Ok… a slug. “No. I know the word!” he interrupts. “A conductor!” An analogy that certainly is preferable to a slug. 

So what is next? He has just launched his new website, designed to bring transparency to his work, with a timeline of images depicting his process. He has already undertaken interior projects and gallery shows, alongside self-producing editions, so is there a dream project? “I would love to do a hotel, or some kind of spa where you can dive into the pureness of materials.” And what would that look like? “Probably very primitive… basically just a map to a mountain lake.” He is joking about the map, but a part of me believes him.