If the best reason to know the rules is to be smarter about breaking them, then consider the year-old collaboration between designers Albert Chu and Jennifer Myers not so much a violent upheaval but an exercise in playfully tweaking the system. Chu and Myers met while studying at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design — an institution they say reinforced their respect for constraints — and each worked in architecture and launched an accessories line before combining their shared pedagogy into a series of leather and brass pouches. “I think working within, and rebelling against, a set of parameters is actually the ultimate in design fun,” Myers says. Chu agrees: “We love working with fundamentals and trying to introduce a slight deviation,” says the designer of Otaat, which stands for “one thing at a time.” “Harvard was about being restrained in the conceptual and design intervention, that sometimes the most effective and thorough result could arise from a minimal, subtle act.”
To that end, the partners on Otaat/Myers Collective, who live blocks away from each other in Los Angeles, deliberately started their joint effort by articulating restrictions: “The collaboration was really based in conceiving of new problems and working through them,” Chu says. The pair became interested in clutches as archetypal objects with basic foundational elements, nothing more than two leather pieces, a closure and a wrist strap. But they are also the sort of blank slates that are open to variation, in which the smallest decisions about color or shape make a big functional difference. “It suits our processes of starting with elemental materials and primitive shapes and introducing a twist on the norm — something that elevates it beyond its understood use or aesthetic,” Myers says.
Perhaps it’s no surprise that the designers are so adept at pulling joy from order. Both Chu’s father, a renowned physicist who has been considered for the Nobel Prize, and his grandfather, an influential mathematician in differential geometry, combined creativity with technical prowess. For Chu’s grandfather — who wrote a proof of the Gauss-Bonnet Theorem that is known for its brevity — simplicity was the purest way to describe an idea, and the reason for all that deep knowledge of underlying complexity. “They taught me that creativity and rigor are necessary ingredients for producing interesting and thoughtful results,” Chu says. “The idea that the perfect physical form could solve a specific function appealed to my sensibility towards simplicity and multivalency, where one thing could perform multiple roles.”
Another theme that seems to recur in the designers’ work is a sense of play and humor, a creative form that notoriously requires knowing which boundaries to push. Otaat first burst onto the scene a few years ago with a coveted series of conical, iconic party hats, updated in leather, and there are little puzzles and moments of sly surprise arranged throughout both designer’s home studios. Scroll through for a glimpse into Chu’s and Myers’ inspirations.
Pouches from Collection One by Otaat/Myers Collective, which will soon expand into larger accessories and housewares. For Chu, the classic example of a subtle intervention is “the box with a twist, where maybe creating one parametric surface may be all you need to generate a series of inventive solutions across the design. This practice is how we both approach our individual projects as well as our collaboration.”
Bag ideas and prototypes in Chu’s studio, for playing with undulations and “working out all the construction details so that everything feels as minimal and pure as possible.”
Post-it notes for “organizing ideas spatially,” Chu says, and mapping out groupings of ideas for future collections.
“My sister basically taught me how to laugh because often she finds the most subtle and quotidian things the funniest,” Chu says, recalling a time she called him in college to read passages from Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt. “It was about how Babbitt was looking up at the ceiling and making observations. That type of humor is what I absolutely love, and I hope that Otaat can also find fun and humor in the subtle. I think that it’s so important for Otaat to take itself seriously – but not too seriously. And so I try to incorporate a little wink and nudge with everything, like the extra set of handles on the Toby bags (pictured above).”
Cardboard bow tie by Hollis Hart and postcard of Colombian pendant from the Tairona culture.
Two chairs with brass arms by Danish designer Kofod Larsen, who was both a furniture designer and architect, with upholstery that Chu describes as “Memphis meets PoMo meets Star Trek: The Next Generation.”
Woven leather experiments in Chu’s studio.
Quarter circle clutch from the next season of Otaat/Myers Collective.
Ceramics made by Chu’s grandmother on a dining table held together only by tension straps – no joinery, nails or glue – made by Anton Schneider and Andri Luescher of Fobricated.
Bags awaiting shipping.
Perforated circles that fold into triangles from Myers’ thesis project: “Geometry is something I’m always interested in, but in this case it provided a systematic yet super expressive framework within which to study roof structures and enclosures that could scale and shift.”
Materials for Myers Collective jewelry, which Myers started in 2012 as a “series of personal experiments designing jewelry for myself.”
On Myers’ work desk, an invertible brown paper object, brass puzzle and glasses scored at a flea market in Hell’s Kitchen: “The vendor had stripped the finish from many different periods and styles of glasses, and to see them all that way was like looking at a taxonomy of spectacles,” she says.
Pieces pinned to an inspiration board by Myers, who cites artists Ellsworth Kelly, El Lissitsky, Josef and Anni Albers, and Agnes Martin as inspirations.
Liquid Explosion (2010) by Fritz Chestnut on Chu’s mantle.
Ceramic bowl from the pair’s favorite L.A. shop, Iko Iko.
Paper vessel on one of the many built-in details in Chu’s Craftsman house, in the West Adams neighborhood of Los Angeles.
Myers’ vintage L’Equip 220 that puts my Vitamix to shame.
In Chu’s bedroom, a piece of dogs sniffing each other by artist Connie Wong. “Whenever we’ve met, whether in L.A. or Cambridge, Albert and I have always found a common language,” Myers says. “We have a similar point of departure.”
A weekly Saturday recap to share with you our favorite links, discoveries, exhibitions, and more from the past seven days. This week, we resume the series with our last (no, really) Milan fair roundup, plus our favorite new shopping destination in L.A., two exhibitions of nominally functional furnishings, and a ghostly faded mirror that makes for a nice addition to the genre's current craze.
Designers around the world owe Johanna Agerman Ross a drink, or perhaps even a hug: Her new project, the biannual magazine Disegno, is devoted to letting their work breathe. “I always found it frustrating working for a monthly, because I couldn’t give a subject enough time or space to make it worthwhile,” says the former Icon editor. “For a project that took 10 or 15 years to make, it felt bizarre to represent it in one image, or four pages.” Founded by her and produced with the help of creative director Daren Ellis, Disegno takes some of the visual tropes of fashion magazines — long pictorial features, single-photo spreads, conceptual photography — and marries them with the format of a textbook* and the investigative-reporting ambitions of The New Yorker. The story about Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec which we’ve excerpted here, for example, fills 22 pages of the new issue and runs to nearly 3,000 words; it’s accompanied by images captured over two full days the photographer spent with the brothers, one in their studio and one at the Centre Pompidou-Metz, where they were installing their latest retrospective, “Bivouac.” And articles on Martin Szekely, Azzedine Alaïa, and Issey Miyake’s Yoshiyuki Miyamae are set either over lunch, or in the subject’s living room. The focus, says Agerman Ross, is on proper storytelling. “The people behind the project, the process of making something, even the process of the writer finding out about the story — that’s all part of it,” she says. “It’s the new journalism.” Obviously, we couldn’t agree more.
“Always listen to your mother” isn’t exactly the kind of central tenet they teach you at Harvard Business School. But for Emily Sugihara, the California-raised, Brooklyn-based designer behind the reusable bag line Baggu, it’s a piece of advice that’s been invaluable to the brand’s runaway success since its founding in 2007. Back then Sugihara was a Parsons grad working as an assistant designer at J. Crew, just coming to realize that a corporate job wasn’t her calling. “As a kid, I was very entrepreneurial, and I always knew I wanted to have my own company,” she says. At home over Christmas break one year, Sugihara and her mother began talking about making a line of reusable shopping bags. Her mom was “sort of a treehugger” and an artist in her own right — an expert seamstress who learned to sew making her own clothes as a kid in rural Michigan — and Sugihara was a die-hard New Yorker-in-training, sporting fingers turned purple each week as she lugged home bags full of groceries. Together they came up with a bag that’s almost exactly like the original ripstop nylon Baggu that sells today: long handles that fit comfortably over the shoulder, gussets along the bottom that allow things like milk and eggs to stack, and a single, double-reinforced seam that’s the result, Sugihara says, of her mother’s “sewing genius.”