I write quite a bit outside my role as a creative director. Essays, short stories, humor pieces, and the like.
I’ve also written about marketing, advertising, technology, etc.. If you’re curious how I think about the work, this is a reasonable place to start. All opinions are my own and subject to change.
Craft Against Code: Toward a Post-AI Aesthetic
A proposal for a new Arts and Crafts movement
The original Arts and Crafts movement was not just about pretty wallpaper. It was a profound moral and aesthetic reaction to the disfiguring effects of industrialization. William Morris and his peers weren’t simply rejecting machines—they were trying to reclaim meaning. They saw how the factory system had severed the connection between the maker and the made, how it had flattened ornament, culture, and time into pure output. They imagined a different life: slower, more beautiful, rooted in care.
Today, the factory is mostly gone. In its place: the cloud, the feed, the interface. But the logic persists—maybe even intensifies. Instead of gears and smokestacks, we now face neural networks and prompt-driven productivity tools. Instead of deskilling labor, we are now disembodying it entirely. Instead of steam engines, we have language models.
The soul of the machine has changed. So must the critique.
This is a modest proposal for a new Arts and Crafts movement—one rooted not in resistance to industry, but in resistance to autonomous computation and the aesthetics of artificiality. A craft movement for the post-AI age. Not nostalgic, not reactionary—but attentive, deliberate, and deeply human.
1. Against Speed and Prediction
AI is often praised for its speed, its fluency, its ability to anticipate what we mean before we even finish typing. But this comes at a cost: the erosion of slowness, of struggle, of deliberate thought. The kind of thought that comes not from knowing what’s next, but from not knowing.
The new craft movement would reject the algorithmic smoothing of experience. It would favor jaggedness, hesitation, the handmade sentence. It would see speed not as a virtue, but as a loss of texture.
2. Against Default Aesthetics
There is a distinct look emerging from AI-generated art—slick, hyperreal, faintly uncanny. It is impressive in the way corporate logos are impressive: symmetrical, balanced, hollow. This is not style; it is the absence of style, or worse, the echo of someone else’s.
A new movement would champion the awkward. It would rediscover the off-center, the smudged, the incomplete. Like Morris, it would find richness in asymmetry and variation—in signs of the hand. The new arts and crafts wouldn’t try to out-design the machine. It would turn away entirely.
3. Against Infinite Content
We live in a deluge of generated media—images, texts, voices. The sheer abundance should be a miracle. But it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like exhaustion. The machine has no sense of enough.
A revived craft sensibility would be small by design. A piece of writing might take weeks. A single image might be enough for a season. Its scarcity would not be a bug, but a value. To make slowly is to remember that attention is finite. That meaning isn’t found in abundance, but in limits.
4. Toward Ritual and Care
Morris believed that making things well was a spiritual act. That beauty came not from decoration, but from care—care for materials, for labor, for the lives things pass through. That sensibility is desperately needed now.
Our tools grow more impersonal. We issue prompts, not gestures. We tweak probabilities, not pigments. The new movement would insist on presence. It would make writing and drawing and crafting feel more like rituals than workflows. It would not reject technology entirely, but it would treat it like fire: useful, but dangerous if uncontained.
5. This is Not Anti-Technology
This isn't a call to smash the looms, or turn off the internet, or retreat into luddite fantasy. The new Arts and Crafts would not reject all that is new—it would filter. It would ask of every tool: does this bring me closer to the work, or farther? Does this deepen my attention, or fragment it? Does it make me feel more alive, or less?
We need a craft ethic, not just a tech ethic.
We need culture that is made slowly, with friction, by people whose hands are still in the clay.
We need less generation, more creation
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Standing Beside What You Made: On Thoroughness and Creative Certainty
Why Dieter Rams Doesn't Smile in Photographs
You’ve probably seen the photograph. Dieter Rams, silver-haired and composed, standing beside one of his Braun stereos—likely the SK 4, the one they called “Snow White’s Coffin.” The stereo sits there like a monument to clarity: clean lines, honest materials, nothing trying too hard. And Rams isn’t smiling. He almost never smiles in photographs. Not because he’s unhappy, but because he’s not performing. There’s no theatrical gesture toward the camera, no arms crossed in studied confidence, no look-at-my-hustle energy. Just a man standing beside his work, present with it, at ease.
That calmness is what gets me. It’s rare now. Most of us—myself included—carry a low-grade anxiety about our work. We’re never quite sure if it’s done, if it’s good enough, if we’ve missed something obvious. We perform confidence because we’re trained to, because the alternative looks like weakness. But Rams has something else entirely: the poise of someone who knows what they did is good. Not good in some vague, subjective sense. Good in the sense that it’s been thoroughly thought through. Every reasonable angle considered. Every objection anticipated. Every element refined until nothing superfluous remains.
I’ve had moments like that—rarely, but memorably. You finish something and there’s no voice in your head second-guessing it. You’ve done the thinking. You’ve walked through the logic from multiple directions. You’ve tested the weak points. And what’s left standing is solid. In those moments, confidence isn’t something you have to manufacture or project. It’s just what remains when the work is actually complete.
But here’s what strikes me: for Rams, this wasn’t exceptional. This was his standard. That photograph captures his default state, not some peak moment of creative achievement. The confidence isn’t hard-won or fragile. It’s structural. It comes from a practice so thorough, so consistently rigorous, that certainty becomes a natural byproduct rather than something you have to reach for.
That’s the aspiration worth building toward—not the occasional triumph where everything clicks, but a way of working where that level of thoroughness is embedded in the process itself. Where confidence isn’t a bluff you maintain through willpower, but a casual outcome of knowing you’ve done what needed to be done.
Most of us don’t work that way. We work in states of managed chaos, perpetual revision, good-enough compromise. We ship things we’re not entirely sure about because deadlines loom and perfect is the enemy of done. And sometimes that’s fine—necessary, even. But I think there’s value in holding onto Rams as a north star. Not as a reproach, but as a reminder that another mode exists.
The kind of creative maturity where you’re not constantly hedging. Where you can stand beside what you made without performing or explaining or defending. Where the work speaks clearly enough that you don’t have to.
That’s not about ego. It’s about craft. About building a practice rigorous enough that you earn the right to that kind of calm. Not through genius or talent, but through the unsexy work of thinking things through completely. Of not cutting corners you’ll regret later. Of respecting both the work and the people who’ll encounter it enough to get it right.
Rams standing beside that stereo isn’t a moment of triumph. It’s what decades of that practice looks like. And maybe that’s the real lesson: you can’t fake your way to that kind of presence. You can only build toward it, one thoroughly considered decision at a time.
The Creative Brief: An Appreciation
I’ve worked with clients who treat creative briefs like they’re dodging a flu shot. “Just check the website,” they say, or “Here’s some old copy to tweak.” These companies look legitimate—meetings, desks, email signatures—but there’s a telltale sign something’s off: their marketing leadership won’t commit thoughts to paper. Not out of laziness, but because pinning down priorities in a world of endless options is hard. Vagueness feels safer than wrestling with ambiguity.
A creative brief is a roadmap, distilling your goals, audience, and success metrics into a single page. It’s not just a document—it’s an act of courage, forcing you to say: this is what we’re doing, who it’s for, and why it matters. It’s a stake in the ground that clarifies what you’re chasing—and what you’re not. That’s why it’s so often avoided. Defining success means risking being wrong.
Some claim briefs stifle creativity, that structure kills spontaneity. But a good brief isn’t a cage—it’s a foundation for bold ideas. It creates space for risks without losing focus, preventing campaigns from unraveling with costly surprises or missed targets. I’ve seen it firsthand: one client turned a failing product launch around by writing a brief that clarified their audience and core message. Clarity upfront saves pain later.
Beyond marketing, a brief is a diagnostic tool, exposing the gap between what you think you know and what you actually understand. Writing one forces tough questions: Who are we talking to? What do they care about? What action do we want? Most people answer in broad strokes—“we want young professionals”—but a brief demands precision: “We want 28-35-year-old marketing managers in mid-size companies who feel overwhelmed by new tools but are ambitious enough to seek efficient solutions.”
This precision applies far beyond campaigns. Consider major life decisions, like a career transition. Instead of scanning job boards reactively, a brief might read: “I want a role using my analytical skills in a creative environment, with learning opportunities in emerging tech and alignment with climate-focused companies. Success means increased responsibility within 18 months and work that energizes me.” Suddenly, you’re not just chasing opportunities—you’re seeking the right ones and confidently passing on the wrong ones.
Or take personal relationships. Before a tough conversation with a partner or colleague, a brief could clarify: “Address household responsibilities with empathy, aiming for mutual understanding and a sustainable solution. Success means both parties feel heard and agree on next steps.” This doesn’t guarantee smooth sailing, but it provides a north star when emotions run high.
The real power of a brief lies in exposing your defaults—unconscious assumptions guiding your choices. Are you targeting this audience because they’re the best fit, or the easiest to reach? Are you using this message because it resonates, or because it’s what you’ve always said? This exposure can feel uncomfortable, revealing where you’re coasting on instinct rather than insight. But that discomfort is what makes the exercise valuable. In a culture that fetishizes spontaneity but punishes poor planning, a brief offers intentionality before you’re locked into choices.
Here’s the challenge: pick one area where you feel stuck—your job search, dating life, or how you spend your weekends. Write a one-page brief. Be specific about what you want, who it’s for (including yourself), and what success looks like. Don’t aim for perfection—aim to get it written. The act will reveal priorities you didn’t know you had and expose the gap between what you say you want and what you’re working toward.
A brief doesn’t promise certainty—it offers a framework to align decisions with your goals, not your impulses. In a world drowning in options, this intentionality is essential. For a deeper dive, check out Bonnie Wan’s The Life Brief: A Playbook for No-Regrets Living, which applies this concept to personal transformation. Stop wandering. Start directing.
The Luxury of Desperation
How Hardcore Punk Out-Innovated All You Suckers
Long before we talked about "community-led growth" or "authentic engagement," a network of teenage punk rockers created one of the most efficient and principled DIY business infrastructures in music history. They revolutionized how independent artists could operate, scale, and maintain artistic integrity. They weren't chasing market share; they created an alternative because the mainstream industry failed to serve their community.
Hardcore didn’t just sound different—it functioned differently. It wasn’t just a genre; it was a logistical problem that required a new kind of ecosystem to even exist. The old music industry—label-driven, radio-dependent, tied to traditional touring circuits—had no use for thirty-second songs screamed in church basements. So the kids built something else. Distribution had to be reimagined, marketing became word-of-mouth and Xeroxed flyers, and touring ran on favors, floor space, and gas money pooled from the door. What emerged wasn’t a genre with infrastructure—it was infrastructure as genre. A self-contained system grown under pressure, optimized for speed, trust, and survival, not scale
Several DIY labels emerged on the scene, offering a laser-focused, no-nonsense way of doing "business" – though business simply meant having enough money in the bank to keep going. Two notable labels that emerged from that moment were Dischord, founded by Ian MacKaye (singer and founder of the band Minor Threat and later, Fugazi), and SST, founded by Greg Ginn (guitarist for Black Flag, where Henry Rollins was lead singer). Both labels ran incredibly lean, with team members' lives tightly integrated into day-to-day operations. Everyone did everything, often sleeping among the boxes in the warehouse.
But as innovative as those labels were, the real innovation came from the collective. They created an alternative to the prevailing machine and thrived as a result. Venues were selected to be both cheap to rent and friendly to minors – veterans' halls, community centers, even fans' homes. Ticket prices peaked at $5. A network of living room floors replaced hotel rooms. There was even a tradition of "tour moms" (and presumably dads) – parents of fans and band members who were willing to wash clothes and feed hungry musicians.
Lqbels developed regional distribution hubs using local record stores as partners, allowing independent music to reach audiences nationwide while maintaining community control. Contracts split whatever profits there were 50/50 between the artists and the labels. This decentralized network moved information and resources with remarkable efficiency, without any digital tools. It was a radical business model that prioritized sustainability over profit maximization. By keeping margins thin but consistent, they built trust and long-term community buy-in.
What we can learn from this today:
The most innovative business solutions often come from necessity and desire, not boardrooms. True community isn't built through growth hacks – it's built through consistent values and mutual trust. Scaling doesn't have to mean compromising principles. Infrastructure and process are important narratives worthy of cultivation.
The next time we talk about "disruption" in business, remember: Some kids with guitars and photocopied zines built a nationwide infrastructure that's still influencing how independent artists operate today. Sometimes the best business model is simply "doing the right thing" consistently, even when it's harder.