The Visibles

It’s kind of funny when I call myself a designer. I hadn’t said the word “designer” this often until I came to London. Every time I pronounce “dizáinər”, I begin to question what a designer really is, and whether I can even call myself one before I’ve defined what the term means. It is as if, by calling myself a designer, I define the word itself.

Recently, I had the good fortune to work with sound makers—or sound treaters, as they might be called. Their imagination was fascinating. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t enter their world. In my world, even music transforms into visual images. As soon as the sound detaches from its source, it changes into form and begins to play inside my head. Analogies and mental processes spin around so quickly that I can’t even capture a snapshot of the moment.

Then, I play a kind of slow-motion live video in my mind, trying to figure out what’s actually happening—what causes me to think in that specific way. It’s not like swimming upstream, but more like holding onto fragments before they split into other streams. Sometimes I feel as if the ideas don’t even belong to me, but exist independently—as their own creators. It confuses me: am I thinking, or are they thinking?

I’m not controlling these ideas. I’m asking them to collaborate with me. They tell me stories, and I weave them together in order to understand. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by their imagination and lose my way back—like Hansel and Gretel, who couldn’t resist their desires. In those moments, I can’t hold onto my objectivity. The imagined world is too beautiful to leave, even if I know I can’t live there forever.

So, am I the designer? Or are they?

I’ve been studying what’s often called “design”. For me, it has been a journey of discovering what I don’t want to do. I remember, back in middle school, I realised I wasn’t good at decorating notebooks. My friends used colourful pens and filled their planners with drawings and embellishments, but I didn’t just lack the skill—I hated it. I couldn’t understand why they enjoyed it. The colours distracted me from reading, and the overlapping lines collided visually.

Eventually, I also discovered that I’m not particularly good at composition. Whenever there was a drawing competition—like those for fire safety posters—my classmates would recommend me as a representative. I tried, but I realised I couldn’t draw anything unless I had a personal reason or something specific I wanted to express. Honestly, I dislike elaborate colouring and line work because of my clumsy hands.

I also realised, during my BA, that I didn’t enjoy making things like furniture. I just couldn’t translate the 2D world into 3D—or vice versa. I still struggle with moving between two and three dimensions. I used to think it was a lack of imagination. Maybe it still is. It feels unprofessional or awkward. Perhaps even childish. I was searching for something I liked and could do well.

I chose communication design because I wanted to connect with others, without boundaries. Visual forms and images became a kind of language for me—a representation of my desire to be part of something, part of someone. I care about what I want to say, but I care even more about how people hear my words, how they interpret my conversation. Are they listening? Do they want to talk to me? Am I boring them?

But does this desire for communication make me a designer? Am I a designer simply because I make things visible? If humans are social animals, can’t we all be called designers? What makes the word “designer” distinct? Is it because designers decide to call themselves so?

One thing I’ve learned so far is that I like to think of the human being as a subject—including myself.

I am thinking.
Maybe my cells are thinking.
Or maybe nothing is thinking at all.