When is a design perfect?

When do we stop thinking logically and allow the senses to create that feeling of fulfillment in our gut, sensing there’s nothing left to refine?

To me, design is precisely that: working from experience and knowledge to craft an object that is functional, beautiful, and surprising. Once it exists, it is exposed to criticism—labeled as imperfect, unfinished, incomplete—only to regenerate into new, insufficient versions again and again until finally, one day—a day that seems far removed from the moment of the first idea—it is reborn. Suddenly, everything falls silent, and the mind, no matter how hard it tries, has nothing left to argue about.

That’s when the gut decides—the core. There is no longer an uncomfortable battle, no perception of flaws, no impatience.

The hands confirm the texture is just right; the materials strive to transcend and tell stories. The colors captivate the eyes, and the form exudes balanced elegance.

But one day, sooner or later, something inevitably changes. You realize you’ve evolved a little more, you’ve learned, the world has shifted, and the user who inspired your design has moved the playing field. You look at your work again—the one that, until yesterday, held a silence made of peace and balance. It looks back at you, and the war for perfection begins anew.