When I started falling in love with design —even before entering industrial design school— something very common happened to me: I thought I was the best at design. I’d walk down the street looking at ads, houses, chairs, and make judgments as if they were obvious: “That’s awful,” “Who dared to release this?” My criticism was harsh. And universal. That was a mistake.
It was the classic beginner’s snobbery: dividing the world into “cultured” and “vulgar,” “well designed” and “badly designed.” I wanted to redesign everything: taco stands with Swiss aesthetics, local bakeries ads with perfect grids and typography, chairs, houses, anything that crossed my path.
Over time, as I better understood what art and design really mean —the culture, the social and historical processes, the technique behind how and why things are the way they are— something changed. Not because I now look at a tire repair shop sign and think “sublime,” or because I believe everything is fine. There are pieces that, objectively, don’t meet basic principles: composition, rhythm, harmony. But I discovered a kind of beauty that snobbery can’t see: intention.
When technique is missing, intention stands bare. And that nakedness is wonderful.
I think of a sign that says “Don Pepe’s Body Shop”: a giant McLaren, Donald Duck holding a wrench, Ferrari and Lamborghini logos in a neighborhood where you’ll never see those cars. Poorly executed? Yes. Striking? Also yes. The person who made it is right there: what they like, what they admire, what they dream about. They can’t hide it behind a perfect grid. That’s why you see it. That’s why you feel it.
Same with a house full of impossible colors and mixed styles: it speaks of eras, trends, what was available, choices made with what could be done and what was desired. It’s a living archive of intentions. And that imperfect story says more than a flawless render.
Today I enjoy walking around and seeing badly made ads. They tell me more. They let me imagine the process, or the lifes of those who made it, trying to understand their intentions.
A “correct,” planned design communicates exactly what marketing defined. And that’s fine: I admire that technique, that industry. I’m part of that world that seeks precision and professional beauty; I work to achieve it.
But I also believe we should give a place to the aesthetically ugly. To that diversity that reminds us there’s spirit, philosophy, personality behind every object. Technique polishes; imperfection reveals.
It’s not about romanticizing mistakes or abandoning good design. It’s about recognizing that sometimes, the poorly made shows us the humanity that the well made hides. And that humanity, when it appears without filters, has a magic that’s hard to match.
