What I Actually Do

I’m sitting at my dining table, trying to explain what I do without listing my services.

“I run a creative studio. We do brand strategy, identity, creative direction, social media.”   It’s accurate. It also tells you very little about why people come to me. Somewhere between the work, the routines and everything I do to maintain my sanity, I stopped asking myself that question. I became good at explaining what someone could hire me for. Less good at explaining what they were actually trusting me with. In 2018, I had just graduated from university and started working as a graphic designer at Dior. For me, that was another level. I couldn’t believe I was there. The nine-to-five felt square, but I was proud of the job. I would think about the enormous campaigns I saw walking through the streets and imagine making something like that. I was also making and selling art. People wanted to buy something I had made, and I found that difficult to understand. What had they seen in it? Why did it mean something to them? I didn’t ask. I kept making. Less than a year later, I left the corporate world to pursue art full-time. But even then, something felt unfinished—as if I was only using half of my creativity. I became obsessed with the stories behind the work. I argued with teachers because I couldn’t always explain my decisions, even when I trusted them. There was an instinct before there was a language for it. I’ve always been fascinated by human behavior: why we are drawn to certain things, why something stays with us, why we like or dislike something before we can explain it. And I think I have great taste. I don’t mean that I know every collection, every designer or what happened between one season and the next. I mean that I’ve spent years paying attention. Noticing quality, intention, proportion, humor. Recognizing when something feels considered and when it is trying too hard.Observation has been my greatest teacher.   Not just looking at things, but staying with them. Asking why one image holds my attention while another leaves me cold. Noticing a detail, returning to it later, changing my mind. Learning the difference between something I admire and something I’ve simply seen everywhere. That judgment develops over time. And once it does, it can make you remarkably fast. I work fast. Years of observing, making and questioning have taught me what to look for. I can recognize a direction quickly—not because I’ve skipped the thinking, but because I’ve spent years developing it. What concerns me isn’t speed. It’s producing without questioning the choices behind the work. Taking a reference as a direction simply because it looks familiar. We can produce more without becoming any better at choosing. And choosing is a large part of what people trust me to do. They trust my eye. They ask what I think, what I would keep, what I would change. They bring me something they can’t quite explain and trust that I’ll help them recognize what it could become. I’m good at that. I want to be able to say it without immediately hiding behind a list of services. My taste is part of the value I bring. So is knowing when to question it. Directing a project doesn’t mean making everything look like something I would choose for myself. It means understanding the business, the person behind it and the people they want to reach—and making choices that belong to that particular idea. Sometimes that means defending something unfamiliar. Sometimes it means letting go of something beautiful because it isn’t right. The name, the identity, the website, the content: those are the things people can see. What is harder to show is the judgment that makes them belong together. I think that is also why people love working with me. I pay attention to their project. I learn the business, remember the conversations and stay involved. Over time, we develop a way of thinking together. I become someone they can call without having to explain everything from the beginning. A second brain, perhaps. But one with an opinion. I don’t want to make something everyone likes. I want to make something that means something to the people it is intended for. That requires more than keeping up with what is popular. It requires enough attention to understand what is worth bringing into the world, and enough conviction to follow through. Sitting here today, I realize how rarely I give my own work that same attention. I’ve been so busy doing it that I haven’t stopped to recognize what I’ve developed: an eye I trust, a way of thinking and relationships built around both. I’m proud of that. And I’m glad I stopped long enough to notice. So I’m taking a long breath. Next time someone asks what I do, I’ll probably still tell them I run a creative studio. But I’ll know what I mean by it.