A painter doesn’t love paint. He loves what paint can do—the way colors blend, the way light and shadow create depth, the way raw materials turn into something greater than themselves.
Does a writer love words? Not exactly. Words are just ink on a page, sounds in the air. What matters is how they fit together—the rhythm of sentences, the weight of pauses, the way one idea leads effortlessly into the next. That’s what readers consume. Not words, but sentences that move, build, and connect.
If you think knowing words makes you a writer, you’ll be disappointed. It’s like thinking that memorizing notes makes you a musician. A weak understanding of raw materials leads to a weak foundation.
So what are the raw materials of design?
Some say it’s screens. But screens are just surfaces—empty, static, lifeless on their own. Design, like writing, only matters when it moves. When it speaks. When it makes you feel something.
The best designs, like the best sentences, don’t just exist.
They work.
Hide reactions
