Look Twice

What captures your imagination as a designer?

I'm especially passionate about everyday design. I'm a bit of a nerd for archival type projects. Whether it's photography-based, ephemeral design of stickers and labels meant to be thrown away, or noticing how different families transform the same corridor space to accommodate more plants. Observing the small ways people interact with objects has always fascinated me.

Why did you choose to focus on waste as the material source for this 'craft handbook'?

I never really saw these items as 'waste' to begin with. They're just misplaced, and context changes everything. When I tackle problems at home, I rarely think about buying something new. I look around to see what I can repurpose: a clothes hanger becomes a harmonica holder, cereal boxes turn into a fingerboard skatepark, or a metal ruler taped to the wall becomes a magnet board for photographs.

Using what's already around me has always felt natural. The items in the 'waste' category are just everyday household objects that ended up in dumpsters. Refuse as a project then became about reframing and redefining what we consider 'waste'. In the book, I explored and proposed a new definition of 'waste' that I find more appropriate for the situation.

Where does your enthusiasm to challenge the social stigma around dumpster diving stem from?

Honestly, it comes from the joy of sharing. Although I wanted to challenge Singaporean's stigma around dumpster diving, more importantly I just wanted to share my way of life and get others on board.

A lot of it also comes from personal pet peeves. I beat myself up if I lose something or feel like I haven't maximised an item's lifespan. I feel guilty replacing something I already own, or buying something I already have. I assumed everyone felt this way – [laughs] – turns out it's not true.

What's unique about Singapore's current waste ecosystem and disposal systems that inspired your research?

I really have to give credit to Singapore's public housing. Because of our land constraints, we've built very dense housing estates made up of high-rise apartment blocks. When an entire block shares a common bulky refuse area, the turnover rate of furniture becomes incredibly visible. You start to notice just how frequently items are discarded, not necessarily because they're broken, but because they no longer fit someone's lifestyle, renovation plans, or aesthetic preferences.

That density creates a kind of unintended exhibition space. The bulky refuse area becomes a site where cycles of consumption are laid bare. I often think that if I had grown up in a landed estate or somewhere with less shared infrastructure, I might not have developed this sensitivity toward furniture disposal. The physical landscape shaped my awareness. It exposed to me patterns that might otherwise have remained invisible.

Culturally, practices like spring cleaning during the Lunar New Year are also significant. There's a widely held belief that you need to clear out the old to make space for blessings and prosperity in the new year. It's a ritual of renewal, but it also results in a noticeable surge of discarded items. Observing this annual cycle made me think more deeply about how cultural beliefs, infrastructure and urban design intersect to shape our relationship with objects, which ultimately sparked many of the questions that led to this research.

What was your motivation behind including a range of interactive elements in Refuse that make it such an unusually tactile experience?

A lot of this stems from me being an industrial designer working with a completely foreign medium. I've always been a fan of art books, photo books and research publications, but my exposure to print was mostly as a reader, not a maker. So when I began designing Refuse, I was very aware that I was stepping into unfamiliar territory.

Instead of trying to imitate conventional book design, I approached it the only way I knew how. I treated the book like a product. I thought about how a reader would first encounter it, how their hands would slide the sleeve off, how the exposed binding would allow the book to lie completely flat on a table while they're examining materials they've found, almost like a manual in use. I explored how the accordion fold could strategically reveal information, controlling pacing and discovery, and becoming a storytelling device in its own right rather than just a formatting choice.

There were also moments where traditional pages simply wouldn't have worked. Take the "ingredients" fold-out, for example. In my mind, it only made sense if the components that make up a chair were layered on translucent paper. That layering creates an experience similar to flipping through material swatches, each sheet revealing structure and composition progressively. It's not just informational, it's tactile and experiential.

There's an interview from the podcast Off Camera with Sam Jones where Dave Grohl talks about transitioning from being a drummer in Nirvana to writing songs on the guitar for Foo Fighters. He mentioned that he never formally learned guitar, instead, he played it like a drum. That analogy really resonated with me. Designing the interactive elements of Refuse felt similar. I wasn't approaching the book like a traditional graphic designer might. I was approaching it like an industrial designer, treating paper, binding and folds as materials and mechanisms, and designing the reading experience the way I would design a physical object.

How has your passion for photography informed your approach to the making and storytelling in Refuse?

Refuse began as a photography project, with me and a friend from university setting out to make a zine together about bulky refuse areas. Like most product designers I've always had an interest in chairs and photographing them felt like a natural starting point.

What fascinates me about photography is that it operates at two extremes. A single powerful image can carry a deep story. But when you place 100 ‘ordinary’ images side by side, patterns, habits and behaviours start to emerge.

As the photo collection grew and I stepped back to look at them collectively, it shifted from just composing beautiful images of discarded furniture to uncovering something bigger. That was when Refuse evolved from a photography exercise into an ongoing investigation of Singapore's waste ecosystem.

I like using photography to communicate design research because it leaves space for interpretation. Text can feel definitive, almost like I'm stating a conclusion. But with images, there's a pause. A 'stop and stare' moment. It freezes a moment where I felt something, and then it's up to the viewer to decide what they see and whether it's worth thinking about further.

I realise I might be slightly geeking out about photography instead of answering the question directly [laughs], but I guess that shows how much it shapes the way I think and work.

All good! We're here for the geeking out. Why did you gravitate towards furniture, specifically the humble dining chair, as the object of focus for this version of the book?

Furniture became the primary material focus because, through my research, I realised there aren't proper waste management channels for it. Unlike paper or plastic, furniture is rarely recycled due to its complex construction and mixed materials. It's also difficult to resell for meaningful monetary value, so most people don't bother. In many cases, donating costs more effort than simply disposing of it. What typically happens is that it gets broken down and discarded to landfills.

If I was going to dedicate time and energy to solving something, I wanted it to be an area where impact could be meaningful. Or at least where attention was lacking. Furniture sits in that in-between space: too bulky, too complex and too inconvenient to deal with properly.

When deciding on a specific piece of furniture, I knew it had to be intentional. The object would act as the bridge to bring in first movers and early adopters into this way of thinking. I had a few criteria in mind. Firstly, it needed to be commonly available. Or more accurately, commonly thrown away. Secondly, it had to offer enough useable material for crafting projects, both in quantity and variety. I wanted something that could yield different types of components, not just one repetitive material. Lastly, it needed to be relatively easy to move and carry. I didn't want transportation to become a barrier to dumpster dive. If the barrier to entry is too high, people won't even try. So practicality mattered.

Could you share a few key things you've learnt to look out for when furniture harvesting. And what about dumpster diving – any advice for people exploring this practice for the first time?

The biggest lesson I've learned and the advice I usually give is not to force it. The whole experience is very organic. Dumpster diving is like a blind box toy, but on steroids. Even if you had all the money in the world, you still wouldn't be able to 'repurchase' the exact item you saw in the bin last week. It's unpredictable, and that's part of the process.

The point of Refuse isn’t for everyone to suddenly become hoarders, or to feel guilty about ever throwing furniture away again. It’s not about moral policing. It’s simply a starting point. A way to encourage people to look elsewhere for materials before defaulting to buying new.

If you're standing over a bin and nothing speaks to you, it's completely fine to walk away. Come back another day. The turnover is constant anyway. And when you eventually chance upon a piece that feels right, you'll know.

What's an item you've found discarded in a dumpster that's particularly precious to you?

In 2021, my brother and I were on the way to play futsal with some friends when we spotted a really nice shelf and a bootleg version of Fernando Botero's Mona Lisa, Age Twelve sitting by the bin.

We were already running late and honestly quite 50/50 about it. We wanted to bring them home, but we also didn't want to deal with our mum's nagging. So we made a deal: we'd go for our game and dinner as planned, and if the items were still there by the time we got back, we'd take it as a sign and bring them home.

Sure enough, they were still there when we returned. I don't think I'll ever give that painting up.