The first time I encountered the idea of biophilic design, I was enthralled—not only by the theoretical opportunities it presented but also by the impact it could have in changing our daily environments. In my work as a creative director and product designer, I have seen firsthand how biophilic design can engage our primitive instincts—even in simple, everyday objects. Allow me to take you on a brief journey into the world of biophilic design and some of its most recent applications.
Biophilic design is based on a simple premise: Humans are naturally drawn to the world of nature. So, if you’re a product designer and you’re practicing biophilic design, what exactly are you doing? Well, you’re kind of merging a pen (for example) with its ancestral form. You’re kind of doing the same with a chair, which in biophilic design terms becomes a kind of sculptural tree branch. The pen and the chair are entities into which nature’s design virtues have been Baked in. These outcomes of biophilia are very real, and they are happening right now in the domain of product design.
When I worked on a project for a wellness center, I had one of my most illuminating experiences with biophilic product design. The goal was to create objects that complemented the building’s overarching biophilic architecture. Our focus landed on something that is all too common—and all too often neglected—when it comes to biophilic design: the door handle.
From the time that a person first approaches a door to the moment they step through it to the other side, there are opportunities to impart a sense of comfort and connection that telescopes across the enigma of “inside” versus “outside.” Traditional door handles are cold, metallic, and sterile—certainly “not very biophilic!” But we redesigned it with a form inspired by the natural curvature of a vine and textures that are reminiscent of tree bark.
A collaboration with a furniture maker demonstrates another inspiring instance of successful biophilic design in action. The company sought to craft ergonomic office products, but for many years, the design world has prioritized efficiency and productivity in workspaces, often at the expense of workers’ well-being. Drawing on biophilic principles, we worked with forms and materials found in the natural world—like the chair we designed to offer not just lumbar support, but an embrace of sorts, taking inspiration from bird nests and their structural integrity and support systems. We used natural fibers and fabrics; the green tones in the office (“green,” in this sense, means “filled with plant materials”) provide a direct experience of nature. These offices—despite their being enclosed—are more nature-like than an outdoor experience back in the days when I used to pitch to proverbial trees.
Reconnecting with nature through product design is about more than just look and feel; it has real psychological payoffs. The University of Oregon conducted a well-known study that delved into the effects on people of natural materials and “biomorphic” forms—those that resemble shapes found in nature. The researchers found that these design elements actually reduce draft. They lower heart rates. They contribute to an overall state of well-being. And this trend certainly isn’t limited to high-end, luxury products that only some can afford. Biophilic design is popularizing right across American society, finding ever more cost-effective ways to help us reconnect to the natural world.
Creating biophilic designs sometimes forces a rethink of the age-old adage that “form follows function.” After all, if a product is really going to work well and be desirable to use, it arguably must also be something that a user would want to interact with on a sensory level. So, what are the forms of beautiful, usable, and safe kitchen utensils? We really didn’t have any solid answers. Instead, we found our way to a set of solutions through the process of designing, prototyping, and testing—hundreds of hours of “making”—which took us into close conversation not only with the materials we were using but also with the environment we were trying to approximate. We found something along the way. Our set of solutions offered (by way of intimacy) some moments of biophilic experience that had the potential to transform the often manic task of meal preparation into something far less frenzied.
As we explore biophilic product design, we must acknowledge the necessity of mastering its fundamental logic and not just learning to apply it superficially. We could, for example, stick a few leaves onto a lamp, incorporate some natural wood into a Wolfram desk, or do something equally mindless and thoughtless that simply doesn’t get it. The philosophy of biophilia isn’t limited to imitating nature, as in the nonsense design of the lamp with fake leaves. To “design for biophilia” means to grasp the basic principles of the philosophy and use them locally, to our benefit, in our lives.
Consider the concept of fractal patterns, which are ubiquitous in natural forms such as leaves, snowflakes, and coastlines. Research has shown that humans find exposure to fractal patterns calming. Following this line of work—informed by both neuroscience and psychology—my team and I designed a lampshade that casts dappled light in a pattern reminiscent of sunlight filtering through a forest canopy. The lampshade does not function merely as a way to illuminate a space; rather, it dials in an effect that promotes a sense of well-being. After all, it’s about inverting the quotidian and creating a moment of peace that’s almost a direct line into some idealized version of being in nature, one that may well resemble or be informed by some real-world experience.
Biophilic product design requires deep consideration of the materials we use and how they age. From the natural world, wood, leather, and certain metals develop a living patina as they age—an unrefined but distinctly beautiful byproduct of use and interaction. Synthetic and even some biodegradable materials, on the other hand, are built to last for an eternity or, at the very least, don’t show their age in ways that are pleasing or interesting to look at. To challenge that status quo, we worked in a ceramics studio that wanted to create an ensemble of bowls and mugs for biophilic experiences. I remember it vividly. The clay we used retained an earthy scent after firing that was nearly intoxicating. When you picked up an unfired bowl, the living record of your interaction with it would have been scented hands—in essence, a nature-based, human odor.
In addition, think about how product biophilia can be expressed in design’s oft-ignored audiovisual dimensions. One innovative product I worked on was an indoor air purifier. While traditional purifiers are effective, they are often sterile and mechanical in design, both acoustically and visually. We decided to take inspiration from nature, and instead of a droning, industrial sound, we created an airflow system that mimicked the sound of wind moving through trees. We also incorporated a small compartment where users could place woodsy, essential natural oils, allowing our “biophilic” design to take scent into account, too. In truth, sound and scent are only two dimensions of what is becoming an increasingly recognized “audiovisual biology.” Illumination, as we know, is a third; together, these three dimensions constitute our perceptual environment.
The biophilia and sensory experience of nature are naturally present in products for children. They respond to tactile, visual, and even olfactory cues in ways that reveal the tightly wound biology of our evolutionary history. This is particularly true when it comes to educational tools and toys. I once collaborated with a company that made educational kits. For one project, we undertook to redesign a set of building blocks with biophilic principles in mind. Instead of the standard plastic blocks, which are ubiquitous in the toy market, we chose sustainably sourced hardwoods, each piece uniquely shaped to mimic natural forms (pebbles, branches, leaves). The reveal of the new blocks was a kind of workshop demonstration for educators, psychotherapists, and designers—all of whom might one day be responsible for a child gaining (or not gaining) an affinity for math and science.
I am deeply excited by the therapeutic potential of biophilic product design. In a healthcare setting, products that embody biophilic principles can not only improve but can also uplift patient outcomes and their overall experiences. I worked on the design of a recliner for a hospital room, a chair where family members often spent long hours, sometimes overnight, by the bedside of their loved ones. When we could have simply chosen to design something functional, we instead sought to create a piece that would be biophilic—a chair that would remind biophilic design’s promises, natural tones and textures, and soft ergonomic forms that have long been associated with human comfort and ease. And while “cork” and “breathe” might not be words associated with healthcare, the feedback I received from patients and their families was that the chair not only looked and felt more comfortable but also was much less “clinical” and much more supportive, both physically and emotionally. That’s a level of comfort and ease that valid biophilic principles aim to hit in healthcare.
Integrating nature into our products requires a shift in our culture as much as a change in our individual design decisions. For eons, we’ve been heaping level upon level of segmentation between us and the natural world. Our tools reflect this detachment, often constructing environments that are, like our mood rings, efficient but not deeply fulfilling. And the opposite of fulfilling is the opposite of biophilic design. But I believe we’re on the edge of a massive shift right now. Beyond basic functionality, we humans are craving meaningful interactions with almost everything we touch and a sense of connection to our world and to objects within it.
When I consider the full effects of biophilic product design, I’m struck by how this approach could influence far more than just the superficial levels of comfort and beauty that we associate with design. Biophilic product design could help us reevaluate what we need and what we use in our everyday lives. When we have a connection to the items we use, we are less likely to mistreat them or toss them aside when they become slightly less than perfect. And this will be necessary if we are to cut down on the sort of waste that fills our landfills and threatens our environment.
The concept of biophilic design took on a special meaning for me during a project to reimagine the packaging of consumer goods. The reality is that most of the packaging we create is waste. We wanted to flip that concept and not only reduce waste but also find a way to create something that added value to the consumer’s experience. Inspired by the tenets of biophilia, I and my team chose to work with the biodegradable material that, when disposed of, would function as a container to grow flowers. Would our biophilic design pretty much ensure that consumers would be hitting the internet in droves to tell us how much our project had helped them with their own backyard environmental initiatives? We thought it was likely. But the project had other aims, and this is just one story of many from our efforts.
This product goes beyond a mere purpose and tells a story. It extends into the natural world, drawing us into an active relationship with nature. Instead of being left with a pile of something, these consumers were left with flowers. And what could be a more tangible token of a world in which product design and the natural world aren’t at odds with one another? That’s the sort of story I could buy into. It’s not exactly what the inductive case for biophilic design looks like, but the leaps it makes, from the basic product to an advanced way of thinking about design, are the sort of thing that might get a layman like me to understand it as a plausible as I well umbrella term.
Biophilic product design has the potential to address the mental health problems that are a well-documented part of urban living. Many of us are crammed into cities that are light, loud, and polluted, with little access to nature. This disconnection is literally driving us mad: Numerous studies have shown that our mental health improves when we can spend even small amounts of time in natural settings. And not just any “natural” setting will do. Evolution has hardwired our brains to derive particular pleasure and a feeling of peace and productivity when we are in the presence of what we have come to call “nature.” These studies and their findings should make us all rethink the significance of a lack of access to nature and what it does when we poor urban dwellers try to thrive.
I have had some extraordinary projects, but one that always stands out in my memory is the time I got to design soundscapes for common household devices. I partnered with an electronics company that was exploring ways to “humanize” their products—everything from kitchen appliances to personal electronics. We were tasked with an intriguing question: “What would humanized sound even mean?”
Instead of designing sound to command attention, like a microwave that beeped to inform you that it was done cooking, we envisioned sounds that would direct without necessarily demanding obedience. We imagined a world where devices were more likely to signal you with a gentle bird call (like a sparrow) instead of a microwave that beeped like a forced march to your kitchen. Or, more disturbingly, we could have planned a new alarm cycle for a washing machine that finished its job without begging you to pay attention.
A strong case can be made for examining the past to illuminate our biophilic future. The ancestors whose bones we excavate lived in intimate and intelligent harmony with their environments. Their tools were biophilic to the core, having been made from natural materials and forms whose use bespoke an astonishing level of understanding of their biophysical environment. That kind of understanding was lost to the industrial age, which saw the rival growth of standardization and mass production, two processes that put profit and efficiency ahead of the near-mystic instincts we seem to have for making and using things with “natural” materials and forms. We ventured far away from those principles. In my next installment, look for a discussion of some of the costs—social, psychological, and environmental—that have been incurred along the way.
Biophilic product design can create an impact in education, too. Consider a biophilic classroom. Imagine desks made of natural wood, soft surfaces that mimic moss, and light fixtures that imitate the sun’s gradual movement throughout the day. I visited a school where they had implemented biophilic principles into not just the classroom architecture but also the learning tools. The children used puzzles made from rough-hewn wood, each piece a representation of an element of the local ecosystem—animals, plants, and geographic features—that told a story of interconnection. Teachers reported that the children both enjoyed the tools and displayed far greater curiosity about the natural world while feeling and looking calmer during their activities.
The design of biophilic products has huge potential in public spaces, especially those in urban locales, where access to nature is often scant. In collaboration with a city council, we undertook a project to design a series of public benches for a very busy city square. We drew our inspiration for the benches from the natural, undulating forms of river rocks, and intended for the surfaces to encourage leaning back and almost relaxing as one would beside a stream. We then took it a step further and really tried to bring the whole “experience” together by embedding planters at both ends, filled with native grasses and herbs, as well as including a feature that delivered the gentle sound of flowing water nearby, which helped transform this square from merely a “pass-through” to somewhere people lingered.
To sum up, biophilic product design isn’t just about creating beautiful objects; it’s about reimagining the very nature of our interactions with the things we use constantly. And that, of course, requires more than just a “Look, Ma, no straight lines” approach. At its best, biophilic product design must honor three crucial dimensions: ecosystems, human biology, and human experience. And, crucially, the first of those dimensions requires us to think about the role of biophilic design writ large: not just in specific instances, like a chair, a bowl, or a “purifier” that mimics the sound of wind through trees, but across the many products—good, bad, and ugly—that fill our homes, workplaces, and cityscapes.
Let’s not forget that we are made from Earth. At the core of our human existence is the primal fact of biophilia. We are hardwired to love nature. The more our tools and the environments we inhabit reflect that fact, the better off we will be. It’s my hope that this primal condition of humans will be better incorporated into product design—not as a trend but as a necessary shift in how we create and engage with our world. The world doesn’t need more products; it needs better ones—those that remind us daily of our place within nature and help us thrive in a world growing more synthetic by the moment.
