We spend an extraordinary amount of our waking lives surrounded by glowing rectangles.
Phones. Laptops. Tablets. TVs. Smartwatches.
There always seems to be a little portal to somewhere else sitting within arm's reach.
And if you've ever caught yourself staring at a screen thinking, why can't I focus?, I don't think the answer is particularly surprising.
It's difficult to concentrate when so many things have been deliberately designed to interrupt us.
The notification pings. The unread email counter silently ticks upwards. The phone buzzes in your pocket. You open Instagram to reply to a message and, five minutes later, find yourself watching a video you never intended to see.
There's always another post, another email, another message, another video, another tab, another thing requiring some tiny piece of your attention... everything seems to want something from us.
And it's incredibly easy to give it.
Our attention has become valuable
Technology has solved an astonishing number of problems.
But it has created some new ones too.
We now live in what is often called the attention economy, where some of the world's largest companies have a financial incentive to keep us watching, clicking, scrolling and returning.
Attention has become something that can be measured, with every little digital interaction monetised.
Individually, these interactions seem tiny. Collectively, they shape a significant part of our daily lives.
So perhaps our difficulty concentrating isn't simply a personal failure of discipline.
We're trying to focus in environments filled with things competing for that focus.
And they're very good at it.
I'm not anti-technology
I think this distinction is important.
I'm not a technophobe... quite the opposite.
I've spent my career as a designer and creative director using technology to make things that wouldn't previously have been possible.
I love what good technology can do.
It can remove tedious work. Connect people across continents. Give small businesses access to capabilities that would once have required enormous resources. It can expand what we're capable of creating.
A few weeks ago I had one of those moments that made me appreciate just how extraordinary this all is.
I was on a train speeding towards London when a 3D designer in another country sent me a new prototype file.
I downloaded it to my laptop, connected remotely to my 3D printer at home and sent the file to print.
Then I went into my workshops.
By the time I arrived home later that day, a physical prototype was sitting there waiting for me.
That's ridiculous when you actually stop and think about it.
A person in another country created something. They sent it to me while I was travelling at 100mph. I sent it to a machine miles away. And a few hours later I was holding it in my hand.
Technology can be incredible!
But I've also learned that just because we can make something faster doesn't necessarily mean faster is always better.
Efficiency isn't the same as effectiveness
We're understandably obsessed with efficiency.
How can we automate this?
How can we make this faster?
How can we remove another step?
How can we get more done?
And often, those are exactly the right questions.
But not always.
Sometimes the friction is useful. Sometimes taking longer allows us to think more deeply. Sometimes physically making, writing, sketching or manipulating something helps us understand it differently.
And sometimes the simplest tool is still the best one.
A paper notebook never interrupts you.
A pencil doesn't vibrate.
A book doesn't suddenly display an email in the corner of the page.
An analogue object simply waits.
There's something I find increasingly appealing about that.
Analogue objects ask very little of us
Think about the difference between a notebook and a notes app.
Both can perform essentially the same basic function.
But the experience is completely different.
The notebook doesn't have another application sitting behind it.
There isn't a browser tab waiting beside the page.
There are no notifications.
No battery percentage.
No updates.
No temptation to quickly check something else.
It has one purpose.
You open it.
You write.
You close it.
That's it.
Analogue objects are often beautifully limited in this way. And in a world where almost everything seems capable of doing more, perhaps there is value in objects deliberately designed to do less.
They wait patiently to be used.
They allow you to give them exactly as much attention as you want to give.
Then they let you move on.
The right tool for the right job
I've used this phrase throughout my career:
The right tool for the right job.
Whenever I've mentored junior designers, one of the things I've regularly encouraged them to do is start with pencil and paper.
Not because I have some romantic objection to computers. I'm a designer. I spend most of my working life using one. But something changes when you begin an idea on a blank sheet of paper.
You're not worrying about whether something is perfectly aligned. You're not choosing fonts. You're not adjusting colours. You're not unconsciously trying to make something look finished before you've actually worked out what it is.
You're just thinking.
A rough circle can represent an entire interface. A scribbled box can become a building. An arrow can describe an interaction. You can draw something terrible, cross it out and immediately draw something else beside it.
The limitations of the tool create freedom.
Eventually, I'll move to the computer. But by then, I know what I'm trying to make. The analogue tool hasn't replaced the digital one.
It has made the digital one more useful.
Maybe we don't need everything to be smart
This idea has become increasingly important to me while developing Focus Lab.
We're surrounded by smart things, and some of these products are genuinely useful.
But I find myself increasingly interested in the opposite question.
What if this thing didn't need to be smart?
What if it didn't need an app?
What if it didn't need Bluetooth?
What if it didn't need an account?
What if it didn't need charging?
What if it didn't collect anything?
What if it simply did one thing well?
There is something wonderfully liberating about an object that can't send you a notification.
This is where Focus Lab comes from
Focus Lab isn't really about rejecting technology - it's about creating a healthier counterbalance to it.
I spend most of my working day on a computer. I use my phone constantly. I've used AI. I work with 3D printers, digital design tools, cloud software and all the other things that make modern creative work possible.
I'm not going backwards.
But precisely because so much of my life is digital, I've started to value the analogue parts of it more.
The notebook beside my laptop.
The pen in my hand.
The physical prototype sitting on my desk.
The texture of wood.
A switch clicking beneath my finger.
A dial turning with just the right amount of resistance.
Small physical experiences that exist entirely in the room I'm actually sitting in.
That's what I'm trying to explore with Focus Lab.
Designing objects that don't want your attention
There's a strange contradiction at the heart of Focus Deck.
It's a product designed around attention that isn't supposed to demand very much of it.
There are no screens.
No batteries.
No Bluetooth.
No notifications.
No app.
There isn't a dashboard telling you how focused you've been today.
It doesn't award you points.
It doesn't measure your productivity.
It doesn't congratulate you for completing a streak.
It's simply a physical object.
Something you can reach for when your hands are restless.
A dial to turn while you're thinking.
A switch to flick while listening to someone speak.
A button to press between tasks.
A tactile alternative to automatically picking up your phone.
And then, when you don't need it, it simply sits there.
Making room for slower things
We're not going to stop living in a digital world, nor do I think we should.
Technology will continue to become faster, smarter and more deeply embedded in our lives.
And much of that will be brilliant.
But I think the more digital our lives become, the more important it is to deliberately preserve a few things that aren't.
A notebook. A pencil. A printed book. A record. A mechanical object. Something made from wood. Something that doesn't connect to anything. Not because analogue is inherently better.
But because sometimes it is simply the right tool for the moment.
There is still room on our desks, and in our lives, for objects that move at a different pace.
Things that don't buzz.
Don't flash.
Don't count.
Don't measure.
Don't ask us to look at them.
Things that simply wait until we're ready.
In a world increasingly designed to capture our attention, I think there's something quietly valuable about an object that gives some of it back.
