Don Ian

For an independent brand like Agiling, this recognition means a great deal. We do not have the resources of a large corporation behind us — every design decision and every detail of the CyberYoke was driven by genuine passion and conviction. Being recognized by MUSE validates that great design does not require a large team or a big budget — it requires the right vision. It also gives us confidence that what we are building resonates beyond our own industry circle, and that the world is ready for a fresh perspective on automotive interior design. Most importantly, it motivates us to keep pushing forward.

Honestly, we are still in the early stages, so the full impact is still unfolding. However, this award has already given Agiling a level of credibility that would have taken years to build otherwise, especially as an independent brand entering a market dominated by established names. For me personally, it reinforces that the direction I chose when founding Agiling was the right one. For the team, it is a huge morale boost, knowing that our work is being seen and appreciated on an international stage. In terms of opportunities, it has opened conversations with potential partners and distributors who might have otherwise overlooked a young brand. In the automotive aftermarket world, trust is everything, and an internationally recognized design award is a powerful door opener. We see this as just the beginning.

Experimentation is essential to how I work. Automotive design, especially something as tactile as a steering wheel, cannot be solved on paper alone. You have to build it, hold it, feel it, and then rebuild it. With the CyberYoke, I went through numerous iterations on grip shape, material layering, and the balance between the yoke’s aggressive form and everyday usability. One specific example is the foam density and wrapping technique, which went through multiple rounds of testing before we arrived at a solution that felt both premium and durable under real driving conditions. What looked right visually did not always feel right in hand, and vice versa. That constant back and forth between idea and physical reality is where the real design happens.

One of the most unusual sources of inspiration came from Van Gogh’s paintings. The CyberYoke features a surface material unlike anything else in the automotive aftermarket — a color gradient fabric created using a warp-knitted 3D mesh technique. What drew me to this material was how it produces a transition effect that feels almost like an Impressionist painting, where colors blend and shift depending on light and angle, rather than appearing flat and static. Van Gogh’s signature swirling brushstrokes — the way colors flow into one another while retaining their own energy — became the visual language I wanted to translate into a tactile, three-dimensional surface. It is not a pattern printed onto fabric; it is woven into the structure itself, which makes it feel alive in a way that conventional steering wheel materials simply do not. For me, the best design transcends its category, and bringing a fine art sensibility into a functional automotive component is exactly the kind of boundary I founded Agiling to push.

That most of the work is invisible. People see the final product and assume the hardest part was coming up with the idea. In reality, the idea is just the beginning. The real design process is made up of hundreds of small decisions, failed prototypes, compromises, and moments where you have to choose between what looks right and what actually works. With the CyberYoke, the visible result looks clean and intentional — and it is. But behind that are months of testing grip geometry, material behavior, structural integrity, and ergonomics under real conditions. None of that is visible in the final product, and that is exactly the point. Good design hides its own effort. I just wish more people appreciated the iceberg beneath the surface.

Honestly, I think the question itself reflects a common misconception — that respecting the client means following their stated preferences. My view is different: true respect for the user lies in understanding their subconscious, not just their conscious preferences. When you design only for what people say they want, you are simply affirming them. But when you design for what they have not yet articulated, yet immediately recognize as right, that is when design becomes transformative. People’s conscious preferences are shaped by what they have already seen. Their subconscious holds a higher standard — one they cannot always verbalize, but can instantly feel when something meets it. So my goal is not to cater to users, but to win them. There is a fundamental difference. Catering produces products people accept. Winning produces products people love, often before they even understand why. That is the standard I hold Agiling to.

Honestly, I think the question itself reflects a common misconception — that respecting the client means following their stated preferences. My view is different: true respect for the user means understanding their subconscious, not just their conscious preferences. When you design only for what people say they want, you are simply affirming them. But when you design for what they have not yet articulated, yet immediately recognize as right, that is when design becomes transformative. People’s conscious preferences are shaped by what they have already seen. Their subconscious holds a higher standard — one they cannot always verbalize, but can instantly feel when something meets it. So my goal is not to cater to users, but to win them. There is a fundamental difference between the two. Catering produces products people accept. Winning produces products people love, often before they even understand why. That is the standard I hold Agiling to.

When I hit a creative block, I stop designing entirely. Most people think of it as recharging — filling yourself back up. I see it the opposite way: it is about discharging, releasing the tension of trying too hard. There is a Chinese saying I live by: 工夫在诗外 — the mastery of poetry is found outside of poetry. The answer to a design problem is rarely found within the design process itself. It is found in a drive, a painting, or a conversation about something completely unrelated. The Van Gogh inspiration behind our gradient fabric did not come from studying materials or market trends. It came from standing in front of a painting and letting my mind wander. So my advice to anyone facing a creative block is simple: do not push harder. Walk away. The work happens when you are not working.

Everything I have built at Agiling comes from two core beliefs. The first is respect — but not the kind that flatters users. The kind that trusts them. I design for the subconscious standard people carry but rarely articulate. That means winning users, not catering to them. The second is the belief that everything is interaction. Not just steering wheels — every tool, device, machine, and piece of software exists as an interface between a person and the world. A hammer is an interaction. A cockpit is an interaction. Even the human body itself is ultimately an interface through which we engage with everything around us. This fundamentally changes how I approach design. A steering wheel is not just a component — it is the most direct point of contact between a driver and their machine. Every curve, material, and texture becomes a conversation happening in real time, often below the level of conscious thought. When I founded Agiling, the vision was never just to make better steering wheels. It was to make that conversation more meaningful — to design interfaces that feel like extensions of the person using them, not obstacles between them and the experience they are seeking.

Here is something that might surprise people coming from a designer: design itself has no inherent value. A beautifully crafted object sitting in a vacuum, unseen and untouched, is worth nothing. Design only comes alive at the moment of human encounter — when someone picks it up, uses it, reacts to it, or even rejects it. This is why I always say: never design for design’s sake. The moment design becomes self-referential — existing to impress other designers or to win awards detached from lived experience — it has already failed its fundamental purpose. Even the most radical contemporary art, the kind that provokes outrage and gets tomatoes thrown at it, still derives its value from human interpretation. The tomatoes are the point. The audience’s reaction — whether admiration or contempt — is the use value. Design is not the thing you make. Design is what happens between the thing and the person. That is the only place meaning exists. So my advice to aspiring designers is this: always trace your work back to a human being at the end of the chain. Ask not “is this good design?” but “what does this do to the person encountering it?” If you cannot answer that question clearly, you are not done yet.

Dieter Rams — without hesitation. Not because of his aesthetic, but because of his moral clarity. His ten principles of good design are not simply design rules — they are a philosophy of restraint and honesty that most designers spend their entire careers trying to internalize. What draws me most is his insistence that good design is as little design as possible. That resonates deeply with my own belief that design has no value in itself — it only matters in relation to the person using it. Rams understood that every unnecessary element is not just wasteful, but a failure of respect toward the user. I would want to collaborate not to borrow his visual language — that would be the wrong lesson to take from him — but to challenge my own convictions against someone who has spent a lifetime questioning whether each decision is truly necessary. I suspect he would eliminate half of what I consider essential, and I believe that process would make the remaining half much stronger.

Question I wish people asked: What problem are you really trying to solve with your work? Answer: I am not just making a product; I am trying to remove friction between people and what they want to do. Good work is not about adding features or complexity — it is about making something feel obvious, natural, and inevitable once it exists. When that happens, people stop noticing the product and simply enjoy the experience. That is when you know the work has succeeded.