Salvador Dalí, collectible design, and the non-human aesthetic

Why isn’t a telephone a lobster?

On exhibit at the Salvador Dalí Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida, an interactive installation recreates Dalí’s Lobster Telephone. Visitors can “call” Dalí and ask any question they want, receiving an absurdist response from an AI-generated Dalí voice. By transforming a mundane communication device into a surreal art object, the exhibition demonstrates how creativity emerges through disrupting expected functions and meanings.

We could use more of this psychedelic thinking in design.

Design, at its core, is about solving problems—but more innovative solutions emerge when we attribute autonomy and character to objects. Designers who give their creations a sense of life challenge us to see beyond mere functionality. We typically think of furnishings as passive objects to be acted upon (sat on, walked on, laid on, moved), but what if we reverse that?

Why isn’t the rug leaping over the rainbow?

Paddy Pike pictured with a rug from his new collection.


Why isn’t the lamp yearning for a lost lover?

Lilyfoot sculptural lamp, created by Poor Things Oscar winning production designer, Shona Heath, showcased by 1882 ltd. gallery at Design Miami LA., 2024⁠

Why isn’t the bar cabinet surveilling its surroundings (or us)?

Designer Richard Yasmine’s ‘Nazar’ bar cabinet created for Scarlet Splendor


Abstract thinking and anthropomorphizing spark creativity, leading to visually interesting and valuable design solutions. This approach transforms design from a purely utilitarian practice into a rich, imaginative exploration. The point isn’t literal function but the kind of thinking that leads to novel, visually compelling, and conceptually rich results.

The non-human aesthetic

Inspired by a conversation between artist James Bridle and Kanoko Tamura in the Japanese art journal, “Bijutsu-Techo,” I asked ChatGPT to define a non-human aesthetic, and told it not to worry about having the definition make sense to a human, since I recognize it is programmed to respond in a way that would make sense to humans, using our worldviews and frameworks. It offered the following:

“If I didn’t have to make sense to a human, I might describe a non-human aesthetic as: A shifting, patternless expression of form, neither seen nor unseen, neither meant nor meaningless. It does not evoke, because evocation is tethered to recognition. It does not symbolize, because symbols require an agreed-upon lexicon. It moves, or it does not, in ways that are irrelevant to movement. It is perceived in spectrums that are not spectrums, existing outside of the necessity of form. In other words, a true non-human aesthetic would be something that exists without the need for interpretation—something that does not exist for anyone or anything, but simply is.” -ChatGPT

This thought experiment opens up a space where design could go beyond human-centric forms. It suggests an aesthetic unbound by traditional functions or emotional responses. Rather than creating with a specific purpose or for the satisfaction of human understanding, a design driven by a non-human aesthetic would exist outside our need to categorize or interpret it or use it. Imagine a lamp or a chair that doesn’t aim to be anything in particular, but just is—it might be alien, abstract, or inexplicable in ways that force us to reconsider how we engage with objects.

Jason Kai Cooper of Thomas Cooper Studio, describes this idea of blurring the lines between what an object traditionally is and what it could be. He approaches the question Socratically: How much of this chair is really a chair? For collectible design, this becomes the starting point: How much of this object is this object?

You’re either pushing into convention or away from it, much like a genre filmmaker takes familiar conventions and either amplifies or subverts them. In this sense, collectible design is about stretching the form of an object, playing with its essence, and inviting the viewer to rethink how it functions—not just physically, but conceptually.

When a design problem is familiar, the solution is standardized: a manufacturer makes a dining table with extendable leaves for flexible seating. But when the problem is novel, the solution must be more creative. 

A homeowner who wants a dining table made from the wood of a fallen tree in their front yard, for example, is obviously not looking for mass production; they seek a designer like Christopher Grant Ward, who can honor the materials and transform them into unique, character-filled pieces (Like this table of his, whose legs have always reminded me of a flamingo about to scurry away). 

Original collectible furnishings from Christopher Grant Ward in his room at the Pasadena Showcase House

While AI may one day take over mass production, it cannot replace collectible design or craft. While it may or may not be utilized in the process, AI cannot design original, physical products that carry the spirit, purpose, and humanity that collectible design embodies. Its ‘creations’ will always be remixes, driven by its programming, its data, and its lack of emotional awareness. Design, especially in the realm of collectible objects, is a deeply human endeavor—an expression of both the designer’s and the collector’s stories, perspectives, and unique sensibilities. Collectible design will always be human-centered, by definition. 

The value of collectible design

Collectible design embraces whimsy, subverts expectations, and challenges traditional ideas of usefulness. For these pieces to be valuable at all, you must have some understanding of tradition and why we have conventions in the first place. One’s appreciation for a particular piece of collectible design is directly correlated to how much one feels the need to challenge convention and how much that aligns with how the piece challenges it. 

From the SAGA collection at Thomas Cooper, an exemplary example of remixing craft: Polished Bronze and Oil Rubbed Bronze frames with hand woven patterns in hand dyed and spun natural wool.

Sally Thomas Cooper, of Thomas Cooper Studio, describes craft as a form of rebellion—not like punk rock, but as a soul-driven reaction to mass production. She likens it to the moment when an angry teenager or college student calms down and realizes they can’t overthrow the entire system on their own. Instead, they start making small, meaningful interventions, often through craft. This resistance is a personal act, one that reflects the deep creative and cultural value in design objects.

Interior designer Kate Lester, known for her playful, eclectic style, embraces this same spirit in her residential projects. She encourages including “one weird thing” in every space—a piece that doesn’t necessarily match or blend seamlessly, but forces the eye to pause, engage, and think. Her style embraces asymmetry and calculated restraint: she knows the rules, recognizing what is conventionally pleasing, and deliberately breaks those expectations to create a deeply human experience of space with her one weird thing. (See below, spot the weirdness)

The marketplace and the collector’s role

What is collectible? Postage stamps, cars, mugs, fine art, watches, action figures, boats. 

See Also

Collections are personal exhibitions of excess, identity, and community. They can be expressions of individuality or membership in a shared cultural space. Importantly, collections only become collections when they include multiple objects—which, in turn, makes the collector valuable to creators and dealers of collectible design. Who is more coveted by a luxury designer than the client who collects?

Motivations for collecting include:

  • Appreciation for a specific maker or category
  • Speculative investment
  • Seeking a statement piece for a space
  • Pure aesthetic intrigue or a reaction to boredom

Because collectible design often involves urgency and scarcity (a one-of-a-kind piece might be gone tomorrow), collectors often make spontaneous purchases. This leads to spaces that resist conventional interior design formulas, producing unpredictable and deeply personal results and novel interiors. Sometimes this leads to acquisitions without consideration for what will be surrounding the object yet. In other words, the room the object ends up in will inevitably be the opposite of a matching, generic room set. Instead, you get something like interior designer Deana Lenz’s window at Legends of La Cienega:

Her “Avant-Garde Garden” was full of collectible finds from The Future Perfect, Jason Koharik, Una Malan, and Thomas Hayes—abstract floral, sculptural objects in playful conversation with one another, with seating inviting you to play along.

Exploring the emotional or identity-driven side of collecting

Art critic and curator, Shana Nys Dambrot asks: “Who do you know who has a room in their home with 15 paintings by the same artist?” Her question speaks to the tension between uniformity and individuality in collecting. One could try optimizing art acquisitions for monetary value and end up with a room full of Warhols, but that’s not the point is it? That would be grotesquely impersonal. The value of a collectible object is not measurable solely by its monetary value or even its aesthetic appeal but also in the stories ascribed to it, the process of creating it, or the journey of acquiring it. 

The tension in her question reflects the nature of collectible design: it is about personal narrative, meaning, and the emotional connection one forms with objects over time. Lester’s “one weird thing” is part of that too—those objects break the rules, spark curiosity, and imbue spaces with a unique identity. 

Building your personal archive

Jason Kai Cooper keeps the big picture in mind, viewing collection-building as a generational journey. For many, that path begins modestly, with IKEA furniture in their first apartment or college dorm room, gradually evolving into a deliberate, curated collection.

The trajectory often intersects with inherited pieces, antiques, creating a dialogue between contemporary design and family heirlooms. When a vintage chintzy chair from grandma sits alongside a modern edgy sculptural piece, it transforms collecting from a personal hobby into a form of intergenerational narrative-building.

There is uniqueness in the object itself: in its aesthetics, production, acquisition, and condition. But its uniqueness also stems from its relationship to culture and history—where it has been, who has owned it and the people and objects surrounding it now. Collecting is more than accumulation—it’s an active form of creative curation, a way of building identity across generations and maintaining a deep human connection that simply cannot be replicated by machine learning. Collecting is a rebellious act against the mundane, the mediocre and the bots.

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