Rethinking comfort, materials and meaning in contemporary furniture design

What makes a piece of furniture timeless? Is it the silhouette, the craftsmanship, or the way it holds up over decades of use? Increasingly, the answer lies in the materials we choose. In a world flooded with fast furniture and synthetic comfort, there is a growing appetite for designs that do more. Designs that resist waste, tell a story and feel good for the long haul. As a designer, I believe that the design classics of tomorrow will not just look beautiful. They will be honest, sustainable and deeply tactile.

Today, more and more people are asking different questions when they buy furniture. Not just “Does this match my interior?” but also: “What is this made of?” “Will it last?” “How was it produced?” These are questions of value not just economic, but cultural and ecological too.

Foam rubber is light, cheap and pliable. It has long been the default in upholstered furniture. But it is also one of the least sustainable materials in design. Derived from fossil fuels, nearly impossible to recycle and prone to degrading within years, foam offers short-term comfort at long-term cost. Over time, it breaks down into dust, loses its structure and becomes a health risk, especially in warm or humid environments.

We rarely talk about this, but the lifecycle of a foam-filled chair is shockingly short — even for expensive brands. I have seen mid-century designs with beautiful wooden frames but interiors crumbling from within. A piece can look intact and still be dying inside.

In designing my latest lounge chair, I asked: What if comfort could feel different? Slower. More supportive. More enduring. What if it didn’t come at the expense of the planet or the people who make it?

This led me to wool. Not imported or industrial wool, but locally sourced Dutch wool that often ends up as waste. The Netherlands produces around 1.5 million kilos of wool each year, yet much of it is undervalued and discarded. Working with this material became a statement that waste can be heritage, and softness can come with substance.

Wool is not trying to mimic comfort. It is comfort. In a natural, breathable and resilient way. It adapts to pressure, retains its shape and requires no synthetic binders or additives. Plus, it connects us to a long lineage of craft, care and material intelligence.

Our ancestors used wool for everything from bedding to insulation. Not because it was trendy, but because it worked. In my own design practice, I’m rediscovering its potential as a structural and sensorial element. It performs beautifully in a lounge chair, offering a stable base and a soft seat, without the need for a frame or foam. 

Design is never neutral. The objects we live with shape our values, habits and even our ethics. By choosing wool over foam, I am not just making a chair. I am making a point. That design can push back. That aesthetics and sustainability are not at odds. That comfort can be redefined.

Resistance in design doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it’s choosing a natural filling instead of plastic. Sometimes it’s saying no to overproduction. And sometimes it’s making something that lasts not just physically, but emotionally too. Something that feels good today, and even better in ten years.

Future-proof furniture isn’t about trends. It’s about honesty. Materials that age well, stories that deepen over time and choices that reflect care. In this sense, wool furniture isn’t just about comfort. It’s about creating pieces that feel grounded in both nature and narrative.

I believe the design classics of tomorrow will feel more tactile, more personal and more aligned with the values of a new generation. A generation that grew up with climate reports, vintage culture and a need for realness. They don’t just want to consume less, they want to choose better.

My Ida lounge chair  is designed with that generation in mind. Not as a one-size-fits-all solution, but as an open invitation to rethink what furniture can be.

As we move forward, I believe the most enduring furniture will be the most felt. Emotionally, physically and culturally. It will not be mass-produced in silence. It will be made in conversation with place, material and meaning. People will choose furniture not just for how it looks, but for what it says and how it ages.

We are entering a new design era. One that values authenticity over abundance. In this future, the design classics are not just beautiful. They are responsible. And they begin with a different question not “What sells?” but “What matters?”