I don’t believe in furniture that begs to be replaced.

You’ve seen it before. The beloved armchair that slowly deflates. The once-generous sofa now with a hollow heart. Beneath the surface: a material that crumbles in silence. Polyurethane foam. A quiet disaster in millions of homes, hotels, waiting rooms.

But what if the problem isn’t the foam? What if the problem is our idea of comfort?
And what if there’s a material that shapes itself to your body, and gets better with every use?

That question led me straight into the history of furniture design. And to the real reason why foam chairs disintegrate.

Polyurethane foam is cheap, flexible, lightweight. It offers instant softness. But it comes at a cost.

Foam oxidizes. It breaks down. It discolors. It off gasses. It traps moisture. It turns into dust. Sometimes within a few years, sometimes longer, but always too soon for something that should have lasted.

In the eleven years I ran a business in vintage and mid-century furniture, I handled hundreds of pieces of outstanding quality. Cabinets in rosewood. Sofas in solid teak. Hand-stitched armchairs that carried the weight of generations. Some were over eighty years old, yet still structurally impeccable. The patina deepened, the wood darkened, the fabric thinned with dignity. They didn’t just survive — they aged well.

But when I opened them up, I found the weak spot. The foam.
Even in the most carefully crafted designs, the cushions had turned to powder. You’d unzip the cover and watch it fall apart between your fingers. The structure endured, the soul endured, but the comfort collapsed.

That softness came with an expiry date.
And the contradiction never stopped bothering me. How could something so thoughtfully made, so culturally valuable, be held together by something so temporary?

A chair should not age like a banana.

But that’s what the industry has quietly accepted. Planned softness. Built-in failure. The cycle of comfort and collapse keeps the system running. Buy, sink, replace. The illusion of luxury, reset every few years.

We’ve accepted disposable softness as the standard. But softness isn’t the same as support. And longevity isn’t an extra. It’s the essence.

But when I opened them up, I found the weak spot. The foam.

Before foam, there was wool. And straw. And horsehair. Natural materials with spring, tension, memory.
Wool especially was prized for its ability to breathe, to recover, to stay soft without falling apart.

That changed around the 1950s, when polyurethane foam was introduced as a revolutionary alternative. It was flexible, moldable, easy to mass-produce. Manufacturers loved it. Designers too. It looked sleek. It cut costs. It felt new.

But no one asked what would happen ten years later.
Twenty.Seventy.

Now we know why foam chairs disintegrate. Because they were never built to last.
This wasn’t evolution. It was a shortcut. And we’re still sitting in the consequences.

Not a return, but a correction

I didn’t design my lounge chair as a nostalgic gesture. It wasn’t about copying the past. It was about correcting the present.
There are enough foam chairs out there. Soft, saggy, stylish. Designed for short-term love.
I wanted something else. Something modular. Something made to stay.

I wanted a chair that stands for something.

Something that pushes back against planned obsolescence.
Something that ages with you, instead of aging out.

A Chair Built from the Material Up

So I went to the root of the problem. The material.

I chose wool. Not a token gesture, not a trend. I chose wool because it behaves differently. It has memory. It responds. It supports without collapsing. And it does something foam can’t. It breathes.
But the choice was never just practical. It was philosophical.

I believe good design begins with listening. To the material, to the body, to the environment in which something lives. Not imposing a form, but letting it emerge.
The shape of the chair didn’t come from a sketch or a trend forecast.
It came from a question: what does this material need to do, and what does the sitter need to feel?

That’s the heart of my design process.
Simplicity. No unnecessary lines. No ornaments to distract. Just form as a consequence of material and intention. When you strip away everything decorative, what remains should still hold its ground.

Not just wool as filling, but wool as system.
The entire chair was built around the material. Not the other way around.

The interior is made from compacted wool. The cover is wool-based too. A woven deadstock textile, or natural leather, or sheepskin. No hidden layers. No mixed plastics. No glue to bind what doesn’t belong together.
Which means: easy to repair. Easy to take apart. Easy to recycle.

This is what circular design furniture looks like.

But that was never the end goal.

The goal was to build a chair that doesn’t need to be replaced.

A chair that feels inevitable. As if it couldn’t have been made any other way.

Most foam chairs are passive. They offer softness without resistance.
Wool does something else. It pushes back. Not harshly, but wisely. It shapes to your posture, and resets when you leave. It holds you. 

It invites awareness.
It makes sitting a physical act, not a default position.

And it gets better over time.

Wool fibers slowly compress and adapt to your way of sitting. The more you use it, the more it feels like yours. That’s not decay. That’s deepening.

The result? A wool lounge chair that gets more comfortable the longer you live with it.

I’ve opened up enough vintage chairs to know how foam ages.
You touch it. It turns to crumbs. You press it. It collapses.
Inside these beautifully crafted frames, the core was dust. Synthetic, lifeless dust.

It always felt like a betrayal.
The outside told one story. The inside another.

Of course, not all foam is the same.
There are differences in density, quality, and lifespan.
Some hold their shape longer. Some feel more resilient.
But even the best foam has a finish line.

So how long do foam chairs last?
Find more answers here.

That depends on the type, the use, the climate. But the honest answer is: not long enough. Five years, ten if you’re lucky. And then? They sag. They split. They turn to dust.

And yes, there are natural alternatives.
I considered natural latex. Made from rubber trees, technically renewable.

But here’s the thing. Once processed, latex can’t be separated, reshaped, or recycled. It ends up in the same place as synthetic foam.

In the ground. Or worse, in the air.

That’s when I knew.
It’s not enough to design what looks good.

You have to design what lasts good. And what leaves well.
Learn how to care for it over time.

So I did.

Some ask: isn’t wool too firm?
It’s firm the way a good handshake is firm.
The way a wooden floor is solid. The way a stone wall keeps standing.

Wool isn’t weak. It’s precise.
That’s what makes it the most meaningful alternative to foam in chairs. It tells the truth of your body, and teaches you to sit differently.

That’s what makes it the best alternative to foam in chairs.
Not just because it’s natural. Not just because it’s circular.
Because it brings presence into the act of sitting.

In a world of disposable seating, I wanted to offer something radical. A long lasting sustainable armchair that refuses to be forgotten.
No trends. No gimmicks. Just a strong, quiet form that welcomes your body and adapts to your rhythm.

Design isn’t about perfection. It’s about intention.
I didn’t want to add another pretty shape to the world.
I wanted to make something that meant something.
Something you could pass on. Something with spine.

This isn’t a revival.
It’s a resistance to forgetting.
It’s a reminder of why foam chairs disintegrate and why they always will.

So no, I didn’t design this chair to be just comfortable.
I designed it to matter. To support your body, your rituals, your home. Not just this year, but for decades.

It’s a wool lounge chair.
It’s a long lasting armchair.
It’s what happens when comfort is taken seriously.

If you’ve ever sat in a foam chair and felt like it gave up before you did,
you’re not imagining it.

There’s a better way to sit. And it starts with materials that know how to stay.

That’s why foam chairs disintegrate. And why this one doesn’t.