I don't believe there was ever a single moment that led me towards design. Looking back, it feels more like a quiet progression—something that was always there, waiting to become clearer over time. I've always been drawn to atmosphere before objects, to emotion before function. Even as a young person, I found myself observing the way light entered a room, how materials aged, or how certain spaces could evoke emotions without saying anything at all. That sensitivity shaped the way I began to understand the world. Part of it came from my father. Not through advice or conversations, but through his presence and the way he looked at things. He had a quiet sensitivity that influenced me more than I realised at the time. I think that's where my fascination with proportion, silence, and emotional presence truly began. As my curiosity grew, architecture became my first language. It taught me that space could communicate with the same intensity as music or literature. Around the same time I discovered contemporary art, and one artist in particular profoundly shifted my perspective: Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp challenged the traditional idea of what an object could be. He demonstrated that meaning could emerge simply by changing context. That was a revelation. Yet, while he questioned the object intellectually, my own path gradually moved in another direction. I became interested in what an object could make us feel rather than what it could prove. Emotion, memory, and materiality became more important to me than concept alone. When I was seventeen, I had the opportunity to participate in a sound installation project. We recorded fragments of everyday life—voices, footsteps, and sounds from the street—and transformed them into an immersive musical composition. It was my first encounter with the idea that atmosphere can exist without physical form. That experience still resonates in the way I design today. Before creating an object, I often imagine the emotion it should evoke. There was never one defining event. My language developed through observation, curiosity, experimentation, and an enduring desire to understand why certain places and objects stay with us long after we've left them behind.

Every project begins long before I make the first sketch. Usually it starts with an emotion that refuses to leave me. Sometimes it is a proportion I have noticed while travelling, sometimes a particular material, a conversation, a piece of architecture, or simply a certain atmosphere that lingers in my mind. I rarely sit down intending to design something. Instead, I allow ideas to mature naturally until they begin to reveal their own direction. I spend a great deal of time observing. I believe observation is one of the most important parts of the creative process. Before thinking about function or construction, I ask myself what I want someone to feel when they encounter the object. That emotional intention becomes the foundation for every decision that follows. Sketching is only the beginning. Once an idea exists on paper, the dialogue with materials begins. I constantly test proportions, volumes, and textures until they reach a sense of balance that feels inevitable rather than designed. Touch plays an equally important role. Materials have their own character, and I try to understand them before asking them to become something else. A surface, its weight, its imperfections, or the way it reflects light often influence the final design more than the original drawing itself. My process is not linear. Some projects evolve quickly, while others remain unfinished for months before suddenly becoming clear. I've learned not to rush that uncertainty. Often, the strongest ideas emerge precisely because they have been given time to mature. Ultimately, I want every piece to preserve the emotion that existed at the very beginning of the process. If that first intuition is still present in the finished object, then I know the design has remained honest.

I've never considered materials as simple tools used to execute an idea. For me, they are part of the narrative from the very beginning. Every material possesses its own character, its own rhythm, and even its own silence. Some feel calm and reassuring, while others carry tension or strength. Choosing a material is therefore never purely an aesthetic decision. It is an emotional one. I often begin by touching materials before imagining what they might become. The way metal reflects light, the warmth of wood, the softness of textile, or the honesty of natural stone all influence the direction of a project. Those qualities cannot be separated from the object itself. Rather than forcing materials into predetermined forms, I prefer listening to what they naturally suggest. I think good design emerges through dialogue rather than control. The material reveals possibilities that I might never have considered at the beginning of the process. This sensitivity has become increasingly important in my recent work, particularly as I explore new collaborations and different material languages. Working with textiles, metals, and natural surfaces has expanded the emotional vocabulary of my designs without changing their identity. In the end, materials are what give an object its memory. Long after form has been understood, it is often the texture beneath your hand, the way light moves across a surface, or the quiet honesty of a material that people continue to remember.

I don't think my work has evolved through dramatic shifts. It has evolved through refinement. In the beginning, I was driven by instinct. Every new idea felt exciting simply because it was new. With time, I became far more interested in permanence than novelty. I no longer ask myself how to make an object stand out; I ask whether it will still feel relevant ten or twenty years from now. Travelling has played an important role in that evolution. Experiencing different cities, cultures, and architectural languages has taught me to observe rather than imitate. Whether walking through a quiet street in Paris, discovering Italian modernist interiors, or encountering a forgotten vintage piece, I realised that timeless design rarely demands attention. It possesses a quiet confidence. I've also become increasingly comfortable with restraint. Earlier in my career, I sometimes believed complexity made an object stronger. Today I often discover that the opposite is true. Removing a single unnecessary line can transform the entire balance of a piece. That way of thinking has become central to my practice. Every curve, proportion, and material must have a reason to exist. If something doesn't contribute to the emotional clarity of the object, it simply doesn't belong. Perhaps the biggest evolution has been internal rather than aesthetic. I've learned to trust intuition more than trends. Design inevitably changes with time, but authenticity remains constant. As I continue to evolve as a person, my work naturally follows the same path.

I've never believed that collaboration and personal expression are opposites. In fact, some of the most rewarding projects emerge through dialogue. Every design begins from a deeply personal place. It reflects my own way of seeing proportion, material, and emotion. That foundation is something I protect carefully because it gives each piece its identity. At the same time, I genuinely enjoy listening. Whether I'm working with a private client, a gallery, an artisan, or a creative partner, every conversation introduces perspectives that I might not have reached alone. The challenge is recognising the difference between adapting and compromising. I'm always open to refining an idea, exploring different materials, or responding to a specific context, but I never want to lose the emotional intention that gave birth to the project in the first place. For me, design is a conversation rather than a statement. It should leave room for interpretation. Once an object enters someone's home, it becomes part of their own story rather than mine alone. That balance between authorship and openness is something I continue to value. I think the strongest pieces are those that carry a clear identity while remaining generous enough to be lived with in many different ways.

— Diamant Bytyçi

We live in a culture that encourages constant consumption. Objects appear quickly, disappear just as quickly, and are often replaced before they have the opportunity to become meaningful. I find myself moving in the opposite direction. I believe design has a responsibility to create permanence rather than urgency. Not by following trends, but by offering something people choose to keep, repair, and eventually pass on. Collectible design occupies a unique place within that philosophy. It exists somewhere between art and function. A piece may serve a practical purpose, yet it also carries memory, craftsmanship, and emotional value. That combination gives it the potential to remain relevant long after fashions have changed. For me, sustainability is inseparable from longevity. The most sustainable object is often the one that someone never wants to replace. I also believe that good design has the ability to slow us down. In a world filled with constant noise, there is something profoundly valuable about an object that quietly invites contemplation rather than demanding attention. If my work can create moments of calm, encourage people to connect more deeply with materials and craftsmanship, or simply make them experience a space differently, then I feel it has fulfilled its purpose. Design doesn't always need to provide answers. Sometimes its greatest contribution is simply teaching us to look more carefully.

Every project represents a different chapter of my journey, but if I had to choose two that define my language today, they would be Confluence and Solum. Although they are visually different, they share the same philosophy. Both explore the relationship between architecture and emotion, between structure and softness, precision and intimacy. They are less about making a statement and more about creating a lasting presence. Confluence was an important turning point for me. It marked the moment when I stopped thinking about furniture as isolated objects and began seeing each piece as part of a broader architectural landscape. Every line was reduced to its essence, allowing the materials and proportions to speak for themselves. Solum, on the other hand, feels almost meditative. It carries a quiet weight that reflects the direction my work is taking today. There is very little excess. Every detail exists because it has a purpose. That restraint allows emotion to emerge naturally rather than being imposed. What makes these collections particularly meaningful is that they weren't created to follow a market or a trend. They were born from a personal need to express something honest about the way I understand beauty today. I hope they are remembered not because they are recognisable, but because they make people feel something long after the first impression has passed.

Inspiration rarely arrives when I'm actively searching for it. More often, it appears unexpectedly—in a building, during a journey, through a conversation, or while holding an object that carries the marks of time. Travelling has become one of my greatest sources of inspiration. Every city possesses its own rhythm, its own relationship with light, proportion, and craftsmanship. I enjoy walking without a destination, observing façades, forgotten interiors, small galleries, and independent workshops. Those moments often leave a deeper impression on me than visiting famous landmarks. Architecture remains one of my strongest influences because it teaches patience. Great architecture is never only about appearance; it is about atmosphere, movement, and the way people inhabit space. That way of thinking naturally finds its way into my furniture. I have also developed a deep appreciation for vintage design. I love discovering pieces that have lived before reaching me. They remind me that true beauty matures with time rather than fading because of it. The marks of use, subtle imperfections, and the craftsmanship behind them all tell stories that new objects have yet to acquire. Music also accompanies much of my creative process. Sometimes it creates an emotional landscape before the first line is ever drawn. And then there are quieter rituals. A coffee in the morning, a cigarette while reflecting on an unfinished sketch, or simply spending time alone with materials. Those pauses are often when ideas become clearer. I've realised that inspiration isn't something extraordinary. It grows from paying close attention to ordinary moments that most people simply pass by.

What excites me most isn't the idea of creating more objects. It's the possibility of creating better ones. As my practice evolves, I find myself becoming increasingly interested in depth rather than quantity. I want every new collection to represent genuine progress—not only in terms of design, but also in the way it communicates emotion, craftsmanship, and permanence. One collaboration that embodies this direction is my ongoing work with Misia. Together, we are exploring how textiles can transform the perception of collectible furniture. Rather than simply introducing new fabrics, the collaboration encourages me to rethink softness, tactility, and atmosphere while remaining faithful to the architectural clarity that defines my work. Looking ahead, I hope to continue working across different creative disciplines. I see no strict boundaries between collectible design, architecture, art, craftsmanship, or interior spaces. They constantly enrich one another, and I believe the most meaningful work often emerges where those worlds intersect. Above all, I hope to create pieces that people choose to live with for decades rather than seasons. Objects that become part of family histories, spaces, and memories. Recognition, exhibitions, and collaborations are naturally rewarding, but they are not the final goal. The greatest compliment I could receive is knowing that someone has lived with one of my pieces for many years and still discovers something new every time they encounter it. To me, that is what timeless design truly means.