Time, energy, friction. Loyalty above all. Elements we strangle in this era of “doing what you want, when you want”. A dream we’re sold that makes flaccid autonomy, making it impossible to grow much of anything. Much less community.

Why it matters: Community takes root when the same people show up, often enough to bypass small talk and get to our issues, passions too. That’s when you notice someone who needs to be seen, and offer them presence without them having to ask.

Being optional on community dries up its nutrients. Our shared understanding goes barren, the hosts burn out. So we go back to scrolling. Replacing connection with stimulation, then questioning this loneliness we quietly made for ourselves.

Sacrifice is the missing element.

A choice to get involved, even when we don’t feeeeel like it. It’s an investment that matters. So I’d like to go deeper with solutions:

• Find / support / create a weekly ritual. Workouts, reading, dining, whatever. Same place, same time, regardless of who shows up. A quote that rings true, “If you want to start running, don’t wait for people, just do it. In time, the people will find you.”

• Support the host(s). Offering a hand, supporting their events, and rotating hosting if it’s more informal. At the heart of community is mutual contribution, rather than expectant consumption. We should all have pride in our ability to do something useful.

• It’s always that damn phone. When you’re with people, accept the challenge to put phones away. It’s hard, but we’re capable. These mushes of copper and titanium have existed for a couple decades. Human presence is way older, way stronger.

The virtuous cycle of sacrifice: Show up, contribute, repeat.

Guests left with smiles, cloaked in gratitude for the first IN-SEASON dinner. And alI I felt was guilt.

I’d done little prep. Printed no menus. Led a flimsy service walkthrough. Played music I only updated between courses. A bunch of lazy choices that can’t be excused by being a novice to hospitality.

Those failures became a list to attack in the weeks, days and hours ahead IN-SEASON 2. A promise to never wing it again.

Fast-forward last Thursday. The aforementioned… IN-SEASON 2.

Chef Tea came sharp, again. Her courses for thirteen guests were distributed by three waiters. We proudly set every course in under a minute.

Matte menus with handwritten ingredients for each course gained stains as Rosalia’s LUX bled into D’Angelo’s Black Messiah. Our U-shaped table set up held the hum of connection. Only quiet when we set each course. Mashallah. I did my part this time.

The sweet thing about progress is the clarity it gives.

By the time our guests left with bouquets in hand, Chef Tea, our serving team (Dom, Jabari) and lead creative (Storko) made a voice note on what we can do better:

2. Immediately thought about lighting, a bit cold inside the art gallery. We relied on the venue to have color options, but that was an assumption our guests paid for. A simple light rental could have warmed the space up. Noted.

3. Florals too. That morning’s visit to LA’s Flower District made me feel romantic. Until I unwrapped solidagos and eucalypti to see the loooongest stems. I scrambled, until Storko revealed his past as a flower shop employee… Clutch. We made the florals work in a V-formation, hanging over the opposite side of every guest in alignment to Chef Tea’s plating. Better execution will come when we bring in a partner to set florals and table settings. Noted.

Humility follows us like the seasons. We cherish it by accepting these lessons in the moment. The primary one:

1. The more you host, the better you serve.

Showing up early, like weeks early, enables us to action our curiosities of community shares flavor. That effort lets the room glow with warmth, from the ceiling to the floor.

Inshallah, IN-SEASON 3 is in 3 weeks. Keep up with us to see what we improve next.

Chef Tea - dripped in that VIJN black/brown two-toned JACKET - brought us to the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market a few weeks back.

Often big gaps between my farmer’s market visits but every time I pull up, I’m grateful for it. Weaving through people, dodging strollers and overly huge dogs. I leave with random things like a bag of carrots still covered in the soil it was picked from.

But this visit was different.

The Market felt sacred with Chef Tea. A sprawling, plus-sign shaped mosaic of 60+ farmers from around Southern California. I got to see it from an artist’s point of view and with every step and touch, I felt like I was being reintroduced to food.

Born and raised in Los Angeles, Chef Tea tells multi-sensory stories through cuisine. Taste intentionally crafted with the best in-season ingredients we can get in LA.

I met Chef a month after we debuted the Nest in September. It was a warm fall day at SPACE(S), the iconic home of Bricks & Wood in Mid-City, LA.

Chef’s culinary collective Little Los Angeles had the back patio booming with this fragrance of allspice. The grill was turnt, so I found my feet, nose, and hands on Sherlock Holmes, damn near tweaking for a taste of the best jerk chicken in the city.

On the second of four firings, I got a bite… My eyes were closed for thyme… only opening as I rolled on the ground, breathing deeply and grunting at the vibrant flavors I’d only tasted on a 2017 trip to Negril, Jamaica.

That was probably the best introduction I’ve ever had with anyone.

Since that day, we’ve built our friendship and creative partnership that keeps challenging how I see food, seasonality, and the act of bringing people together.

Tea’s work is about time, touch, and trust in what the Earth is offering right now. While roaming the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market, we have a conversation about what it means to work in season and just how she’s learned (and still learning) to listen:

Walking and Talking

Cherif: How or when did you fall in love with cooking?

Tea: Hmm. I feel like cooking has followed me my whole life. Almost like a boogeyman. And then when I looked in the closet, it was actually not a closet—it was the kitchen.

And so from there, I just kept following it back, and it's gotten me here. I’m allowing it to keep unveiling itself to me. I’m finding myself more and more through the cuisine I decide to put on the table, which is an Afro-futurist cuisine.

It’s really leaning into my foresight as a human being and including that into my career path—which is also tied into my purpose.

It’s looking into the future and closing my eyes and saying what Black and Brown people should be eating. And if I don’t cook it… it haunts me.

C: When do you stop shopping and start cooking in your head?

T: The moment I touch the actual produce I’ll be working with. From there I can determine how ripe it is, what texture it has, how long I want to cook it, what kind of fat I’ll use. It all starts in the hand.

C: What’s a texture you avoid, even when the flavor is perfect?

T: I try to avoid anything overripe, unless I’m planning to make it into a sauce or puree. Then I can highlight the flavor while smoothing out the texture. But yeah, texture’s got to be right.

C: What’s the hardest ingredient to shop for?

T: Watermelon. People swear there are tricks, but there’s no trick. You just get lucky or you don’t. Or it’s in season or it’s not. Laughs

On Seasonality, Purpose, and Limitation

C: Talk to me more about what’s in season now (late May)?

T: Right now in California? Citrus looks beautiful. Cherries are sweet. Strawberries are still really nice. So that’s what I’d suggest people lean toward at the market—berries, broccolini, cauliflower, cherries, citrus, grapefruit, lemons, navel oranges, tangerines…

C: Naval oranges the ones that look like nipples?

T: Laughs… Yes, Cherif.

C: What does “farm to table” mean to you?

T: It means being intimate with what the Earth is producing right now—and being able to showcase that. It’s a partnership. When I shop at the farmers market, it’s a conversation I’m having. Then I translate it through cooking. Then it lands on the table.

I had a thought here, maybe you can answer it too:

What am I forcing into my routine that isn’t in season?

C: Why accept the limitations of seasonality?

T: It’s inconvenient, yes. But it’s also a commitment. Convenience has spoiled us. Grocery stores have convinced us that we can have anything year-round—and that’s just not true.

We’re forcing ingredients to exist out of rhythm. And you can taste that. When you work in season, you don’t have to manipulate much. The Earth already did the work.

C: Tell me more about that—working in partnership with the Earth.

T: It’s listening to what the Earth is giving, and following that. Not forcing things into being. There’s already abundance. We just have to highlight it, not control it.

The Process

C: What steps do you go through to do your work correctly?

T: Research…. reading….really geeking out. If I want to add lemon to a dish, I might research five kinds of lemons. I’ll try each one until I find the one that resonates most with what I’m cooking. That curiosity is part of the love.

What I Took Home

Back in the whip, I filled up the passenger seat with different citrus and this one vegetable I still can’t name.

More importantly, Chef Tea left me with a deeper sense of the value of rhythm. Coming from corporate marketing, with a drive to build VIJN as this design company obsessed with real life, I find myself forcing completion.

To strive, to execute ideas, often at friction with the seasons.

Chef Tea’s approach dusted off my why.

Our conversation reflects the intentionality I want to be present in every piece of writing, every object we design, and certainly every time we bring people together.

With the patience and diligence of tracking seasonality, knowing what the Earth, my community, and my own soul need, our work at VIJN, in partnership with the greats like Chef Tea and Little Los Angeles will speak on its own time.

As we grow host more and create more via TACTILE, this is the clarity I want to lead with. And Chef just thought I just wanted to spy on where she gets her ingredients !

Thank you, Chef Tea.

Coming Soon

We’ll be releasing debuting a dining series with Chef Tea later this year. If you're curious about joining—or just want more stories—subscribe and stay close.

My backseat is a mess !!!

Hands at 10 and 2, I caught the image in the mirror: mancala sets, chess boards, two rolls of nylon fabric. This goofy, yet satisfying collage of my last 76 hours.

Fatigue that was pulling on my shoulders got lighter at this exact point. Processing the fact that we’d done two events in three days, I felt like VIJN was really doing what it was always meant to do:

Bring people together.

My Problem with Socializing

I love people… but I also love being home before the sun goes down.

These loves don’t often sync as I walk around confused to see socializing packaged as loud music, sticky floors, and forgotten names. It only sounds like sensory overload and bad decisions to me... but I do have hater sensibilities fr.

You wouldn’t believe my disdain for having to shout my name into someone’s ear…

So I plotted on some solutions.

Event concepts that give context to the objects we design, ideas that couldn’t start with a mood board. I found references in the spirit of teraanga–an ethos of hospitality in Senegal we hoist as our call to honor.

I started hosting these jollof brunches on Sundays after we got early samples of The Nest, our first ceramic product.

After the pulse of my living room calmed from 10-12 people in alignment, I’d get these long, heartfelt texts:

Seeing new friendships form through better behaviors set this new standard for how we can offer a communal value.

When we launched The Nest, we hosted a no-table dinner party for 25.

That one night unlocked our debut product for the about six months. Supporting Iftar dinners during Ramadan, creating an interactive dinner at Joyce DTLA, even loaning 20-30 bowls at a time to friends starting their own dinner series.

Our bowls became this entry point to better socializing, an honor we set to expand upon.

From Bowls to Jackets to Events

Launching the JACKET pushed us beyond potent flavors. It set a route to do more for our community, including the debut of this Substack.

Originating as a platform to show how writing as a design practice, TACTILE quickly grew into the umbrella for all our gatherings.

In May 2025, we launched two new formats—just three days apart:

1. TACTILE: Communal Fitting

A luxury shopping kickback where participation is the product. Activated by three zones inside Soho Warehouse’s Drawing Room:

• A white glove try-on station, guiding guests through our nylon silhouettes.

• A sonic landscape from VIM! Soundsystem—deep African cuts, zipper textures, layered nature.

• A 12-foot design table with designer Nicole Villamil, where guests drew on jacket pattern pieces.

Enjoyment was abundant as the homies made their love for product two evident.

I still found myself irked… noticing people stayed on their feet all night… I wanted people to sit, get familiar, really loiter. The space we organized had plenty of seating, but it went unused.

Hindsight gives me the clarity that we didn’t give the furniture a job.

Lesson: If you want people to sit around and set an ambiance, give them a reason—reading materials, snacks, games. Furniture alone can’t enable connection. The loitering necessary for people to feel at home sits on the other side of context. Use what you have to its best and clearest ability.

2. TACTILE: Gameday

Because playing around never needed to wait for game night.

At Black Line Coffee, right beside LA’s vibrant Secret Walls, we laid out chess, mancala, and Connect Four. People showed up solo, paired off, and made new friends as Julian Cullars set the mood on guitar. Bro really played solo four hours !

The on-site gallery opened up their garage doors, adding an art show to the mix.

And the best part: the sun was still out.

In the midst of shaking hands and kissing babies, it slipped my mind that pleeenty of people didn’t know how to play these games. Chess and mancala sparked hella curiosity, but many didn’t know how to play and no one was there to solve that...

Lesson: Instructional design is part of event design. Curiosity without guidance is this missed opportunity to make people feel seen, then supported. We can inject that element of teaching to make participation readily accessible.

What I’ve Learned (So Far)

Two events in three days confirmed what I suspected: People are reaaally hungry for connection—and finally, it’s not only the turnt kind they’re seeking.

I did my post-mortem over a cardamom bun and a one shot cortado (I’m geekin rn). Post sip clarity set 22 points to consider sit in my notebook ahead of our next events.

Below are the three I’d like to share with you:

1. Set the Objective First

I found myself underwhelmed at the sales of the JACKET at our event…

Sure, we brought people together and gave a new experience for a garment. Reflection made it clear that I hadn’t defined an objective for the event. The question to answer first was, “Is this a sales moment or a brand moment?”

Before planning out any offering to people, its vital to know the answer to very simple questions like these and only then can planning commence.

If it’s about sales, we get to build in details like limited-edition packaging, charitable tie-ins, incentives to purchase. If it’s about brand, we get to create a physical takeaways, like a material swatch, that reinforces what we stand for.

Really all these ideas would’ve been key, if only we answered the objective first.

2. Clear That Calendar on Event Day

I was still editing pieces for this Substack, coordinating shipping with my fulfillment center, and sending custom invites on the day-of. That left me feeling rushed during set-up, seemingly no one else could tell, but I forsuuuurely could.

And that energy seeps into subtle missteps that can eat up the attention we’re working so hard to earn and serve.

I learned to arrive early, plan the pre-production earlier. Give myself enough space to lead like a host, not just execute like a producer.

3. Over-Brief Your Team

I under-briefed mine. That led to questions like “Where can I buy the JACKET?” going unanswered at the try-on station. That’s on me fr.

Over-briefing does a couple things, namely clarifying what roles are necessary and need additional bodies, while preparing everyone to know what everyone is there for.

It’s a key element to gauge how our roles, from PA to producer to host, flow so we can build together as a unit.

The element of over-briefing can seem daunting and alienating, but I believe it doesn’t kill creativity—it unlocks clarity. Defining roles and what success means for each person involved creates the connective tissue we need to find shared nuance.

At the End of the Day

The exercise of event production is humbling for someone like me.

I never grew up throwing parties or hosting at my crib, so creating the spaces I’ve wanted to exist is exhilarating… and tiring.

With velocity of output comes information on how to share the work, be present from the start, and use that to offer tactile value beyond my own needs. It’s a muscle I intend to keep sharpening.

As you’ve read this far, comment what kinds of gatherings you plan to host—or what you’ve learned from ones you’ve attended.

I’ll keep circling back with more lessons in bringing people together.

With gratitude,

CHERIF

I think back to the coldest images in football history. Pre-match to be specific. Players would enter stadiums as thousands of people take up space in and out of the stadia, singing anthems aligned with their city’s values.

Youuuu’ll Neeeever Waaaaalk, Aloooone. Or a national anthem. Or the Champions League anthem. Keeping the players warm with various textures, anthem jackets quietly stamped the work that led up to this moment. A garment only worn by the starters, the ones about to perform in real time.

As we sought to expand our tactile obsession, anthem jackets offered a space to explore texture. First, we needed to make our own shape.

For nearly a year, we developed our handmade pattern with cut and sow artisans in Los Angeles. Over 11 iterations, the JACKET became a canvas for material play.

We manipulated nylon into butter soft handfeels. We set beads in chest patterns, wanting nuance in that execution opened up a rabbit hole we gladly dived into. Going back and forth on where to set the material overlay. Eventually landing on a shoulder trim, enabling us to hand set a tactile surprise to an ultra functional garment.

Nylons for the body, bemberg on the lining, and steel beads on certain versions. We went deep enough to expand our tactile language into something we can wear.

The two-tone Black/Brown version enabled us to make a water-resistant jacket that styles as a statement piece. Composed with a denier nylon sourced from Taiwan, we wanted tactical, gorp performance without the forever chemicals attached to traditional raincoats.

The single tone Green version offers a lighter body that’s steady glistening when the sun beams on us. A choice of nylon upholding our standard for skin contact, ensuring clean interaction between lining and body every time.

We made 50 total garments, 25 of each color with half of each getting steel beads.

About 12-13 of each version above will be available, exclusively at vijn.co.

Our intention is to use this drop to learn what our community needs in a jacket. Enabling us to iterate faster. See more at our updated site. Appreciate you gang.

A slow rush of sound followed. Hella voices, tew much light. I’d just taken off this blindfold, now I’m trapped in a dark room scattered with… stars ?

I couldn’t think straight, but I felt everything. Overwhelmed, distracted. Loved.

My retinas settled into an image of my community in one frame. Hugs, daps, and kisses shared while my bruddas thought I was crying for show.

But thugs don’t cry !!! I was just tryna open my eyes !

Thirty or so friends–new and familiar–swarmed me as I stepped into 29 years of age. Arm in arm with the conspirators of this chaos, we walked around the studio they booked. First stop: a table full of Fleurs et Sel cookies, LA’s best–shoutout to Lara.

A buttery medley of chocolate chips and oatmeal slowed my attention to see the room. A panoramic view of the guys posed like a K-Pop group at the wall sized cyc.

Swivel to the left, Raph is weaving deep cuts from Toro y Moi and Awilo Longomba. Swivel to the right, friends mushing into each other to make the photo booth frame. A man peddling churros crossed my sight, grinning knowing this isn’t his usual gig.

This moment was a lil over two years ago, yet these feelings remain potent only because all my senses were animated, at once.

Our senses are the foundation of our memories.

Think about yesterday. I bet your first flashbacks savor what you ate, the song you sang in the whip. Those cold sheets when you laid your heaaaaad, on that pillow.

Touch, sight, sound, smell, and taste link as this chassis, driving us through the turnt and the mundane. Most moments fade as we tap one or two of our senses at a time.

We chase completion of the day with no conscious experience. But when we animate all our senses, moments are shaped into memories.

Digging into this approach to life, the word neuroplasticity kept popping up.

A term I see as a malleable simplification of how our brains work. We take material from our senses to create these imprints, patterns that grow clearer with each new experience. With time, relatively quickly when we’re safe and having fun, we move past thinking and go deeper into feeling.

That’s what makes memories sticky. A gem from an OG crystalized this for me:

“Young fella, if you want her affection, give her attention plenty to mention”

I had to be like 12 at jiu jitsu, for sure not dating anything, just tryna grapple…

But those words stuck. He was right though. When we’re trying to learn someone, there’s plenty use in using all our senses to find the right fit.

This often starts at a restaurant. A warm light over our corner booth, close enough for knees and shoulders to touch. The bass in my voice matches the melody in hers. A waiter pulls up for the third time– but our eyes never made it down to the menu.

At some point, a mix of entrees takes up space on the table.

Salty, sweet, umami as we question if they’re playing a playlist we made. The whole time, the contours of her clavicle held my focus. Three hours pass before we look around… we’re the only guests in the restaurant.

The staff beeeeeeen needing us to get out…

I hold her hand and open the door, realizing I never had to force anything. I simply gave her senses plenty to hold onto.

That same choice– to engulf ourselves–can shape any moment offline.

To leave our phones at home on a walk. To journal our memories, letting the pen strokes soundtrack our memory.

Animating our senses is only as complex as we make it.

I simplify this daily by:

1. Turning chores into meditation. I’m savoring that last bite as the faucet opens and the unmistakable sound of water fills the room. Suds build up as my fingers slip, finding stability in the grooves of my favorite bowl. That sponge I’ve should’ve replaced time ago expands, feeling the grains of rice my fork couldn’t catch. A clean bowl catches the light as this hand towel dries it. I woulda missed all this if I let the dishwasher win.

2. Upgrade your hand goods. We treat dense materials with more respect. A favorite mug. That one Japanese knife. I ditched paper and plastic tableware to cop weighty ceramic pieces I treasure, moving around my space with the same feeling I get with my favorite garments.

3. See how long you can go without a screen, daily. I often lay on the ground with my phone in the other room, just to see how long before I drift to it. Each time, I notice the faint sounds of leaves bristling, the cold panels of my wooden floors, where the sun enters each room at different hours. Your house only becomes your home when you know how it flows.

Actively using our senses is the difference between setting the tone in our lives or accepting what comes our way.

We never needed more time or control. We need to be present and through our senses, new memories are always in reach.

Kendrick won because he made it us versus them.

He went on to explain that winning means someone lost. Duh… tell me more, I said.

Rappers, brands, movements all need an enemy to point at. That moment we all get to pointing is where community ties come alive, then getting people to spend their money on your agenda is easy.

I could feel my blood pressure escalate…

That line of agitation was never considered for VIJN. I’ve been building this community with belief that touch centers us into the now. Designing as a way to help myself and others host more, create more, and do more by the strength of our hands.

Hella wholesome.

As time let me see his argument in dimensions, our enemy made itself clear:

Ease.

Ease is oppy-anna numero uno. Like Riley and Santa, for those (like me) who learned to hate through episodes of The Boondocks.

Not the comfort of relaxation, not the necessary empathy along my journey.

But the ease of instant gratification.

When I’m hungry, I can tap my phone nine times and outside of my door, a meal arrived in a dash. If I hate my couch, nine more taps and Bobois bubbles take up space in my living room. Days later, the dupe sucks and I’m wondering… how ?

Well… I bought a couch with no sweat. The materials and colors are off because I didn’t earn it fr. No swatches, no references, no story. Just air inflating…

My opposition comes from this growing dynasty. A long running era of businesses working to engineering friction out of our lives, selling ease on a subscription model.

As completion of our needs are outsourced to tech, accepting friction becomes this needed antidote. A companion to the fulfillment our bodies are made to pursue.

Our best memories consist of friction, serialized for repeat views. That personal best in the gym. That IKEA table you built yourself, once just lay flat. Your nephew, born early, but healthy mashallah.

Friction creates investment and that investment unearths pride we can hold onto.

Of late, the homies been skipping dinners out, saving money, cooking at home. At first, I saw this as a loss keeping us in isolated bubbles around Los Angeles. Making ease my antagonist flips that idea on its head.

Cooking is nothing but friction.

Grocery lists tee up seasoning, sautéing, and serving potent flavors. Washing dishes becomes this scenic climax of hot water, soap suds, and slippery tableware. A final test we can dominate, getting over that last hump in this circle of consumption.

It’s all real enough for us to remember the joy of completion. The necessity of friction.

With time, we end up developing undervalued skills in an era of gratification. Skills like hosting at home. Either cheffing up or ordering big, then leaving the door open to friends. No splitting bills or tipping, just quality time together curated by friction.

Leaning into friction challenges my point of view daily. From the foods I eat to the objects I use. Moving past annoyance into solutions, I upgrade my tools. Dense ceramics, real silverware. Not just to host, but for me to enjoy daily.

Most objects you can buy in a click simply take up space. Great objects you search for and acquire can make our daily habits meditative, even the messy ones.

As my home reflects this, I end up embracing silence more often. Laying out, with no music, no pods, at least some parts of the day, especially when I want that “accompaniment” the most.

Consistent silence is often all our mental health needs to heal.

My will is getting tested when my space is quiet. I left my phone in the kitchen, so how long can I go without it ? Observing my space and feeling the air flowing through it.

The friction I feel was the peace my body was asking for.

Everything we love—people, objects, feelings—came from effort. Friction is the toll we pay for feeling something real and it’s time we start paying it again.

At least I assume… Cause bowls are shaped for what goes inside. Consider the cascading walls of a ramen bowl. The shallow flare of a catch-all, short all around for jewelry and keys. Ceramicists obsess over depth, glazes, and clay bodies, but rarely the hands that hold it.

That’s funny, knowing most uses of bowls start and end at our fingertips.

One year into throwing more accidents than flawless bowls, I ramped into lucidity. Every bowl I made was sittin’ sideways, slouched as people in the stu smiled at the ‘character’ of my work. A shorthand slight for nice try.

A solo night at Bitter Root Studio, I was feeling out a bowl in the process of drying. My fingers traced these grooves I hadn’t meant to create. Resting in pockets of space. Cozy… Secure enough for me to fake spiking it like a football. Real crash out chit.

In the middle of doing a lot, an epiphany: Make a bowl for my hands, on purpose.

I had trouble sleeping that night. Tossing and turning as this objective became a paragraph.

We should make bowls for hands. Making it easy to pass potent flavors from hand to hand. A shape so ready for our hands, even washing dishes becomes a natural, fidgety act, like a child playing in water.

That text lit a spark between a close friend and I. They also threw ceramics, amongst many hobbies, in their work as an engineer. Someone with the ability to illustrate ideas with technical drawings.

Between our solo practices of throwing, I used words to add value to our tactile exploration.

The bowls need to fit like a glove, and I feel like it can happen on the walls. Rather than straight lines between 65 and 150 degrees, let’s lean into a wall we can grip. Think about where our index, middle, and ring fingers go as we reach, knowing the pinky will follow.

The homie saw it clear, producing about 20 CADs with various protrusions, lumps, dips, and curves. I sat for hours on my phone’s 3D visualizer twirling the cups and bowls they visualized. My eyes pulsated. My brain made sense of these shapes, guessing how’d it could actually work.

One particular approach spoke to us early.

A simple shape with two divots on its exterior, creating a Stonewall jawline from its side. Even digitally, I could sense where my fingers would fall. It felt right.

I think you did your big one here. There’s a simplicity to this wall. The double layer build sets some graft for stability. That vertical C-shaped curve should let the top and bottom of our palms clasp it for security.

One big problem: We simply weren’t ready to throw this shape. Our hands and feet couldn’t manipulate the wheel for this precision. So we pivoted.

Slipcasting became the play.

I arrived to Charlotte ready to see friends, catch Khruangbin that night, and finally… grab our bowl. Well, 3D printed. Still, real.

The high trees of a suburban neighborhood softened the afternoon beams. A delicate backdrop for what turned out to be the brightest revelation.

My friend’s friend had converted their garage into a slipcasting space. Right next to her husband’s 3D printing service. Wicked convenience we used to iterate.

I’m starting to notice there’s curves on curves. The two divots create three surfaces on the wall. Each about an inch in height. Each gives us a new point of leverage. The bottom divot curls to the bowl foot, where our pinky and ring fingers rest. The middle divot is straight for this middle finger. The top divot curls like a J, where the vessel opens up.

I tip toe’d into the backyard, as this print was handed to me.

My eyes darted. My fingers struck exactly where we wanted em’ to. As my heart raced, eye contact bounced around as we got to geeking. We made something new.

That was three years ago Plenty has changed, especially how that sequence of time shaped my perspective on language. Amidst a fluid skillset of throwing ceramics, slipcasting became a bridge to intentionally shaping something new.

Between my friend, their friends, the ceramicists of Tik Tok, and 3D printing savants, I could’ve gotten lost in their technical prowesses.

If only my own strength in words hadn’t made itself clear before I could try to find it.

Writing was my contribution to design.

Pulling references from other tactile sources to imagine new wall structures. Taking my time to put words together. Letters, sounds, and tone–guiding my partners toward decisions big and small.

As this bowl became the foundation of the Nest. the first product from our tactile design company VIJN. I saw myself clearly.

I’m a writer. Writing things into existence.

If you make things too, or been debating trying, here’s how words will help you build:

1. Write your references out. We hoard visuals that move us. Never let them be passive. Organize them. Make themed folders, name those mood boards. Did you know your Photos app enables captions below each image ? I didn’t until last week fr. Describe what you see in curves, colors, and materials, especially when the words have to be made up.

2. Describe the feelings you like. Yes, emotionally, if you want. But in our case, think texture, weight, heat. Write about objects how novelists write about characters and people. As often as you can. Simply knowing why you appreciate things will sharpen your pen, so you can bend words to your will.

3. Try more hand crafts. Before ceramics, I started with pants. Learning to make tech packs and patterns taught me the blueprint mindset for objects. Subtle cross pollination that walked us into 3D printing and eventually, slipcasting for bowls. Every craft showed me the tight connections of making and the tactile vocabulary across categories.

Words shape worlds. Technical skills or not, writing can be your most tactile tool.

Most thinkers and doers assume writing is only for expressing thoughts. At its most vibrant and direct, writing shapes form. Inshallah the Nest–and everything we build at VIJN–starts as language we sharpen all the way to your hands.

Writing is a design practice.

Stick with us on TACTILE. This truth stretches across every step in making things real.

The endorphins from ticking tasks lists or mood boarding don’t find their way to my fingertips. All my hands can do is act. And that’s the best feature of these callused, nine inch mitts.

This “grab first, think later” motif is how ceramics became an obsession in 2021. A novel hobby for most is the craft that produces all the plates, bowls, and mugs we use daily. It’s a practice I couldn’t wrap my brain around, but gave me plenty to hold onto from jump.

I dreamt big… Early too !

VIJNs of pulling up on women I like, gifting them earthy vases and big ass bowls. Seeding them vessels for birthdays while my peers thought bottles were enough. These mitts had bigger, less thirsty plans.

They steered me to LA’s Bitter Root studio, y’all know, in front of that pink spot with the tacos.

I parked, put on an apron, and sliced a piece of wet clay. Haphazardly rolling a ball full of air pockets on this ashy communal table. Slapping this lump of clay unto the wheel gave me a rush. This child-like sensation where my brain and hands linked thru chaos.

Letting my feet get involved, the wheel spun tooooo fast and my fingers got loose…

Then the clay collapsed.

Each time this happened (plenty, every time, every day) I would grin, with all thirty one teeth out. A sensation I couldn’t place because my hands accepted a challenge my mind couldn’t back out of.

I made friends at the stu who went through the same motions. The ones who found their style in the graft of their hands and the patience of their feet. It was never that dream of vases or big ass bowls that fulfilled me.

It was trying. Failing. Then going again. Just like them.

In action, I know your hands are braver than your mind too.

We hold so tightly to this badge of being curious, we hesitate to actually start. We get to analyzing and romanticizing. Everything but actioning and completing our ideas.

Admiring craft as a watcher silently morphs into a safety mechanism stoked by endless timelines. With every scroll, we slide farther from our ability to do. As if we don’t have the sacred right to shape our physical world with the same hands so intuitively ready to move on, every three point four seconds.

Our hands only value action.

Truly acting as the best companions in trial and error, it’s like our hands have a reward system for trusting them. My gift arrived after 14 months of throwing:

These mitts demanded a bowl.

A shape with contours for my index and middle fingers.

It opened a two-year rabbit hole across the nation:

Throwing on wheels in Los Angeles. Slipcasting from garages in Charlotte, North Carolina. Finding lead-free clay bodies in a town of 800 called Seagrove before snooping on the talented people of East Fork in Asheville.

A journey that really turnt up under the 100-foot waves of Nazare, Portugal. Well, they were calm in the summer, like ten feet high when I pulled up with a close friend to visit the manufacturer behind the Nest. Product one from VIJN.

A set of bowls made for your hands.

About seven months has passed since these bowls went public. We sent them out to restaurants in Austin, retailers in the DMV, and the shape found shelf space in plenty kitchens across LA, NY, Dallas, St. Louis, Portland, and more. Mashallah.

Only DHL’s wild fees and the nuance of package design are keeping us out of Lagos, London, Dubai, and my familial home of Dakar, Senegal. For now…

What took shape with earthenware became a platform for dinners with no tables, a bevy of content, and overall, the most fulfilling project I’ve completed, to date.

On my next post inshallah, I’ll explain how I wrote this bowl shape into existence…

All these VIJNs are coming clear because my hands took action.

It’s a habit I’m building to expand my worldview and honor my courage. That’s how this thought was brought out from the depths of my Notes app to this very Substack.

We really don’t have to plan when we trust our hands to do, first.

Toxins from the unbrushed mouths of the loudest voices, assuming we’re detached beyond repair.

It’s a lazy opinion formed inside the echo chambers of social media.

An intangible space that tricks us into believing everyone feels the same.

But 8 billion people will never be on the same timeline.

That fact will save us from the gloom of disconnection.

People remain valuable, interesting and necessary mirrors of our own reality–every single day.

It’s as simple as leaving that damn phone at home.

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In order to build an audience, you must put yourself out there.

This quote been clouding my sense of self. Raining down ideas to be more vocal. I rise the next day, dusting off that tripod to tell my phone about design, futbol, travel.

Whatever’s pulsating on my frontal lobe that day.

Then I play the video back… and that nausea bubbles up: This isn’t my way.

I don’t thrive off noisy timelines. I make sense when I can ruminate, scribble, and edit before launching what I’m feeling to my people.

That second step is why I’m writing dis.

Since I was 17, writing has been my medium. It’s just taken shape in endless ways.

Today, I own and operate VIJN, a tactile company bringing people together.

It’s a practice of making, testing, and connecting around objects with better use cases. It started with one perspective:

Everyone deserves to feel all their senses animated at once.

It’s the best way to stay present. So the objects around us need to do their part in creating this sensation, simply and often. To get here, I didn’t study design, nor engineering, nor supply chain. I spent a decade writing.

Sports Illustrated, adidas Originals, Netflix. Journalism, social copywriting, universal truths by the dozen. My most prized possessions are these journals I’ve written since 2016, a collection of considerations across my winding epiphanies.

VIJN earned its first product when I asked myself:

Why aren’t bowls made for hands? We hold them, snuggle with them, pass cravings to loved ones in bowls. This pervasive observation became a brief, which led to a technical drawing. 3D prints and two years later, wet, sandy toes.

We were in Nazare, Portugal and my heart was pounding fr.

This notion of bowls for hands became physical samples, handmade by a team dedicated to my VIJN. A humbling moment I still get goosebumps about.

Time passing made it clear: my path has always been charted by writing.

To observe, to reflect, then to write anything into existence.

I’ll be writing about my observations in design, community, experiences, travel, and the things I can’t yet see. Walking down these ideas until they become tactile.

Grateful to grow familiar with you.