Material Intelligence: Seeking the Unexpected in a Digital Age

Most of our days are spent behind glass.

We swipe through perfectly smooth screens, looking at images that disappear in seconds. In this digital world, everything is polished and flat. Lately, I’ve been feeling a real hunger for the opposite—for things that have weight, texture and soul.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. This digital saturation has created a profound, perhaps subconscious, hunger for its opposite. We are starved for texture, for weight and for authenticity.

At the recent London Art Fair panel: "Collecting the Unexpected", the discussion highlighted exactly this cultural hunger: collectors seeking objects that do more than decorating—they demand a physical, visceral response.

But what does it mean to collect or live with the unexpected, and why is it resonating so deeply right now?

The Tactile Turn in Contemporary Collecting

The current cultural mood suggests that collectors are moving away from art that just sits passively on the wall, blending into the background. We are seeing a "tactile turn"—a desire for objects that demand a physical presence in a room.

Collectors are increasingly drawn to "material-led" practices like ceramics, textiles, glass, mixed media, where the process is complex and slow. There’s a craving for evidence of the human hand: the slight irregularity, the labor of thousands of stitches in a textile piece or the roughness of repurposed materials.

They are looking for objects that demand a physical response, pieces that make you want to reach out and touch them. Collectors want to be surprised by what an object is made of and how it feels in our hands.

Finding Beauty in Material Intelligence

I think this "unexpected" aspect in art and craft isn’t necessarily about shock value. It is about "material intelligence", when an artist pushes a medium beyond what we thought it could do.

For me, Material Intelligence is about:

• Pushing Boundaries: Taking a material like moss or amaranth and asking: What else can you be? How can a soft plant become a sculpture?

  
  

• Listening to the Medium: Every organic material has its own "will." You cannot force it; you have to work with its natural grain, its fragility or its strength.

  
  

• Process as a Story: It’s the hours of patience required to choose the right piece of a delicate amaranth filament so it perfectly fits its place in the work. The intelligence lies in the transformation, like turning an ordinary plant into a tactile piece of art, sensory and contemplative.

  
  

When a piece has material intelligence, you can feel the "slowness" of its creation. They ask us to pause, look closer and wonder how  they were made. This engagement breaks the cycle of consumption and creates a moment of genuine connection.

It stands in total contrast to the fast, machine-made world we usually live in.

The Paradox of Preserved Nature

My work is a meditation on this. Working with preserved moss, for example, is a paradox. It is a piece of the forest floor, frozen in time. It keeps its soft, velvet feel and its deep green energy, but it no longer needs water or sunlight to exist.

In a home full of cold, hard surfaces, a moss sculpture is a tactile surprise. It doesn't ask for chores or maintenance, it only asks for attention. It invites you to slow down and breathe.

From the Field to the Gallery: Preserved Amaranth

The same felt true for the piece I recently brought to COLLECT 2026 made from preserved amaranth.

Amaranth is a simple plant with a long history and a deep meaning - associated with resilience, healing and unfading beauty - but when I use thousands of its tiny filaments to build a three-dimensional wall sculpture, it changes. It becomes something else, something tactile and architectural. During exhibitions, I love watching people realize that what they are looking at was once a living plant. That is the moment where material intelligence creates a real connection.

Why These Objects Matter

A machine tells a story of efficiency. A handmade, material-focused piece tells a human story.

When I create my botanical artworks, I am thinking about how they will change the mood of the entire room and above all, how people feel when they stop and take a break to look at them. I want my works to be anchors. In 2026, I believe the greatest luxury is no longer a "perfect" look—it is the emotional feeling of something authentically made by hand.

As I move further into this year, my goal remains the same: to encourage people to look beyond the screen and take the plunge on a texture that surprises them. The most significant collections of the future won't follow the trends of the media—they will embrace the  unpredictable, tactile language of organic form.