Your transition from aerospace engineering to art fabrication represents a significant career shift. What drew you away from the aerospace world toward creative work, and how did your engineering background prepare you for what you’re doing now?

I don’t really see it as a huge change—maybe in stability, absolutely—but not in the work itself. Anyone actually making things, and not just cutting checks, needs some kind of background in how things are made. I’ve been around it my whole life. I grew up in construction—my dad was a GC and electrician—so I got hands-on experience onsite, doing robotics work, in the shop, and later behind the screen. Whether it’s an engineering project, a sculpture, or a piece of furniture from my own line, it’s all problem-solving and figuring out the best way to make something.

The real difference is on the design side. That’s what pulled me into this shift, because I need to be working on something new all the time. That’s harder to pull off if you stay in pure engineering. You can work on the same part for 15 years in that field.

You’ve mentioned finding more beauty in aerospace components than in most artwork because of their ‘perfect form through function.’ How has this engineering aesthetic influenced your approach to working with artists who might have completely different ideas about beauty and perfection?

It’s true—I still think aerospace components have a kind of beauty you don’t see anywhere else. They have a purpose. You don’t get endless freedom with them. Everything has to fit within a box and succeed in its function, so the expression is only in the form. That makes it really subtle, stripped down to the absolute. I don’t think there’s a single piece in any gallery that can hold a candle to a NASA instrument panel.

I don’t know if it directly shapes how I work with other artists, since the process is so different—and most conversations usually end up being about budget anyway. But if they’re coming to me, I assume it’s because they want precision and comprehensive understanding. Some clients get that right away, others maybe just couldn’t find anyone else to do it. What sticks from the engineering side is that I don’t romanticize it. It’s their project whether they ever touch it or not. Designers come to me for vision; the art world doesn’t. So maybe that’s the piece that helps with that.

Your collaborative process operates like ‘a therapy session’ where artists bring loose ideas and you help translate them into physical reality. Could you walk us through how this process typically unfolds and what you’ve learned about bridging the gap between concept and execution?

It really runs the spectrum. Sometimes people show up with nothing—no sketch, no images—just a description. Other times they’ll use AI to mock up fake sculptures of their own work mashed with another artist—it’s laughable some days what you see in an email. On the other end, I’ll get people who send a Dropbox full of technical files for an entire building just to explain one piece.

But in the end, it always feels the same: you meet them, you’re learning about them—their style, what they admire, any part of their background that shows what their true interest is. Once you start talking through a piece, it usually shifts. Maybe it ends up being a completely different material or built in a totally different way.

I try to pull all the reactions and input into what I eventually draw. I’ve got a good memory for details, so I’m pulling in references or little notes—even if they were never said outright—and trying to bring them into the piece. Sometimes it really is just a session—someone brings an idea with no legs that’s going nowhere, and I think they just needed to say it out loud.

Then there are very different experiences with tenured interior designers—they’re natural storytellers. I just sit and listen, and it feels like I’m writing a character into their story. That’s the easiest work for me. I take in the scene that’s already been set and just fill in details. I usually model it in 3D, render it, and hand over a finished piece that is exactly what was in my head when I drew it.

Kinematics drives everything you do, focusing on how people will interact with a piece rather than just how it looks. Can you share an example where this philosophy led to an unexpected solution or completely changed a project’s direction?

Yeah, maybe a cheeky answer, but it’s everything. It’s the thing we experience every day in life without thinking about it. It’s the “how” of mechanics rather than the “why” of physics. Physics is important later when someone’s running load calculations, but this part is about how we actually use and experience things as points in space. Where does the switch go, based on the shape of a hand or the swing of an arm? How does it fit with building materials? How does it sit in a room?

Ideally, no one notices it—because if it’s designed right, it just feels natural. You only notice when it’s been ignored. We’ve all bought those cheap pieces where you think, Who designed this? The placement is wrong, the edges are sharp, you can see components that should’ve been hidden. People water it down—treat it like some kind of intuitive science—and just call it “good design.”

Working with clients ranging from Disney and Google to experimental musicians like Phantogram requires adapting to vastly different creative languages. How has this diversity of collaboration influenced your own artistic voice and the evolution of Creativeware?

They all teach you something. I try to take something away from every project—whether it’s a technique, a material, or just how to present ideas—and fold it into the next job or my own work. The big corporations aren’t necessarily full of revelation, but they give you experience working inside bureaucracy, which has its own lessons.

Working with friends in a band is a totally different thing. Honestly, I find it hard to just maintain a friendship without having a project together. If you’re in a creative field, that’s most likely what you want to be doing—I’m useless on vacation. Even if I’m not working with them directly, their work still filters into mine. I listen to their music, and I’m sure words or sounds sneak into things I think about or build. They’re always in the background. Inevitably, it all bleeds into some things I design. When I go to designers’ homes, I think: What would I want if I were living here? And then I create something in my head.

I don’t think there’s a single experience, good or bad, that doesn’t influence the next idea—even if it’s just, I don’t ever want to do it like that again.

Your work spans commercial projects, cultural installations like the recent Grammy Museum piece, and fine art collaborations. What draws you to different types of projects, and how do you balance commercial work with more experimental endeavors?

The not-fun answer is that I built a business, and it’s expensive. But it’s not a love lost if the client isn’t always some avant-garde musician. Commercial work is great—they have the budgets for bigger projects, either in scale or material. If a logo has to be part of it, so be it. It’s still engineering, but with the added challenge that it also has to be visually engaging. That’s where the emotional side comes in. A lot of art misses that balance. If it can’t be interesting, at the very least it should be beautiful. If I get to make one of the two, I can find some joy in it.

Looking at where Creativeware has evolved from pure fabrication toward what you call ‘creative agency territory,’ where do you see your practice heading, and what kind of projects are you most excited to tackle next?

The term “fabrication” has always bothered me. I get that it’s shorthand in the industry, but it feels like a downgrade to what is really craftsmanship, design, and artistry. I don’t care too much what people call my business, but it does say something about the industry and how it views what is an artist. I think I still hold some pre-Warhol values that if you didn’t make it, you don’t get the title.

For me, fabrication was always just a means to an end. Running a shop in Los Angeles purely on spec builds isn’t sustainable, which is why I never saw it as only a fabrication company. Sometimes my role is just engineering. Other times it’s full 3D design—private label or product design, character design for studios, or pulling in my photography background. That could include making a video and working alongside the director or shooting it myself. I’ll end up onsite with architects, helping shape installations. I like how fluid it is every day.

The last few years I’ve been focusing more on my own furniture line and getting commissions for my designs. Working with interior designers on full-scope house projects has been especially rewarding. Nothing feels better than when someone references one of my own works to start something new—that’s incredibly satisfying.

As for the future, it’s all of that. It keeps shifting, and that’s the best part. I don’t think I could pick one project I’d be most excited about. As long as there’s a next project, that’s the one I’m excited about. So if you have one…