While working on a self-portrait, I found myself facing an unexpected question: How can a fascination with butterflies become an object?

I wasn't interested in representing a butterfly. I didn't want to draw wings or literally reproduce its form. What interested me was something else: transformation, symmetry, and the tension between fragility and strength.

When I think of a self-portrait, I don't necessarily think about representing a face.I think about representing ideas, contradictions, and ways of seeing the world.

That is why these pieces combine geometry and curves, symmetry and irregularity, polished surfaces and visible imperfections.

I have been fascinated by butterflies for as long as I can remember. Their ability to transform completely captivated me: moving from a form many people consider unattractive to one often associated with beauty. I was also intrigued by the strength required to emerge from a chrysalis. Their wings appear delicate, yet unfolding them requires remarkable effort.

There was another aspect that caught my attention: how a single cylindrical caterpillar can develop into a body and two perfectly symmetrical wings. Such a radical transformation felt almost impossible.

For years, I observed butterflies and wondered how I could translate that logic into an object without reproducing it directly. I wasn't interested in designing a butterfly. I was interested in creating a reminiscence.

The question shifted from how to represent a butterfly to how to represent the ideas I found within it.

That is why the pieces that emerged from this exploration became geometric abstractions.

When I explain that these works originated from observing butterflies, many people expect to find wings or obvious organic forms. Instead, I chose geometry to tell the same story from a different perspective.

Rather than relying on fluid and organic shapes, I worked with forms that appear rigid and geometric. Yet, when observed closely, subtle curves and softer transitions begin to emerge—details that are often missed at first glance.

I was more interested in working with concepts than appearances.

Throughout the process, I also explored different materials. The earliest pieces were made from recycled plastic. Later, I began experimenting with other materials, including bioceramics made from eggshells.

Very different materials, with different textures and behaviors, yet all capable of expressing the same concept.

Over time, another decision led to a new set of questions.

Many people expect a design object to be flawless. Instead, I chose to preserve small irregularities, reflections, and visible traces of the making process.

Why? These pieces began as a self-portrait.

And to me, a self-portrait is not about presenting an idealized version of oneself.

It is about revealing what truly defines us.

I wanted these pieces to speak not only about the search for balance, but also about the imperfections that are inevitably part of any process of transformation.

During the evolution of the project, another question emerged: What does it mean to be an industrial designer?

For a long time, I associated industrial design with production, functionality, and objects intended for the marketplace. Yet this project led me toward a different territory: authorial pieces.

I came to understand that industrial design is not necessarily limited to commercial products or aesthetics shaped by machines. It can also be a way of investigating ideas, building narratives, and materializing personal questions.

There is one final detail that often draws attention. Many people look at these pieces and perceive a butterfly with its wings closed. And they are right.

When we imagine a butterfly, we usually picture a very specific image: wings fully open and perfectly symmetrical.

Yet that image often belongs to preserved butterflies displayed for observation.

My pieces represent a different moment. 

A butterfly that is still alive. 

A butterfly that still retains movement.

Perhaps that is why the wings never fully open.

The reminiscence did not remain confined to the rings.

Over time, some of these ideas found their way into other projects as well, including my first mass-produced object: the wooden wall clock "Oji."