What first pulled me into Ebba Lindgren’s world was the strange logic connecting everything: turning her own apartment into a concept store, giving a stool a pair of glass shoes, and trying to understand what AI can imitate and what still belongs to us. Somehow, none of it feels heavy. Joy keeps resurfacing in the way Ebba talks about making, almost as a condition for staying curious.

Based in Malmö, Ebba works across furniture, textiles, bespoke objects and spatial design. Her practice is concept-driven and rooted in hands-on experimentation, with ideas often beginning from a question, a material or something she simply feels compelled to explore.

That freedom is part of what makes the work feel so distinctly hers. The objects can be playful, tactile and slightly unexpected, but there is usually a more serious thought sitting underneath. She seems comfortable letting humour, curiosity and imperfection coexist, without forcing everything into a single aesthetic or fixed way of working.

For this chapter of Makers of Atmosphere, I wanted to understand how Ebba built a practice that leaves enough room for curiosity, imperfection and change, and what keeps that freedom alive as the work evolves.

“For me, joy is quite important to creativity.” Ebba Lindgren

If you had to tell the story of your path before Studio Ebba Lindgren, where would you begin?

I see it as a series of realisations. In design school, I realised how much I liked experimenting with materials and developing concepts. Later, working at a design office and spending most of my time in front of a 3D program, I understood how much I missed that exploration, along with the creative independence that came with it.

Then came the slightly dreadful realisation that the best way to have that freedom was probably to do it myself. During Covid, somewhat incidentally, or maybe inevitably, I began building my own practice.

Looking back, what do you think shaped you most into the person and creative you are today?

It is hard to point to one experience. Maybe it was more about the conditions around me.

I am a very curious person, and that curiosity has mostly brought me joy. For me, joy is quite important to creativity. Contrary to the cliché, I actually think it is difficult to be creative when you are a struggling artist!

That said, there is something about experiencing strong emotions that can feed artistic work. Maybe I have found a good combination of pain and pleasure.

You describe your practice as concept-driven. Where does a new project usually begin for you?

Almost never with the form itself. Usually there is an idea, a subject I am curious about, or a material I really want to explore.

The lamp Knock Off Neon and the stool New Shoes, for example, both came out of a very conceptual project called Scenes from a Home. I emptied my apartment and designed and built all the loose interiors myself, using hand tools in my living room, with the goal of creating what I called a “true lifestyle brand.”

At the end, I renamed my home a “concept store” and sold the furniture I had made. Those first objects were almost sketches. Later, I returned to some of them and developed them into much more refined pieces.

Your work moves between objects, textiles and spaces. Is there something that stays constant when the scale or function changes?

There is an unwritten rule in my design language: I like making things that people want to touch.

The scale might change, and obviously the complexity changes with it, but I still approach things through hands-on exploration. Whether I am working on an object or an interior, I need that physical relationship with the material and the process.

When you look back at the first things you designed, can you already recognise anything of the designer you are now?

The first object I remember designing in design school was a kitchen scale, and it has absolutely nothing to do with what I make today. It was generic and not particularly nice. But I forgive myself. I had no idea what I was doing yet.

Only two years later, I made a woodworking project about overcoming performance anxiety and perfectionism. I think something was awakened there.

Scenes from a Home became an important starting point for several pieces you developed later. Can you take us back to that project and what you were trying to do with it?

Scenes from a Home was a very conceptual, self-initiated project. I emptied my apartment and designed and built all the loose interiors myself, using hand tools in my living room. The idea was to create what I called a “true lifestyle brand”, one where the lifestyle itself was actually part of the project.

At the end, I renamed my home a “concept store” and sold the furniture I had made. It was quite an experimental way of working, and many of the objects were almost sketches rather than finished products.

But several ideas stayed with me. Knock Off Neon and New Shoes, for example, both began there. Later, I returned to them and developed them into much more refined pieces.

New Shoes is still evolving. You’re now working on new versions with resin shoes and a different colour palette. What are you exploring with this next iteration?

I’m currently developing resin shoes in light blue, purple, green and pale yellow, matched tone-on-tone with the wood.

What interests me is how such a small element can shift the personality of the whole object. The basic form of the stool remains quite restrained, so the shoes become this small moment of ornamentation and character.

That idea has been there from the beginning: a little ornamentation goes a long way.

Material samples and New Shoes in light blue by Ebba Lindgren. Photography by Ebba Lindgren. Courtesy of studioebbalindgren.com.

Are there artists, architects, writers or filmmakers whose work has really shaped your taste?

So many. Usually not as direct references, but more in a taste-defining or “this made me think” kind of way.

There is one clear exception: my project Really Rococo was directly inspired by Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette.

Recently, I saw Wong Kar-wai’s Fallen Angels for the first time and loved its atmosphere and pace. I think I have liked every film of his that I have seen.

I have also been reading Emily St. John Mandel. Her books often contain imaginary worlds or alternative timelines, which I really enjoy. Most recently I read The Glass Hotel. And I loved All Fours by Miranda July. She does everything: art, film, writing. I like all of it.

The architects who inspire me most are the Swedish office Förstberg Ling. I love the harmony of their work and the way they use materials. In that case, I am admittedly biased: one of them is my boyfriend, so I am also directly inspired by him. We share ideas with each other all the time.

You have been exploring how AI can support human artistry. What first made you curious about that relationship?

A couple of years ago, image-generating AI produced these mesmerisingly absurd images. There was a brief window when it felt futuristic and almost unproblematic.

But even then, there was an unease underneath it. How would this change the creative field? How would it change the world?

Part of me wanted to get ahead of it. I was interested in the tension of the tool: on one hand, it offered a completely new way to create; on the other, it was entirely built from imagery and ideas that already existed.

The question became: can I actually make something new with this?

After spending time with these tools, what do you think remains distinctly human in the creative process?

AI mimics us very well. My attempt to “get ahead” and understand how it could support us worked for a while, but its more problematic sides became increasingly difficult to ignore.

Even if we put aside the larger societal issues, such as the concentration of power and energy consumption, there are aesthetic dilemmas too.

Text AI is seductive. It flatters you and talks back to you. It can produce perfectly good text, but there is often no edge. The images can be beautiful and still feel strangely flat.

Something is missing, and that missing thing is where my interest has moved. I want to understand what the human touch actually is.

My current hypothesis is that it has something to do with emotion, lived experience, background, motives and sensory knowledge. Knowing how a textile feels against your skin. Being emotionally stirred by an artwork.

Making something because you have the capacity to care.

Really Rococo in the CNC workshop by Ebba Lindgren. Photography by Ebba Lindgren. Courtesy of studioebbalindgren.com.

What advice would you give to someone trying to build an authentic creative voice today?

Thank you for calling me authentic!

First, make sure you actually want to be authentic. People use “performative” as if it were automatically a bad thing, when playing with identity can be very fun. But yes, I do think it is important to be true to yourself when developing a creative voice, performative or otherwise.

I have two pieces of advice.

First: do not brand yourself too hard. Do not create a niche that is so rigid, or an aesthetic with so many rules, that you lose the freedom to explore the full width of your creativity. With time, people will recognise what is authentically yours anyway.

I am not sure this is the most commercially viable advice. Cohesive branding is obviously useful in business, so there is probably a middle ground somewhere.

Second: do not spend too long making mood boards. Aesthetic references matter, but actually making things matters more.

Before we finish, I’d like to leave design aside for a moment and ask you one final question. What is something that has quietly stayed with you lately?

This morning, I was talking to a friend about the activists on the Empire State Building, more as a cultural phenomenon: the proposal, the banner, the outfits.

I told him that the banner said, “When the power of love beats the love of power, the world will know peace,” and he unexpectedly teared up.

It was a very sweet, touching moment.

I really think the message is true.

What I found most distinctive about Ebba by the end of our conversation was her sense of humour. She can be sharply critical of the creative world, of branding, of AI, even of her own early work, without becoming cynical about any of it. There is a generosity in the way she speaks about making, and a willingness to admit that pleasure, absurdity and even a bad idea can have their place.

Her atmosphere, to me, sits somewhere between wit and sensitivity. A stool can wear tiny glass shoes and still be the result of serious material research. A conversation about AI can move from power and aesthetics to the feeling of textile against skin. She seems interested in the point where something stops being merely clever and starts to affect us.

And then, almost unexpectedly, we ended with her telling me about a friend tearing up during a conversation that morning. I liked that this was the thing she chose to leave us with. After everything we had discussed about objects, technology and creative identity, the moment that stayed with her was simply one person being moved by something another person had said. It felt very Ebba.

Discover more about Ebba Lindgren and Studio Ebba Lindgren at studioebbalindgren.com or follow her on Instagram: @ebbalindgren_

This story was created in collaboration with Ebba Lindgren / Studio Ebba Lindgren. Interview, editing and editorial direction by Rarefied.