Some people spend their childhood collecting memories of a single home. Others spend it learning how to leave.

Before Naama Hofman became known for her quietly sculptural light objects, she had already developed the quality that would later define her work: the ability to observe. Growing up in Israel, moving often and rarely staying in one place for more than a few years, she learned to read rooms before belonging to them.

That sensitivity now lives inside her work. Her pieces make the whole space feel a bit warmer, without taking over the room. Precise, restrained and quietly present, they carry something of her own story: a search for stability, a memory of sunlight, and the discovery that an object can become a language when words are not enough.

She founded her studio in Tel Aviv in 2010, in a city with no fixed design establishment to answer to, a place where, as she puts it, if your work was good, people simply noticed. Years later she relocated to Berlin, a city with the opposite contest: an entire design history already in place, and a voice of her own to protect inside it.

I really connected with that part of her story. The hardest part of building anything is rarely the beginning. It’s staying recognisable to yourself once the work starts existing in rooms you’ll never enter, observed by people who’ll never know what it cost to make.

For the first chapter of Makers of Atmosphere, I sat down with Naama Hofman to talk about belonging, observation, memory, and the journey from searching for a place in the world to creating objects that gently shift the rooms we live in.

“The first object I designed became my way of talking to the world. It was the moment I found my voice and my place in it.” Naama Hofman

Growing up, you moved frequently throughout Israel. How do you think those early experiences shaped the way you see spaces today?

Growing up we moved a lot. I never stayed in one place for more than four years. Not having a stable home made me very sensitive to spaces and people. I lived in so many different rooms and homes that I became a good absorber. I was always watching the people around me, learning how to fit in and reading new environments quickly. It made me very aware of how a space feels and how people move within it.

I also grew up in sunny Israel, where light is part of every room. A lot of my memories are filled with that warm, burning feeling of the sun— and it still has a huge effect on me. Light is something I feel as much as I see.

There was a time when you weren’t sure design was your path. What changed your mind?

I decided to become a designer a few years after graduating. I was never a good student and, for a long time, I didn’t think I belonged in that world. I always sketched, always observed, always experimented but only for myself.

Before giving up completely, I decided to give it one last try. I wanted to create something from sketch to finished object and see if I still loved the process. I made a lamp, and I loved every part of making it, including the way it made me feel. When it was finished and I received such positive feedback, I became a designer in my own eyes. Since then, I’ve only wanted to create light objects.

So the first object that truly started everything was already a light.

Yes. The first object that truly felt like me was Light Object 001. After finishing the final design and seeing it complete, it was the best feeling. That was the beginning of finding my voice and my place in the world. Knowing that I could do it gave me a lot of power. It made me feel “heavy” in a good way, as if I was carrying something inside me and had finally found a way to communicate it. That object became my language. It was my way of talking to the world.

Your pieces always feel incredibly calm and disciplined. When you look back at your different collections, like the transition from the Tube lines to the glass pieces, do you feel like they act as a sort of diary for different chapters of your life?

I think they do. The Tube Collection was designed while I was building my studio in Tel Aviv. It was emotionally and financially demanding, and I think you can feel that tension in those pieces. They carry perseverance and the determination to make something real.

With the glass collection, something opened up. Working with glass allowed for more fluid forms and colour. I think I’ve loosened up over the years, and the work reflects that.

When you’re sitting in the studio sketching, where does your mind actually go? Are there specific emotions or memories you find yourself returning to while you design?

I move back and forth between dreaming and reality. The beginning of the process is my favourite part, when I can dream freely — from wild structures to impossible materials. Then I bring those ideas back toward reality, calm them down, and turn them into something I can actually produce. But mostly, I dream. I go to places in my mind where any material, any form, is possible.

Moving your entire life from Tel Aviv to Berlin is a massive shift. How did that change of scenery alter the way you approach your work or think about yourself as a creative?

It makes a huge difference. In Tel Aviv, I felt I could do anything. It was chaotic, energetic, and there wasn’t an established design system to fit into. If your work was good, people noticed.

Berlin is different. Design is already deeply established here. You’re entering something that already exists. My biggest challenge has been holding onto the creative freedom I had before and not losing my own voice among all the beautiful design around me.

What part of yourself do you think people unknowingly experience when they live with one of your objects?

I’m quite a quiet person, but I have a lot to say. I think that’s present in my work. My objects don’t shout or demand attention. They’re simply there. But if you stop and really look, you notice the decisions, the details and the care behind them. There’s something strong and considered behind that stillness.

The way we view our own work changes so much over time. Has your personal definition of what makes a project “successful” changed since you first started out?

Completely. At first, success meant proving to myself that I could do this. It was something very personal.

Today, success is creating an object that naturally belongs in someone’s space. I want my work to resonate with people, to carry my voice and allow me to communicate through beauty, craftsmanship and intention.

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

Listen to your gut and keep going. But don’t do it alone. Invite people into your studio, into your world. Share your work online, but invest even more in real-life conversations. Nothing replaces being in the same room with someone and showing them what you’ve made.

When you imagine the future of your studio, what is the dream you still hope to realise?

I’d love to create a bespoke lighting installation for a place with cultural meaning: a church, the entrance to a historic building, somewhere where light becomes part of the architecture and the memory of a place.

Before we wrap up, Naama, there’s one question I like to ask everyone I interview. It has very little to do with design, but somehow it always reveals something about the person behind the work. What is something that has quietly stayed with you lately?

Spring.

I know it’s a cliché, but every year it surprises me. Growing up in Israel, we didn’t really have spring. It went from winter to heat almost overnight. Even after seven years in Berlin, I still feel something awaken every time spring arrives.

Naama’s story, in the end, is reflected in her lights: the constant movement of childhood, the habit of observing rooms before belonging to them, the memory of Israeli sun, and the desire to create objects that speak quietly but precisely.

Calling them lighting objects is accurate, but it does not quite say enough. What Naama seems to care about is not only how a room is illuminated, but how it begins to feel once light enters it.

When I asked Naama what kind of atmosphere makes her feel most like herself, she answered without hesitation: “Sunny, bright rooms. Sitting in the sun has always been my thing.”

Suddenly, everything made sense. Her work has never really been only about light. It is about the feeling light leaves behind.

Discover more about Naama Hofman Light Objects at naamahofman.com or follow the studio on Instagram: @naama_hofman

This story was created in collaboration with Naama Hofman Light Objects. Interview, editing and editorial direction by Rarefied.