Buying a chair for conversation and buying one for an evening with a book can feel like two separate furniture decisions. One asks you to sit up; the other invites you to sink back. If your living room doesn’t have space for both, the Scissor Chair offers an appealing compromise. Produced by the German company Wilhelm Knoll, this mid-century design changes its sitting position while keeping the appearance of an ordinary upholstered armchair. Its designer remains unknown, but the problem it addresses is familiar.

The name gives away the basic geometry. According to a vintage dealer’s description, lifting the armrests allows the crossed legs to unfold. The chair moves between a taller, more upright configuration and a lower lounging position. Instead of leaving the legs stationary while only the backrest moves, the transformation changes the stance of the chair itself. I like that the supporting structure participates in the adjustment. Those wooden legs have a job beyond providing a handsome silhouette.

Designer: Unknown (produced by Wilhelm Knoll)

In photographs of a cream-upholstered example, the narrow wooden arms trace an open shape around the seat and back. There’s plenty of air beneath the upholstery, and the legs remain visually separate rather than disappearing inside a boxy base. In the upright position, it looks quite composed. Lowered, the crossed supports become more obvious, and the chair takes on a relaxed, backward-leaning posture. The useful surprise is how little visual fuss accompanies that change.

The adjustment is more substantial than a slight tilt. One dealer lists seat heights of 45 and 36 centimeters for an example, roughly 18 and 14 inches. That’s a difference of about three and a half inches, enough to make these visibly different seating arrangements. Those are seller-provided measurements for a vintage piece, rather than a universal specification, but they help explain the appeal. You’re choosing between two distinct positions, with different relationships to the floor and surrounding furniture.

Underneath, the mechanism is considerably busier than the silhouette suggests. A dealer’s underside photograph reveals pivoting metal links, brackets, and a coil spring tucked between the wooden supports. I’d happily leave that view to someone servicing it. From a design perspective, though, the separation makes sense: the mechanical assembly sits beneath the upholstered seat, where it can do its work without dictating the appearance of every surface above it. The chair doesn’t need to look like workshop equipment to have moving parts.

For a smaller living room, I see the attraction as flexibility rather than some miraculous recovery of square footage. A chair that changes posture still needs room around it, especially when its stance changes. The more convincing benefit is having one seat that can suit a conversation and then offer a lower position for unwinding. That’s a modest promise, and a useful one. I’d rather have two clearly differentiated options than an elaborate transformation with no obvious purpose.

The Knoll name deserves a little care here. Wilhelm Knoll was a German business whose roots go back to a Stuttgart leather shop founded in 1865. It shouldn’t be casually confused with the American company Hans Knoll established in 1938, although the businesses share family history. Vintage dealers date Scissor Chair examples to the 1950s. Keeping the manufacturer credit separate from the unidentified designer matters, particularly with an object whose mechanism deserves more attention than a famous surname alone.

Of course, photographs can’t tell me how smoothly a surviving example adjusts or how supportive it feels after an hour. With a vintage moving chair, I’d want the mechanism demonstrated and its condition checked before buying. That practical reservation doesn’t diminish the idea. The Scissor Chair appeals to me because its cleverness is so specific: lift the arms, alter the stance, settle into a different position. A living room doesn’t always need another chair. Sometimes the chair already there could simply offer another way to sit.

The post A Hidden Mechanism Turns the Scissor Chair Into a Lounger first appeared on Yanko Design.

Even though I already have drawers and boxes of various stationery items, I’m always on the lookout for things that are cute and unique but still useful for work and my hobbies. Scissors are one of those things you can never have too many of, especially if they serve different functions. There are pairs for everyday cutting, for journaling, for cutting things into cute shapes, and some that are just highly decorative.

If you love stationery and music, the Rockstar Guitar Scissors may be your next tiny purchase. As the name suggests, it’s a pair of scissors shaped like an electric guitar. But more than just being uniquely shaped, the design itself has a role in storing and using the scissors. It’s the kind of item you might want to keep out of your office drawer, and it could also make a small gift or stocking stuffer this upcoming holiday season.

Click Here to Buy Now: Starting at $30

A lot of differently shaped stationery items can just be novelty things that are good to display on your desk. This one, though, has parts that were thought out to match the theme while making it a functional piece for everyday use. So forget about guitar graphics slapped onto a pair of conventional scissors. This one takes the idea further. Well, it still can’t play actual music, of course.

The guitar body separates into the handles, with the finger openings as part of the lower body of the instrument it’s imitating. The narrow neck of the “guitar” separates into the cutting blades. It even has a removable ABS cap that completes the headstock when the scissors are closed. According to the store’s description, the cap also covers the sharp point and prevents the scissors from opening while it’s in place. That gives a decorative detail a useful job when you’re putting the scissors away.

The scissors have stainless steel blades, while the handles and cap use ABS plastic and the stand is made from elastomer. You can choose from three color options: black, metallic blue, and pearl white. They measure about 7.8 inches overall, and the YD Select lists black at US$30; metallic blue and pearl white at US$40 each.

They even come with a stand that holds up your closed scissors like an actual guitar at rest on an instrument stand. For anyone who tends to lose smaller tools among notebooks and pen cases, having a dedicated spot could make them easier to find. Of course, the stand takes up some desk space, so this isn’t really a space-saving solution. It’s more about giving a useful item a place where you’ll actually notice it.

Made in Japan by Nikken Cutlery, the scissors are also known as Seki Sound. Nikken says craftspeople in Seki individually sharpen the blades, and it describes a fluorine-coated finish intended to reduce adhesive sticking when cutting tape. That’s a relevant feature if your stationery projects involve tape, although it shouldn’t be read as a promise that the blades will never need cleaning. The guitar detailing also includes six strings and frets, rather than relying only on the outline.

Compared with options from a big brand like Fiskars, the Rockstar Guitar Scissors put more emphasis on their display-ready shape. Fiskars offers SoftGrip handles, Easy Action spring-assisted opening, and nonstick models, while its MoMA collection puts artwork on familiar scissor handles. The Rockstar design instead turns the whole tool into a miniature instrument, complete with a cap and stand. There isn’t enough evidence to say it cuts better or feels more comfortable than those alternatives; its clearest distinction is how the guitar shape carries through to storage.

I wouldn’t expect the Rockstar Guitar Scissors to replace every specialty scissor in my drawers. What appeals to me is having something with a recognizable personality that still has a reason to be on my desk. For a stationery lover who also loves music, it could make a good holiday gift or stocking stuffer, especially if you’d rather give something useful than another ornament that just sits there. At least this little guitar has a job between its imaginary performances.

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A mushroom with glowing eyes is an easier sell for my nightstand than a miniature humanoid. OKA’s Mori takes that approachable shape and gives it a specific job: offering a little company and a reason to pause, without making another screen the center of attention. Currently offered through an early-purchase program, the companion robot uses light, sound, and movement to bring some presence to a quiet room. The ambition is modest enough to feel appealing.

For anyone who wants to unwind without reaching for their phone, the physical design makes a good opening argument. Mori stands just under 12 inches tall at its maximum height, with a broad illuminated cap above a rounded, fabric-covered body. Two eyes peek out from underneath and the fabric contains 25 percent real wool. In the supplied photographs, the proportions suggest a small table lamp that wandered into an animated movie, then decided to stay. I’d happily make room for that silhouette.

Designer: OKA

The backstory gives that friendliness some purpose. OKA cofounder Hua Wang said he spent a decade designing mechanisms that brought people back to their phones. With Mori, he wanted a robot that belonged in a home rather than a large, intrusive machine. That’s a useful starting point. A domestic robot has to earn its place among your furniture before its intelligence becomes particularly interesting.

Mori’s controls lean into that furniture-friendly character. According to OKA, placing both hands on its base starts a guided breathing session, while patting its head makes the cap retract and turns it into a lamp. Light and natural soundscapes provide the setting for those breaks. I like the directness of those gestures. Touching an object to change its behavior feels appropriate here, especially when the proposed activity is stepping away from the usual sequence of opening an app, choosing a menu, and adjusting settings.

Importantly, Mori doesn’t speak in words. Its vocabulary consists of sounds, expressions, light, and movement. That limitation might be its most attractive feature. I don’t particularly want a bedside object to become another conversational obligation. A glance or a small movement leaves more room for interpretation, much like an animated character whose personality comes through before it says anything. The lamp setting also gives its owner a way to dial that personality down, with most companion reactions reduced. Cute still needs an off-ramp.

Of course, those expressive eyes come with a less whimsical consideration: sensing people inside their homes. OKA’s privacy policy says Mori’s core AI runs locally, with camera and microphone inputs processed on the device. Raw audio and image frames are discarded after processing, while recognition information can remain locally to distinguish users. The policy separately allows collection of account, device, and diagnostic information. That distinction matters. Local processing is a welcome design decision, but I’d still read the permissions before inviting a camera-equipped companion onto the dresser.

OKA also says Mori learns and becomes more individual through repeated interaction. That’s the promise I’d reserve judgment on until longer-term use establishes what actually changes. A familiar gesture could become endearing, or simply predictable. The interesting design challenge is giving Mori enough variation to sustain affection without making it demand attention. Its quiet role sets a higher bar than the adorable appearance initially suggests: it needs to remain pleasant when the novelty has worn off.

At $649 before taxes and shipping for First Access orders, Mori is an expensive experiment in companionship. That purchase includes two years of its Nature Time subscription; OKA says basic functions won’t require a paid plan, and the included subscription won’t automatically become a paid one. I’m drawn to the object, but the price makes its everyday behavior more important than its introductory charm. The real payoff would be a robot you enjoy having nearby even when you aren’t actively playing with it. A mushroom-shaped lamp already has a place in a home. Mori has to make the eyes worth paying for.

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The back of Teenage Engineering’s EP-35 opens to reveal a compartment for cables and accessories. It’s a wonderfully unglamorous feature to put on a music gadget. An amp can look perfectly composed in a product photo, but taking it anywhere means figuring out where the supporting cast goes. Giving those loose pieces a home inside the speaker feels like an acknowledgment of how people actually use their equipment.

That practical streak extends beyond storage. Listed for sale at $399, the EP-35 combines a portable speaker, an instrument amplifier, and a USB audio interface. It accepts guitar, microphone, line-level, Bluetooth, and USB audio, with multiple sources able to play together. The problem it addresses is straightforward: playing guitar over a backing track, or adding vocals, shouldn’t require assembling a small equipment department. Here, those connections meet in one box.

Designer: Teenage Engineering

Visually, the EP-35 has the charm of equipment that might belong in a very stylish school science lab. Its gray body, square grille, integrated handle, and orange accents are deliberately matter-of-fact. I like that the speaker drivers remain visible behind the grid. They give the front a slightly awkward, almost characterful expression. Nothing about the proportions suggests an object desperate to disappear into your decor, which is part of its appeal.

The controls make a similar impression. There are physical dials for choosing effects and adjusting their intensity, with eight presets each for guitar and microphone. That’s an approachable arrangement: select a sound, turn a control, hear what changes. I’d rather see that direct relationship on something intended for casual playing than a screen full of options. The microphone effects even include presets called “robo choir” and “frog,” which gives you a fair idea of the intended mood.

The USB audio interface is less visually entertaining but potentially more useful. Connect the EP-35 to a computer and it can serve as a recording interface, giving the same object a role at a desk after it comes home. That continuity makes sense to me. A portable device earns its shelf space more easily when it doesn’t become redundant the moment you’re near a power outlet and a laptop.

Inside the storage compartment, Teenage Engineering has also included a small camp light. It can illuminate the compartment automatically when opened, stay on, or react to incoming audio in disco mode. Tilting the speaker backward makes those LEDs display the battery level. Some of this is useful, some is cheerfully unnecessary. I’m happy with that balance. Checking a battery through a small physical gesture is a more memorable interaction than another tiny percentage readout.

Portability does need a little perspective, though. At about seven pounds, the EP-35 is something you carry by its handle, not casually toss into a small shoulder bag. Teenage Engineering rates battery life at 12 hours with the volume set to five, so that figure shouldn’t be treated as an all-day guarantee at any loudness. It’s also splash-resistant rather than waterproof. Those distinctions matter if the appealing camp light has you mentally packing it for a weekend outdoors.

There’s room to expand the setup, too. Two EP-35s can play Bluetooth audio in stereo through broadcast mode. Teenage Engineering’s instructions let you assign left and right channels by tilting each speaker before starting that mode. Connected instruments take a different route: linking their sound between speakers requires a line-out-to-line-in cable. That’s worth understanding before imagining a completely wireless mini stage. The wireless convenience applies specifically to Bluetooth playback.

For me, the $399 price makes the most sense if those musical connections will get regular use. Someone who only wants background listening would be paying for considerable capability they might never touch. Sound quality still needs a listening test; clever packaging can’t settle that question. But I appreciate the attention paid to what happens between sessions. The music stops, the cables come out, and the EP-35 gives you somewhere to put them. That’s a modest design decision with a very recognizable payoff.

The post Teenage Engineering’s EP-35 Amp Has a Hidden Cable Compartment first appeared on Yanko Design.

Blue and lilac yarn snakes through white plastic ribs in one of FilaLoom’s samples, giving the object a basketlike appearance that makes me want to pick it up. The appeal is easy to understand: intricate geometry only gets you so far when you want an object with a textile character. FilaLoom brings actual yarn into the process, letting the fibers remain visibly, unapologetically themselves.

Developed by industrial and computational designer Joram de Haas for his master’s thesis in Integrated Product Design at TU Delft, FilaLoom lets a desktop 3D printer automatically weave yarn into printed objects. It addresses a practical fabrication problem: combining printed structures with thread without making yarn placement a separate manual task. It’s a working research project, with DIY files available, rather than a finished consumer accessory.

Designer: Joram de Haas

The prototype uses a Bambu Lab A1 fitted with a yarn-depositing tool and a parking station. The printer builds plastic anchor points, picks up the tool, and guides yarn between them. It then parks the tool and resumes printing, securing the yarn where needed. That alternating sequence allows the structure and its textile elements to develop together, rather than requiring someone to thread a completed plastic skeleton afterward.

I like the restraint in the mechanism. FilaLoom uses the printer’s existing movement system, with no additional electronics. A mechanical coupling handles tool changes, while a spring-loaded spool provides adjustable yarn tension. The machine already knows how to move precisely; this attachment gives that movement another useful job.

Visually, the blue-and-lilac sample is a persuasive introduction. Its white vertical elements remain clearly legible, while the colored yarn establishes a contrasting horizontal rhythm. Neither material disappears into the other. To my eye, that makes the construction more interesting than a uniformly textured surface. You can follow the relationship between the ribs and the thread, which gives the pattern a purpose beyond decoration. It looks assembled through its own making.

The thesis also explores soft yarn textures and cable-driven interactions, extending the idea beyond basketlike objects. That range matters because a recognizable woven pattern could easily become the project’s entire identity. I’d be more interested in seeing designers use the process to decide where an object should bend, where it needs structure, or where a different surface character would be welcome. Those are design questions worth experimenting with.

The DIY format gives curious makers somewhere to start. De Haas’s GitHub repository provides printable component files and Grasshopper scripts for generating compatible GCode, the instructions that direct the printer’s movements. Still, that’s a more involved proposition than downloading a decorative planter file and pressing print. For a general audience, the useful distinction is that FilaLoom is an invitation to experiment with a fabrication method, not a ready-made home gadget.

There are physical compromises, too. The researchers report that the attachment reduces the A1’s usable combined printing-and-weaving volume to 54% of its original build volume. Yarn tension also needs care: too much can deform a print or pull it off the build plate. These constraints make the prototype more convincing to me, because its expanded capabilities come with clearly described boundaries.

I wouldn’t judge this project by how quickly it might replace a familiar manufacturing process. Its more immediate value is giving designers a way to test combinations they might otherwise have to assemble by hand. Even a small sample can help answer whether a pattern deserves to become a larger object. That feels like an appropriately useful ambition for a research tool.

For me, the strongest outcome would be an object whose form genuinely needs both materials. The yarn shouldn’t have to justify itself as a decorative flourish, and the plastic shouldn’t merely serve as a bulky substitute for thread. FilaLoom makes that relationship available for exploration. I’d happily trade another perfectly smooth printed vase for an experiment that leaves a little more to discover under your fingertips.

The post FilaLoom Weaves Yarn Into 3D Prints Without Extra Motors first appeared on Yanko Design.

A desk setup can look perfect and still feel wrong by lunch. The monitor is aligned, the cables are hidden, and the chair matches the room, yet you’re shuffling around trying to get comfortable. That gap between a workspace that photographs well and one that fits the person using it is the more interesting design problem to me. It’s where EFFYDESK’s Aery Ergonomic Chair makes its case.

For anyone whose office occupies a bedroom corner or shares space with the living room, choosing a chair involves a negotiation. You want something you can spend time in, but you also have to look at it after closing the laptop. The Aery approaches that compromise with a mesh back, a cushioned seat, and adjustments that let its proportions work around the person sitting in it.

Designer: effydesk

The mesh is doing some of the visual work here. A tall upholstered back can become a fairly imposing presence beside a small desk. With the Aery, the open surface allows the supporting structure to remain visible, breaking up what could otherwise read as one large block. It still looks like an office chair, especially with that separate headrest, but its outline has a little breathing room.

I appreciate that it doesn’t try to disguise its purpose. In black, the frame, armrests, and cushion form a straightforward piece of working furniture. It isn’t pretending to be a dining chair you could drag into a meeting. That distinction matters in a home office, where choosing something purely for the room’s aesthetic can leave you making compromises every time you sit down.

The fabric-covered cushion gives the design a softer counterpoint to the mesh back. It also offers a combination that may appeal to people who prefer padding beneath them without wanting an upholstered surface behind their entire torso. I like the visual balance between the two. The seat gives the chair some substance, while the open back keeps that substance from extending all the way upward.

The most useful adjustment is also one of the least visually dramatic: the seat slides forward and backward. Rather than changing the chair’s appearance in any meaningful way, it changes how the cushion sits beneath your legs. That’s worth paying attention to if you’ve ever loved the look of a chair but found yourself perched near its edge because sitting all the way back didn’t feel right.

The movable armrests follow the same thinking. They adjust in height, slide in different directions, and rotate, giving you some freedom to place the supports where your arms naturally rest. The appeal is less about collecting adjustment options than avoiding a fixed position that doesn’t suit you. A chair’s silhouette can look perfectly balanced while its armrests feel entirely wrong for the person using it.

The headrest and reclining back introduce a more relaxed posture into the design. I see the appeal for reading through a document or leaning back between tasks, particularly when the desk is where several parts of your day happen. Still, the headrest feels secondary to getting the seat and arms right. Those are the relationships you live with while doing the work.

I haven’t sat in the Aery, so its cushion comfort and the feel of its controls remain open questions. Images and adjustment lists can explain the design, but they can’t tell me whether an armrest stays put when I want it to. That’s what I’d want to check in person, along with how naturally the chair fits beneath my desk.

What appeals to me is how much of the Aery’s design can be put to an everyday use. The mesh changes its visual presence; the cushion changes the sitting surface; the adjustments offer room to work out a better fit. It gives a home-office buyer reasons to look beyond the styled photograph, while still acknowledging that the chair has to live in the room.

The post Aery’s Office Chair Offers a Fit You Can Actually Fine-Tune first appeared on Yanko Design.

A blue king sticks straight out from a checkerboard cylinder, looking remarkably composed for a piece that should be falling onto the table. That sideways stance explains Turner, a rotating magnetic chess concept by Joffey, faster than a technical diagram could. The immediate problem is gravity: a vertical playing surface needs a way to keep its pieces attached. Magnets provide the proposed answer, letting the familiar chessboard curl upright without leaving its army in a heap.

Created for Day 04 of #productober, under the prompt “magnetic,” Turner explores what happens when a board loops back into itself. It’s a concept rather than a finished product, and I like that its ambition is playful rather than pretending chess needs fixing. The appeal is seeing a familiar game become an object you might want to leave out, even between matches.

Designer: Joffey

The supplied images show a blue-and-white grid wrapped around a tall cylinder, capped by dark blue circular ends and supported by a flared pedestal. The base gives it the presence of a small tabletop sculpture. From some angles, it resembles an unusually elaborate trophy. From others, the pieces projecting around its circumference make it look like a tiny planet populated entirely by royalty and horses.

The color does a lot of work here. Deep blue replaces the expected black, giving the set a softer domestic character without sacrificing the contrast with white. I’d happily take that over another aggressively futuristic chess redesign. The pieces retain recognizable silhouettes, so the unfamiliar board has familiar companions. You can still pick out a knight or a king without learning a whole new visual language.

Magnetism also earns its place in the design. Remove it, and the central idea stops working. The pieces are intended to cling to the curved surface while the board rotates, bringing different areas into view. That makes turning the board part of the interaction. Instead of simply surveying a flat field, players would need to reveal portions of the position as they go.

That’s also where my enthusiasm meets a practical reservation. A flat chessboard lets both players inspect the entire position at once. Turner’s cylinder necessarily conceals part of the grid from any single viewpoint. Rotation offers a way to look around it, but remembering what’s on the far side could become another demand on your attention. I can imagine enjoying that extra spatial puzzle. I can also imagine wanting my ordinary board back during a particularly complicated game.

The looping surface raises another question: what happens at the point where opposite edges meet? Joffey’s description suggests a changed way of playing, but the supplied material doesn’t establish a complete rule set. It would be a stretch to assign new movement rules to the pieces. Still, the possibility is intriguing. Joining edges could have consequences beyond appearance if the designer chooses to make that continuity part of play.

I appreciate that Turner doesn’t disguise every familiar feature in pursuit of novelty. The pedestal, restrained palette, and recognizable pieces give your eye enough to understand before the curved grid complicates things. Even the pieces set beside the base in the images help establish scale and context, although no dimensions are provided. You understand that this belongs on a table, within reach, rather than behind glass.

For a developed version, I’d care as much about the feel of removing a pawn as the appearance of the cylinder. Magnetic attachment would need to resist slipping while allowing deliberate moves without an awkward tug. The rotation would need similar care: easy enough to use, controlled enough not to become a distraction. Those are unresolved details, but they’re also where an appealing rendering could become a satisfying physical object.

Turner makes me curious enough to want a game, provided someone explains the rules first. Its appeal lies in having to look around a chessboard that usually gives you everything at once. That could be an entertaining complication, even if it never replaces the flat board in the closet.

The post Chess Without a Flat Board: Turner’s Rotating Tower Concept first appeared on Yanko Design.