Annotations cc: Linde Freya Tangelder

Linde Freya Tangelder, designer and founder of Destroyers/Builders, approaches design as an ongoing negotiation between fragility and structure, uncertainty and resolve. Her practice is grounded in the language of materials—how they behave, connect, and retain traces of transformation. Through limited-edition objects and collaborations, she sustains a distinct voice, balancing instinctive experimentation with architectural reasoning. Rather than focusing on individual projects, we discuss the rhythms behind them, the emotional and material undercurrents. At its core, the conversation reveals a practice shaped by contrast: between the permanence of objects and the fluidity of thought.

Anoe: Words can shape how a project is understood, even unconsciously, by drawing you into the designer’s thinking. The titles of your projects are evocative, like Rooted Flows or Solidified Reflections. I wonder how we tend to present projects—and how much of the language used is a beginning, or a final observation. Is there something more in how you relate to language?

Linde: It’s an interesting step—often happening mid-process, when I note down some thoughts. A sentence or title can bring clarity, it can support or even sharpen the direction of the work. Solidified Reflections came from thinking about materials changing from liquid to solid, but also about the way structures reflect or distort. Often, the titles contain contradictions. One of my more recent pieces, a glass table, is called Fluid Joinery. Fluid suggests liquidity, and joinery suggests a fixed, structural moment. That tension creates an atmosphere that supports you in understanding the work better.

A: You seem interested in states of being, and their transitions—like you said, liquid or solid, something that is joining, something coming together, and the tension that it creates. Does that reflect something personal to you?

L: I’m fascinated by materials and how they behave. What drives the design process is the interplay between structure and material. I’m inspired by architectural systems, and structural logic. Think of bricks stacked atop one another, or columns supporting floor slabs. That’s often the starting point: how different elements meet or balance. From there, at an architectural level, I begin sketching, and those ideas naturally reappear through joinery, connections, or in how a material behaves—whether rigid or fluid, strict or amorphous.

A: It’s capturing the transition—it’s also what gives the work its final form, because the material state remains visible or perceptible in some way.

L: Yes, and sometimes you want the outcome to be less defined. That’s what I find interesting about design; you work towards a point where you make compromises and decide: this is the one we are going to make. That’s always very difficult; it’s a constant struggle to find the perfect end result. So that’s why I value fluidity. In general, I want to stay open in my work.

A: There’s the element of letting go. I’m really glad you simply said that you still struggle with that part of the process. I can relate to it. It’s sometimes hard to narrow it down to what you actually proceed with, particularly because the material world has more consequences than the imaginary one. You simply can’t try everything.

L: There’s always an element of surprise in the process. I work across different materials, and it’s really my curiosity that drives me. That’s how I keep discovering. The production process leaves its mark; seams, matte or polished areas, details you can’t fully control. I’ve come to embrace that. It’s a kind of training in accepting imperfection. That’s something that got stronger for me in the past few years. In recent works, I’ve highlighted the rawness of metal, even the brushstrokes of lacquer, as I want the material to speak for itself.

A: There might be a degree of fear or hesitation when you work with a material you haven’t used before. Does it ever bring some kind of trouble? Curiosity is what drives the excitement and flow, but I imagine it also feels unsettling, even in a good way, when you work with something unfamiliar. How do you balance that excitement with uncertainty, and embrace naivety and insecurity?

L: That’s honestly how my life feels most of the time, somewhere between curiosity and insecurity. An idea is usually so simple in my mind, but in reality it turns out to be incredibly complicated. Joinery is quite a funny subject for me, because it’s one of my weaknesses. I prefer when materials stay open, fluid, but joinery requires technical precision. It is therefore highly important for me to work with my craftsmen, who take over certain technical steps in the process.

A: What happens when you’re working with something you haven’t tried before? It can be hard to estimate how things will turn out, how many iterations you’ll need, or if something will even work.

L: Sometimes the work is completed ahead of time and delivered to galleries in advance, as was the case recently for Milan Design Week. That allows some margin for problem-solving. For my collection, which was also launched in Milan, I worked right up to the last moment. There’s a natural rhythm: first I finalize the work for the galleries, then I focus on my design series, which often includes the most experimental, risky, and untested ideas. Even after the pieces are exhibited, there are sometimes small developments left to finalize.

A: That also gives you the chance to see how the work appears in context. And it allows some of the finer details to evolve naturally, almost through experience.

L: Exactly. After presenting, you go back into production, and that phase brings new ideas with it. I often start thinking about how the piece could become a family, how it could grow into a series or evolve in other directions. The reason I see value in keeping an open or fluid process is that endless connections between certain gestures of making become clear. Often, cross-over inspiration appears. For example, I recently connected the shape of carves (ref. Sculpting Archetypes) to sections of architectural elements, which is also reflected in the soft, layered parts of my Reworked chair. These irregular shapes can also be understood as an upscaled version of a carve. Realizations like this bring me great satisfaction.

A: There’s something exciting about how each project eventually leads to the next, almost naturally. Do you ever experience a sense of emptiness after the completion of a project or after an exhibition, when that flow pauses?

L: There’s definitely a feeling of emptiness after such an intense phase—of so much input, new visions, and conversations. Returning to the studio I’m questioning: What now? That shift can be demanding, it’s when I’m setting new goals. I’m currently having the urge to move beyond individual pieces, to work more spatially, to collaborate across disciplines. Whether it's interiors, scenography, or working with architects or fashion, I want to engage more deeply with the spaces around the objects, the space itself.

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Text: Anoe Melliou
Photography by: Eline Willaert