Online, you can find her sporadic essays on Substack, where she writes about the intersection of AI and tactility. She warns that while AI can generate blueprints, it cannot replicate the "sweat of the brow"—the subtle flaw that makes an object human. As we stand on the precipice of the Metaverse and virtual reality, the work of Ria Sakurai feels paradoxically essential. She is the anchor reminding us that the physical world—the texture of paper, the weight of a bowl, the silence of a room—still has value. She represents a shift away from the loud, the logoed, and the viral, toward the quiet, the personal, and the permanent.
(Comment below to continue the conversation). This article is part of our "Visionaries of the New Age" series. Last updated: October 2024.
Unlike the harsh lines of Bauhaus or the coldness of high-tech minimalism, introduced warmth. Her tables felt soft to the touch, retaining the fibrous texture of paper while offering the durability of industrial composite. Climate Resilience and Ethics In an era where greenwashing is rampant, Ria Sakurai stands as a rigorous exception. Her studio in the outskirts of Yokohama operates on a zero-waste, off-grid system. She refuses to ship her large pieces by air freight; all international orders go by sea, a decision that cuts her profit margins significantly but aligns with her Kankyo principles. ria sakurai
For the design connoisseur, the eco-conscious investor, or the spiritual materialist, Ria Sakurai is not just a designer; she is a destination. Searching her name is the first step into a slower, more deliberate way of seeing the world.
Sakurai’s response is pragmatic. "We misunderstand luxury," she says. "True luxury is the freedom from replacing your furniture every three years. My pieces are expensive because they are the last chair you will ever buy. That is not elitism; that is environmentalism." For those inspired to look deeper, Ria Sakurai does not have a traditional retail store. She operates an "Apartment Gallery" by appointment only in Setagaya, Tokyo. She also has a permanent installation at the Vitra Campus in Weil am Rhein, Germany, where her "Shadow Pavilion" uses light and smoke to project the silhouette of furniture that isn't there—a commentary on digital consumption. Online, you can find her sporadic essays on
Critics from Dezeen called it "a magic trick for the educated eye," while The New York Times style section noted that owning a Sakurai piece had become "the quiet status symbol for the tech elite who have grown tired of minimalism's cold sterility."
Sitters report that the chair forces them to sit upright with a natural posture, aligning the spine without the rigidity of a Herman Miller Aeron. It sells for upwards of $12,000 per unit, not due to brand hype, but because each chair takes a master craftsperson six weeks to braid by hand. No profile of Ria Sakurai would be complete without addressing the criticism. Detractors argue that her work is elitist, catering only to the very rich. "Designing for billionaires who want to feel spiritual is not a revolution," wrote one critic in Frieze magazine. She is the anchor reminding us that the
Unlike many of her contemporaries who rely on digital spectacle, Sakurai’s work is profoundly physical. Her signature medium is "Neo-Washi"—a material she invented using recycled carbon fiber combined with traditional Japanese mulberry paper. This innovation allows her to create furniture and lighting that is simultaneously as light as air and stronger than steel. The driving philosophy behind Ria Sakurai’s oeuvre is a concept she calls Kankyo no Shizuka , or "The Silence of the Environment." In her 2021 manifesto published in Design Anthology , Sakurai argued that modern life is plagued by "visual noise"—aggressive branding, jarring angles, and disposable materials.