November 14, 2026 | PEOPLE
SEBASTIÁN ÁNGELES
words Onur Baştürk
photos STATE 1800 -- Alejandro Ramirez Orozco
Sebastián Ángeles recently presented State 1800, a temporary interior installation he designed for Design House 2026 during Design Week México. We spoke to him about how music shapes a room, what gives 1970s interiors their distinctive atmosphere, where furniture meets sculpture and how working closely with craftspeople has changed the way he designs.
How did the idea of a listening space shape the layout of the home bar at State 1800?
I’ve always been interested in how sound can transform our perception of space. For STATE 1800, music wasn’t simply something happening
in the background; it was part of the atmosphere we wanted to construct.
One of the first elements I imagined was the conversation pit, a curved sofa integrated into an existing architectural niche. I wanted to create a place that encouraged people to sit closer, listen, and spend time together. We also developed a special edition of Margules speakers, treating the sound system as part of the spatial composition rather than something to conceal.
Light played an equally important role. The space could shift from warm, intimate amber tones to more unexpected colors, completely changing the perception of the same objects. I think sound and light share something fascinating: neither has a permanent physical form, yet both can completely transform how we experience architecture.
TODAY, MANY INTERIORS SEEM DESIGNED PRIMARILY TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED
What drew you to 1970s interiors, and how did you bring that sensibility into the project?
What fascinates me about interiors from the 1970s is their understanding of atmosphere. There was a certain sensuality in the way spaces were conceived: lower seating, intimate lighting, deep colors, music, and furniture that encouraged people to stay.
Today, many interiors seem designed primarily to be photographed. I’m interested in spaces that invite people to experience them physically, to touch things, listen, have conversations, and lose track of time. But I wasn’t interested in simply recreating the seventies. One of the central ideas behind STATE 1800 was temporal ambiguity: creating a space that could belong equally to the past or the future.
We brought together historical pieces, contemporary objects, and furniture designed specifically for the project. The result feels strangely familiar, but it’s difficult to place it in any one era. I like the idea that a space can feel like a memory of something that hasn’t happened yet.
A SCULPTURE CAN HAVE RHYTHM
Which influences have stayed with you, and what’s shaping your work now?
I’ve always been fascinated by the way James Turrell turns light into an emotional experience that can almost alter our sense of reality. I often return to the work of Constantin Brancusi and Isamu Noguchi. I’m drawn to the simplicity of their gestures and the way their forms can feel both primitive and contemporary.
For STATE 1800, I looked closely at Oscar Niemeyer’s architecture and interiors. His work helped me imagine how a space could evoke another era and still feel futuristic. I also included pieces by designers I’ve admired for years, including Jean Prouvé and Achille Castiglioni. The clarity of their designs and their understanding of proportion and structure have long influenced my work.
I’m drawn to the relationship between elemental forms and contemporary technology. I enjoy working with solid wood, bronze, aluminium and stone for the sense of permanence they carry and the room they give me to experiment.
More recently, I’ve been exploring electronic music production. It’s changed how I think about rhythm, repetition, tension and atmosphere. A sculpture can have rhythm, a piece of furniture can suggest movement and an architectural space can feel like a musical composition. I keep coming back to how a sound, a memory or an emotion can take the form of a physical object.
A SHAPE THAT FEELS UNFAMILIAR
What makes you rethink the form of a familiar object? Can you give an example from your Frequency collection?
I rarely begin by asking how I can make an existing object look different. I’m more interested in questioning why it has the form we recognize in the first place. Sometimes the starting point is a gesture, a proportion, a material, or a physical phenomenon that has nothing to do with furniture.
My Frequency collection is a good example of this approach. It began with an interest in sound frequencies and cymatics, the way vibration can organize matter into visible patterns. I became fascinated by the possibility of translating something invisible into a physical form. Rather than designing a chair or a table and then applying a concept to it, I wanted the concept itself to generate the geometry.
That’s why I consider Frequency one of my most original explorations. The chairs have an unusual presence, with forms that don’t immediately resemble conventional furniture. I find that particularly exciting: arriving at a shape that feels unfamiliar, yet somehow makes sense on its own terms.
I’m currently exploring a new body of work inspired by the idea of birth and the emergence of life. The forms have developed in a surprisingly natural way, almost as if they were growing rather than being designed. Interestingly, some of these pieces have been difficult to assign a function to. I find myself so drawn to their sculptural presence that I’m beginning to question whether they need a conventional function at all. That’s what excites me about design: taking something we think we understand and discovering an entirely different way of looking at it.
WHAT A SMALL WORKSHOP COULD ACCOMPLISH
How does Mexico’s culture of craft and making shape your approach to materials? Could you describe a time when a craftsperson’s knowledge of a material changed your original idea for a piece?
One of the greatest privileges of working in Mexico is having access to extraordinary craftspeople and an incredible diversity of materials and techniques. During my creative process, I sometimes prefer to distance myself from the technical limitations of a material at the beginning. I want to imagine the object as freely as possible, and only afterward discover the most interesting or unexpected way to bring it into existence.
This approach has led me to learn about many different processes, from stone carving and bronze casting to glasswork, woodworking, and traditional weaving. One experience that profoundly influenced me happened while developing my Perpetuo collection, which we presented at the National Museum of Anthropology during Design Week Mexico. I spent time living in the home of a craftsperson in a small town near Querétaro, immersing myself in the process of traditional weaving.
It was a beautiful experience that completely changed my understanding of what a small workshop could accomplish. I witnessed the extraordinary knowledge, patience, and technical ability involved in the process, and realized that the scale of a workshop says very little about the complexity or ambition of what can be created within it.
I believe part of my role as a designer is to collaborate with craftspeople in ways that allow us to explore the full potential of their knowledge. Not because my ideas are more valuable than their traditions, but because bringing different perspectives together can lead us toward possibilities neither of us might have imagined independently. During Dórica’s evolution, we also operated our own workshop with a team of fourteen craftspeople. That experience transformed my understanding of design and production. I learned that an idea doesn’t end when the drawing is finished; in many ways, that’s where the real design process begins.
Working closely with craftspeople taught me to reconsider proportions, joints, construction methods, and even the possibilities of certain materials. Over time, we began combining that knowledge with digital fabrication and CNC technology, refining our designs through repeated prototyping and production.
