I Used to Remove Friction
For years, my job was to make things easier.
Working in UX, I spent a lot of time looking for moments when people got stuck. If a button was difficult to find, I moved it. If a form asked for too much information, I simplified it. If someone had to stop and figure out what to do next, that was usually a problem to solve.
Working in UX, I spent a lot of time looking for moments when people got stuck. If a button was difficult to find, I moved it. If a form asked for too much information, I simplified it. If someone had to stop and figure out what to do next, that was usually a problem to solve.
There was a whole philosophy behind this way of working. Jef Raskin, one of the pioneers of human-computer interaction, wrote in The Humane Interface that interfaces become almost invisible when people can accomplish what they want without thinking about how the interface works. I spent years learning to do exactly that.
The goal was simple: make things clear, intuitive, and effortless.
I got very good at noticing friction and removing it.
Years later, I found myself deliberately creating the kind of friction I had once been trained to remove.
When Friction Became Interesting
I began working with words, letters, and calligraphic forms, but I didn’t want the words to behave the way words normally do. I started stretching letters, breaking familiar shapes, layering forms, and pulling text toward abstraction.
The strange part was that I was deliberately creating the exact moment I had spent years trying to eliminate.
You can see that there is something to read, but you can’t immediately read it. You recognize letters, but they don’t quite behave like letters anymore. Your brain tries to decide: Is this text? Is it an image? What does it say?
Instead of fixing that moment, I started getting interested in it.
Not All Friction Is a Problem
This has made me think differently about simplicity. For a long time, I assumed that less friction meant a better experience.
I saw this very clearly when I worked for an online travel agency. Booking a flight was essentially a funnel: every step was another opportunity for something to go wrong: a user could get confused, change their mind, leave the site, or simply never make it to the next screen.
So, the goal was obvious: reduce the number of steps.
Five or seven screens felt like too many. One screen sounded even better. Why make people click through several pages if we could let them complete the whole booking at once?
So, the goal was obvious: reduce the number of steps.
Five or seven screens felt like too many. One screen sounded even better. Why make people click through several pages if we could let them complete the whole booking at once?
But the assumption that fewer steps are always better doesn't hold up so neatly in practice.
But the idea that fewer steps are always better isn't always true. In one A/B test, a four-step checkout outperformed a three-step version, leading to more sales. Other studies have found that combining steps or putting everything on one screen can actually lower conversion rates.
The point wasn't that three steps were better than four, or four were better than one. There wasn't a magic number.
That experience challenged something I had spent years believing:
friction isn't always a problem that needs to be removed.
friction isn't always a problem that needs to be removed.
Sometimes a little structure makes something easier to understand. Sometimes a pause gives us a moment to process what we're doing. And sometimes putting everything on one screen doesn't simplify the experience. It just makes it denser.
Simplicity is incredibly useful when we’re trying to get something done. We don’t want to struggle to find the door, understand a road sign, or figure out how to use a spoon.
But not every situation is about getting to the answer as quickly as possible.
Sometimes the obvious answer isn’t the right one.
And when we rely too heavily on familiar patterns, we can end up solving a new problem with the same thinking we’ve always used.
A little friction can interrupt that automatic response. It can make us stop for a moment and look again.
Putting Friction Into My Art
That’s what I try to create in my text-based work.
You can approach the artwork as language, but you can also experience it as an abstract composition. You can try to decode the words or simply look at the shapes. The two ways of seeing keep pulling against each other.
I’m not interested in making something confusing just to make it difficult.
I want to create enough tension to interrupt the first interpretation.
I’m not interested in making something confusing just to make it difficult.
I want to create enough tension to interrupt the first interpretation.
To make you look twice. Because the first thing we see isn’t always the whole thing.
Living With Complexity
This is why I’ve become less interested in making everything simple.
People aren’t simple. Our ideas aren’t simple. We change, contradict ourselves, become interested in things that don’t fit our professional labels, and carry experiences that aren’t visible from the outside.
My art isn't there to fill a hole in your wall or match your couch.
It has a deeper purpose: to create a moment of friction, curiosity, and thought.
It has a deeper purpose: to create a moment of friction, curiosity, and thought.
It leaves some things unresolved.
Thanks for staying curious.
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