Lebanese designer Nada Debs has spent more than two decades building a design language that bridges cultures. Raised in Japan and later educated in the United States and the UK, she developed an approach shaped by the discipline and restraint of Japanese aesthetics and the richness of Middle Eastern craft traditions. Since founding her Beirut-based studio in 2000, Debs has focused on reinterpreting regional craftsmanship through a contemporary lens centred on geometry and structure.

Her work has gradually drawn international attention, leading to collaborations with global brands, including IKEA and Dior. More recently, she created a bakhoor set for Louis Vuitton inspired by traditional Middle Eastern incense rituals — a project that later evolved into a special Capucines bag as part of the Mirage concept inspired by desert landscapes.

In this conversation, Debs reflects on how her Japanese upbringing shaped her approach to discipline and design, why elevating craft in the Arab world became an important personal mission, and how her studio developed a signature visual language built around geometry and heritage. She also talks about working with international luxury houses, building the brand's next chapter, and her ongoing ambition to show that the region can create design that is both deeply rooted and globally relevant.

— Nada, I know you have spoken a lot about your upbringing in Japan before, but I would like to focus on one detail that really interests me — the idea of discipline. You have mentioned several times that your Japanese upbringing was very much about that. What did that look like in practice?

— Yes. Although my father is Arab, he moved to Japan when he was 23 and has lived there ever since. For him, it was important that we adapt to the Japanese way of life. That culture shaped the way we grew up.

A big part of that was discipline. We had to wake up at a certain time, follow routines, and behave in a very structured way. Another important value was that the guest, the other person, or the community was always more important than individual happiness. So we were raised to respect rules, be considerate of others, and remain constantly aware of our behaviour. In Japan, people apologise a lot — that is part of the culture.

That mindset also connects to Japanese design. It is a form of restraint. You are always pushing against a boundary, but you never cross it. It is just the Japanese way — a kind of controlled resistance. And I think when you live in a country like Japan, that stays with you. You carry that sense of restraint.

This, of course, influenced my design. When I use patterns or geometry, everything is restrained. It is contained — placed inside a square, inside a circle. There is always a structure holding it together.

— In 2000, after the UK, you moved to Lebanon and quickly discovered that craft — especially furniture craft — was often neglected. How did you change that?

— Yes, it struck me immediately. And it really surprised me, because in Japan, craft is considered a highly respected art form. In our part of the world, however, it was often seen as much lower-level.

For me, that became a challenge. I really wanted to elevate craft — to show that it could be valuable and high-end.

When I moved to Lebanon, I also noticed something else. Many people seemed almost embarrassed about being Arab. There was a strong fascination with Western furniture and Western culture, and very little pride in our own traditions.

To be honest, I had felt something similar myself when I was younger. Growing up in Japan, I sometimes felt embarrassed to be Arab and Muslim because I wanted to fit in. There were almost no Arabs or Muslims where I lived — not even in Tokyo, but in Kobe, which is a smaller city — so the chance of meeting someone like me was very rare.

But when I later saw the same feeling reflected in others in Lebanon, it suddenly bothered me. I thought: how can we not be proud of who we are?

So one of my missions became to elevate craft and show people how beautiful our culture and traditions actually are. I wanted to prove that we already have something incredibly valuable here.

When I opened my first store in Beirut, people would walk in and assume the furniture had been produced abroad. And I would always proudly say, “Everything is produced locally.”

It was very important for me to show that we are capable of designing and producing beautiful things in our own region.

— And now the situation is much better, right?

— Definitely. And it happened quite quickly.

I remember reading a famous marketing book where one idea really stayed with me: create a phrase or a simple concept that people will always remember — something that sticks in their minds. So I came up with the phrase “East and East.”

At that time, the world’s attention was still focused mainly on Europe and America. When I started, those were considered the dominant centres of design and culture. Places like India, China, or the Arab world were seen as secondary markets. I thought: maybe I can be one of the first to capture and express the beauty of this part of the world.

And the truth is, it wasn’t just how others saw us — it was also how we sometimes saw ourselves.

At that time, many people were returning to Lebanon after studying abroad. They wanted to reconnect with their identity. But the problem was that there was very little modern design they could connect to.

What I tried to do was reinterpret craft — to simplify it and give it a more contemporary language. And suddenly, people responded to it.

One thing I kept hearing over and over was: “You made us proud. You made us proud to be Arabs.”

Once, I was in London, and I remember visiting the very first edition of the 100% Design fair. I told myself, one day I am going to exhibit here. Two or three years later, I did.

And that is when interesting things started happening. Companies like Habitat and Material ConneXion came to my stand. They were fascinated. They kept saying, “We have never seen mother-of-pearl used like this before.”

— I came across a phrase describing your work: “After going through many evolutions in her design language, Debs eventually arrived at what is now recognised as her signature — geometric patterns.” Could you walk me through that journey? How did you arrive at that pattern?

— The first thing I did was actually very simple. I went to Damascus and asked craftsmen there to create panels with basic geometric shapes — triangles, squares and circles.

I brought those panels back to Beirut and turned one of them into a small bedside table. It wasn’t anything fancy, but at the time, people were used to seeing mother-of-pearl only in traditional floral patterns. So when they saw these geometric forms, they found them quite intriguing.

Around that time, the Milan-based design duo Sawaya & Moroni were supporting Lebanese designers and organising an exhibition in Paris. When one of the partners, Paolo, came to my house, I showed him a contemporary piece I had designed — what later became the Pebble Table.

But he pointed to the other objects in the room and said, “Why aren’t you focusing on these? I have never seen anything like them.”

That moment was important for me. Even though I thought of those pieces as experiments, people were actually drawn to them — to this modern interpretation of Middle Eastern craft. It made me realise that sometimes you have to listen. The audience can show you something about your own work.

From that point on, I began exploring that direction more deeply. At first, the patterns existed only in wood, but then I started experimenting with other materials — plexiglass, resin, stainless steel, even concrete. I would arrange small pieces of mother-of-pearl into geometric compositions and seal them in resin, almost like preserving the craft inside the material.

A lot of this was inspired by the architecture of our region — the repeating geometric patterns you see in buildings and mosques. In many ways, they feel very modern.

Eventually, I realised that my work had two main signatures. One is craft — mother-of-pearl or marquetry strips taken from traditional backgammon boards. The other is geometry.

Both are deeply rooted in Middle Eastern culture, but the way I use them — changing the scale, isolating a fragment, exaggerating a pattern — gives them a contemporary language.

And I think this search also comes from my own background. I grew up between two very different cultures — Arab and Japanese. They seem almost opposite, but I always felt there must be something universal connecting them.

For me, the answer was geometry.

Everyone understands geometry. You don’t need to explain it — people simply feel it. And in many traditions, especially in Islamic art, geometry was used to express the idea of infinity — something without beginning or end.

In that sense, geometry became the perfect language for what I wanted to say.

— And earlier this year, you expanded the brand and opened a flagship store together with your son, Tamer. Is he now leading the store? How did it happen?

— I didn’t expect that, honestly. I always assumed he would follow another path and go into finance — and that is exactly what he did at first. He was working at a finance company here in Dubai.

But around the time COVID started, he called me one day and said, “Mama, can I join your business?” I laughed. A month later, he called again and said, “No, I’m serious.”

I asked him what he would actually do in a design studio. And he said something that really surprised me. He said, “I grew up watching Nada Debs grow. It feels like a sibling to me, and I want to help scale it.”

So we started working.

After a while, Tamer started noticing something very simple: people kept asking where they could actually buy the products. Everything had to be shipped from Beirut, and sometimes I was literally bringing pieces in a suitcase. It was always complicated.

One day, he said, “Mama, I think it’s time to open a store.” So now the store is really his baby. I am still there, but mostly behind the scenes.

For me, after building this idea of “East and East” and contemporary craft from the region, the next step is to elevate the brand even further.

I often say I would love it to become something like the Hermès of the Middle East — a company that celebrates craft and heritage but expresses them in a modern way. Because in the end, what I do isn’t only about furniture. Furniture is just the medium.

What I am really interested in is bringing different worlds together — Japan and the Arab world, tradition and modernity, even different generations.

It is about finding a space where these opposites can meet.

— Another important milestone was your collaboration with Louis Vuitton. How did that come about?

— Yes, it really was. A couple of years earlier, I had collaborated with Dior. We created boxes for one of their perfumes. For me, that project felt like ticking an important box.

For years, I had been working in Beirut despite all the economic and political challenges. The craft industry there isn’t always structured in the way Western companies expect — many artisans don’t have the same infrastructure or resources. But what they do have is extraordinary craftsmanship.

From the beginning, I had this idea: I wanted the world to reach out to us rather than us reaching out to others.

So when Dior approached us, it felt like an important moment. It meant that a global brand recognised the value of our craft.

Later, Louis Vuitton came to us with a very interesting idea. They wanted to create a bakhoor piece — something connected to Middle Eastern culture. A bakhoor is an incense burner, a very traditional object in the region.

We designed a complete bakhoor set — the box, the tongs, everything around it. It was actually the first bakhoor object Louis Vuitton had ever produced.

Then something unexpected happened. The leather department at Louis Vuitton saw the project and suggested translating the same concept into a Capucines bag. So we ended up creating a small bag inspired by the same theme — the desert dunes.

The project was part of their broader concept called Mirage, inspired by desert landscapes and light.

What made the collaboration especially meaningful was that it connected naturally to the culture of the region. In the Middle East, gifting is very important — people constantly bring gifts to gatherings and celebrations. So the bakhoor set became a perfect object for that context.

For me, it was also exciting because it brought our craft into dialogue with a global luxury brand.

And honestly, the Louis Vuitton team was wonderful to work with — very respectful and very supportive.

— And also a collab with IKEA happened. We can’t skip it!

— For that project, I designed around 52 pieces. The collection was mainly created for the Arab world, which makes sense because it was tied to Ramadan. But honestly, I think it could have worked globally as well — it would have been just as fun for an international audience.

The idea was to create a modern Swedish-style Ramadan collection. It included many different pieces for the home: serving ware, side tables, daybeds, curtains, tablecloths, tea towels, lamps — a whole range of objects designed for gatherings and hosting.

And it was really fun to work on.

— I would also love to ask about one more collaboration which stands out for me: the installation Migration of the Butterflies.

— Yes, that was a special project. I created it together with Rina Jaber, who is a ceramist.

The idea came from conversations we were having about Beirut and Lebanon. Sometimes it feels like we are stuck — surrounded by concrete and buildings — wanting to move freely but feeling somehow confined.

So the installation became a metaphor. Butterflies represent the idea of shedding something and learning to fly. They also go through a transformation. In that sense, the project was a reflection of both migration and transformation.

Technically, the process was quite complex. First, we carved the butterflies in wood. The carvings were very detailed, almost like stamps. Then we used those forms to cast the pieces in different materials, including resin and concrete.

The technique was inspired by something I have always loved in Japan. Whenever I go there, I collect traditional wooden cake moulds. They are beautifully hand-carved — often shaped like birds, insects, or flowers. Bakers press dough into them to create intricate patterns on sweets.

I used a similar idea here. The wooden carvings acted almost like moulds, which we then used to produce the butterflies in concrete and resin.

— How would you describe the philosophy behind your brand?

— It is about stripping things down to their essence.

For me, it doesn’t really matter whether the object is furniture, jewelry, or something else. The object itself is almost secondary. What matters is the message behind it.

Another important part of my work is collaborating with craftsmen and encouraging them to explore new techniques rather than repeating the same traditional ones over and over. That is something I really enjoy — expanding what craft can become.

— What are the main challenges for you now?

— Right now, the challenge is really about expanding the brand.

That could mean opening more stores, as many lifestyle brands do with networks of home or furniture boutiques. Another direction I am very interested in is real estate — working with developers and thinking about spaces more broadly.

We have just opened our new store, and that alone has already opened many doors. Before, most of our clients came from the same circles — people who already knew the brand. But now we have visitors from everywhere. People are curious to discover something that feels both local and contemporary.

If you look at the furniture world, most of the major brands are European. Even many brands from this region still follow a European aesthetic. Very few have tried to reinterpret local craft in a truly modern way.

So that is something I want to continue developing.

One idea I am very interested in exploring is Nada Debs Homes — working with developers to create houses or interiors built around the philosophy of the brand. You often see fashion designers creating residential projects, and I sometimes think: why shouldn’t someone from the design world do the same?

Maybe a Nada Debs residence, or even a hotel with that spirit.

At the same time, I would also love to spend more time working with my own hands again. Perhaps taking a sabbatical in Japan and learning directly from craftsmen — experimenting with textiles, clay, or different materials.

For many years, I have worked with craftsmen and guided the process, but I haven’t always made things myself. That is something I would really like to explore.

So there are many ideas — they are still slowly forming.

— You once said that every designer should look inside themselves, because everyone has a unique approach to design. If you look inside yourself today, what do you see?

— Today, I see more confidence.

For many years, I felt that what I was doing was never enough. But when I look back at the last twenty, almost twenty-five years, I can finally acknowledge that something meaningful has been built.

It is not really about financial success. What matters to me is the message behind the brand. When I hear other people repeating the ideas I wanted to express, that means a lot.

So now I feel ready for the next chapter and to take that message beyond the region into a more global conversation.