
As a European teen in the 90s, I never felt any connection between design and my Arabic roots. The talents of Philippe Starck, Ettore Sottsass, Andrée Putman, and later Christian Liaigre and India Mahdavi offered unique inspiration. But even though the brilliant India is part Iranian and part Egyptian, I initially perceived her primarily as a French creative, since she quickly became a Parisian icon. For many like myself, Arab contributions to design were virtually absent from the spotlight at the time.
A 2003 summer visit to Beirut changed that for me and later for the design world. I had stumbled upon a small but sophisticated shop in Saifi Village, Beirut. Inside, on the front wall, hung a truly singular mirror. Its shape reflected a classical Islamic pattern, adorned with what appeared to be mother-of-pearl ornaments inlaid into transparent resin, almost as if suspended in air. My eyes and heart were instantly captivated by a wave of passion and hope that hasn’t faded since. Nada Debs, a new creative force, was emerging onto Lebanon’s budding design scene, signaling new possibilities for regional creatives.
Nada’s work has since gained international recognition. From product and furniture design to one-off commissions across craft, art, fashion, and interiors, her creations are unified by an extraordinary ability to infuse her Arabic roots into diverse global crafts and cultures. These connections manifest in objects that deeply resonate on an emotional level.
Nada grew up in Japan, studied design at the Rhode Island School of Design in the United States, and has spent significant time traveling the world. In doing so, she has found connections between various cultures a philosophy she calls “handmade and heartmade.” I’m fortunate to call Nada a close friend. Despite her busy schedule, she kindly took time to answer my questions.
Transcript from January 2025 recording
Nada! How are you, my precious friend? You’re always traveling, bless you. Where did you last fly from? And, if I may ask, why were you there?
I’m good, thank you. I was actually in Kobe, Japan. I was visiting my mother, who has been living in Japan for the last 61 years. We were there to commemorate the building of her new home in Kobe.
Nada, I’ve witnessed your resilience through so many challenges in Lebanon—from the silos explosion that nearly destroyed your beautiful showroom to the war that forced you to relocate to Dubai. How do you keep going? And how hopeful are you about opportunities for work in Lebanon and the Middle East today?
That’s a really interesting question because I think the fact that I grew up in Japan in the early 60s made an impact on how I think. As a young child in Japan, I saw how strongly the Hiroshima bomb had affected the Japanese people. I saw the change from that period, where we used to walk on dirt roads, to how it became the most advanced country in technology. I saw that change and the perseverance it took to keep going. I think I get my perseverance from that, but also from my father, who went to Japan in the 50s after World War II. He was part of that growth as a 23-year-old young man persevering, making a difference.
I’ve seen the shift in Japan from a place where my mother used to buy shoes in Beirut to take to Japan, to now, where it’s the opposite. That’s something that inspires me to keep going. Actually, when I moved to Beirut, I started making furniture as a simple outlet to bring meaning to the dichotomy I was feeling being Japanese and Arab without knowing how to reconcile the two. People would say, “Oh, that looks Japanese but also Oriental.” I thought about the two Orients Asian and Arabic. It seemed so interesting that furniture gave me the answer to my identity crisis. I realized how that resonated with many people.
The idea of identity and belonging held such a strong message that it went beyond me. It resonated with you. Everyone after the war in Beirut in the 70s and 80s wanted to belong and come back to their roots. It was perfect timing because I was feeling that too. People wanted a modern, contemporary description of the Arab world, not the old traditional. I needed that too to understand how to get unstuck from the past. This takes perseverance and perfectionism, which my Japanese upbringing taught me as well. The Japanese are great perfectionists who keep trying to perfect things over and over. I think you’re like that too. I keep pushing craftsmen that way too.
You once told me that your goal for your studio was to become the “Hermès of the Middle East.” Hermès, of course, is the ultimate symbol of French luxury, starting as a producer of equestrian accessories for European nobility. Were there specific products that sparked your career? What drew you to this career path?
When I think of Hermès, I think of the value of craftsmanship and heritage. They’re a sixth-generation company, which is a testament to their timelessness a key element of my company’s identity. Along with refinement and a strong identity, timelessness is the main aspect of how I’d like to represent our part of the world. Secondly, sustaining the life of craftsmen is crucial in our part of the world. As technology grows, we’re having fewer and fewer craftsmen, but this is what connects us to our heritage, so we have to find a way to preserve them. The only way to do that is through modernity. My Japanese side helps me. Minimalism and modernity appeal to Gen Z. I try to be connected to the zeitgeist as much as possible.
As for the products that sparked my career, there are a few. In 2002, I visited a workshop in Syria after having lived in London for over a decade. My inspiration then was Lord David Linley. His furniture company used marquetry in a contemporary way. I had been producing high-end furniture for children, inspired by my own, since the early ’90s. Dragons on Walton Street had Peter Rabbit and similar imagery painted on furniture, which, to me, was perishable because paint fades. Marquetry, on the other hand, seemed more timeless for furniture and customizable. Images of kids in marquetry became my thing.
I was then commissioned to do a beautiful children’s room for Princess Ghida of Jordan, for her son, Prince Hussein. After completing that, of course, people started asking who I was. I had done a big wall paneling in marquetry, portraying flora and fauna from the region, which was shipped from the UK.From there, I thought, “Why limit myself to children’s rooms?” So, I started designing the coffee bean table and the floating stool. After that, I wondered, why not use Arab craft? But everyone in Beirut only cared for imported goods, so I was advised to go to Damascus.
I went there to visit this workshop, which was quite humbling, since everything was hidden in those days like Japanese tea houses where you step through small doors to find incredibly amazing workshops full of carvers and inlay artists. They were working on old-fashioned pieces, but the process was so beautiful. They have so much patience and pride in their work. I thought, “It’s beautiful, but how can I bring this into today’s tastes?” So I asked for squares, circles, and triangles, but no flowers. That man kept asking, skeptical, “Are you sure you want only geometrical shapes?” I answered, “Yes!”
I applied this on the drawer of a side table. At the time, I was doing the type of furniture that was trendy, like the Wengé and Liaigre style, nothing Middle Eastern. I noticed how all the attention was going to that side table. So, I made a console, super basic. Then, I began to think about the region and Islamic geometry. How had it never been used in Design? And I started incorporating Design elements into craft, which was a turning point.
I remember a time when you were sometimes frustrated by being strongly associated with the resin inlay work I mentioned earlier. It was groundbreaking, a pioneering way to merge Arab heritage with Japanese minimalism and Western design. Since then, you’ve developed that signature blend in many remarkable ways through myriads of objects reinterpreting crafts and techniques. Do you have favorites among your collections? If so, why?
I wasn’t really frustrated. Let me explain. I was the first one to apply such craft into resin. We’ll focus on that this year because we never went back there.
Here’s how we see it: My 1.0 was reinterpreting mother of pearl, like the mirror you mentioned. 2.0, which I called Funquetry, was a fun and funny approach to traditional marquetry strips. Today, our 3.0 is the use of contemporary modern materials such as resin, like I used in the Arabesque mirror, but taking it from that little fun Arabian Nights object, which I feel was too cliché, to a more researched level. So I decided that my 3.0 would be to push the mix of craft and resin through something called “Safsafi.” There’s no word for it really. It’s actually an Egyptian process mastered by Syrians as well, where they cut shapes next to each other without following a drawing. Like a puzzle, “bi safsaf” (Lebanese colloquialism for “to align’). The shapes are sandwiched inside resin. This is a craft I had developed but hadn’t properly claimed at the time. I thought it was time to claim it. The Americans love that resin bulky look since the 1930s.
How do you reconcile the idea of creating high luxury in a world where the gap between those with extremely basic needs and others with extreme wealth continues to grow?
You mean how do I justify it? For me, what matters is the impact the work has on people. That it’s a reflection of their identity. It’s almost irrelevant whether they can all afford it or not. It’s more about the idea that if they see a pattern on an object that resonates, then I’m happy. It also trickles down to all the craftsmen and people involved. There’s a ripple effect. These craftspeople are now pushed to do new things, and they make money from that. It also challenges me to keep coming up with new ways to reinterpret our crafts.
I’ve often felt a connection with you, Nada, through the concept of being a third-culture kid—growing up in a culture different from my parents’. The result is a kind of hybrid third culture, which is neither entirely here nor there. You grew up in Japan; I grew up in France. While I feel that my French identity has largely shaped my character, even after moving to Egypt and spending more time in Lebanon, you seem deeply rooted in Lebanon, despite your Syrian origins and your family’s continued presence in Kobe. How do you explain that connection?
The beauty of Lebanon is that it’s a place of creative opportunities. It’s a land where there are no rules and little laws, unfortunately, but you are free to create in this way. Lebanon gave me the chance to explore my identity, my creativity, and craft. I don’t think anywhere else would’ve done that. I lived in London for many years, and it was so difficult to create furniture. It took forever to create one object because all the craftsmen were outside. Here in Beirut, everything is there within an hour’s distance. The Lebanese believe they can do anything they have this personality trait that nothing is impossible. Every time I would ask a craftsman, “Can you do that?” they would say, “Don’t ask, just tell me.” They never said no; they made it happen. I just refined it. Lebanon gives you that opportunity. Take it or leave it. I took it. Now I live in Dubai, and it’s so much more difficult.
And, finally, what’s your wish for the coming year?
Now the goal is to sustain it. From a homegrown brand to a real business. My son, Tamer, has recently joined me, so it’s about legacy and evolving as a company that represents identity and emotional resonance from our region to the world. To hear people tell us, “You make us proud.”
You do make us proud, my Nada.
Rapid Round
Name a city
Name a country
Japan
Name a brand
Name a song
Fly Me To The Moon
Name a dish
Name an object
Omar Chakil Ritualistic catchall/incense holder from Dubai Expo 2022
Name a film
Wong Kar Wai’s In The Mood For Love
Thank you so much, my precious Nada!
Happy February!
Omar
More about Nada Debs here