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“I believe that the end of creativity would, in a way, mark the end of humanity. As architects and creators, we have a responsibility to move people, to elevate the soul of those who inhabit spaces.” For José Cortés, design is first and foremost a human act. Objects are conceived as living organisms, capable of intervening intimately in relational dynamics, shaping the way we connect with ourselves and with others.
An architect, designer, and university lecturer, Cortés is the founder of Malva Office, a design studio based near Valencia. A graduate in Architecture from the Polytechnic University of Valencia, he has collaborated with internationally renowned practices such as Benedetta Tagliabue’s studio and Sou Fujimoto Architects. Over time, he has received prestigious recognitions that have consolidated his profile within the landscape of contemporary Spanish design and architecture.
In his work, concept, emotion, materiality, and personal and collective memory intertwine to give life to products defined by a profound sense of authenticity, creations that aspire to endure, resisting the passage of time.
His design vision revolves around a pursuit of truth and essentiality. He states that his work does not seek to astonish, but to endure, without ostentation. Does he believe that what dazzles may conceal a form of fiction? What does he mean by honesty – of perception and of the object – and how is it connected to resistance over time?
I believe that today it is difficult for society to be truly surprised. We live in a constant saturation of images and stimuli, and this has weakened our capacity for wonder. However, there are forms of astonishment that are genuine and transformative – those that do not merely impress, but actually change the way we live and relate to one another. I am thinking, for example, of the launch of the first iPhone and that iconic presentation by Steve Jobs: it was not simply a new object, but a paradigm shift.
I also believe that, today, what can truly surprise us is precisely the opposite of excess: a disconnection from image, a reduction of noise, silence, the possibility of listening to oneself. This is the direction that furniture and architecture should move toward – creating objects and spaces that do not shout, but instead allow for an intimate and conscious experience.
When I speak of honesty of perception, I am referring first and foremost to honesty with oneself. Every work ultimately becomes a self-portrait. Every piece speaks of the person who created it; it is unique and unrepeatable because it emerges from a personal stance toward the world. My objects represent me – they are, in a sense, an extension of who I am.
The honesty of the object, on the other hand, concerns the use of authentic materials: wood, stainless steel, materials that present themselves for what they are, with their properties, their weight, their texture, and their natural behavior. It is not about concealing, but about revealing.
I believe that the most important form of sustainability is the one that allows an object to remain relevant over time. I like to speak of aesthetic sustainability: ensuring that a piece does not depend on trends, but on a deeper coherence. This is the real challenge, and the use of authentic, honest materials contributes to this sense of permanence, both physical and conceptual.
His work is often rooted in a conceptual and emotional dimension that accompanies the object’s formal concreteness. Is there a reciprocal influence between these two aspects, and how does it manifest itself in the design process?
In my work, there is no clear separation between the conceptual, emotional, and formal dimensions: everything happens simultaneously, and each aspect influences the others. My life, my cultural references, my readings, my obsessions, and my way of looking at the world are part of the process from the very beginning. I do not design from a neutral position; I design from who I am and from what I am experiencing at any given moment.
I often begin by bringing together ideas that, apparently, have no connection to one another. They are intuitive associations, almost unconscious. Yet through reflection and, above all, through drawing, these connections begin to reveal themselves. Drawing is not merely a tool of representation, but a space for thought: it is the place and the moment in which ideas take shape and where I find answers.
In this sense, there is a constant reciprocal influence. The conceptual dimension guides the form, but the form in turn transforms and redefines the concept. It is an ongoing dialogue between what I think, what I feel, and what I materialize. The project finds its coherence precisely within this back-and-forth process, until everything aligns in a natural way.
The “Permitte Ut Sit” collection explores the autonomy of the object at the moment when control shifts from the designer to the user. Starting from the idea that the meaning of a work is fulfilled in its encounter with the person who experiences it, what kind of bond do you maintain with your pieces once they are completed? What expectations do you have of those who will engage with them?
When I finish a piece, I feel as though an eternity has passed since I first conceived it, even if I completed it only the day before. It has remained in my mind for so long - in the form of ideas, doubts, drawings, and decisions - that it becomes almost something ancient to me, as if I had always known it. In a sense, it begins to drift away from my memory at the very moment it materializes.
I look at them with affection, but also with the desire for them to become emancipated. I like to think that, once completed, they no longer entirely belong to me. I want them to travel, to find their place in the world, to build their own story far from me. I am moved by the idea of encountering them again by chance - perhaps in Paris or Tokyo - immersed in another context, another culture, another life.
I hope that those who engage with my pieces will feel a sense of peace and serenity. That they may find in them a space of silence within the noise of everyday life. I aspire for them to remain aesthetically relevant even a hundred years from now, to be passed down from father to son, and, despite the passage of time, to continue to be the most contemporary piece in the room. This continuity over time - this ability to remain current - is, for me, one of the deepest forms of autonomy and meaning.
What role does the production dimension play in your work? We are witnessing a growing separation between thinking and making - from industry, which divides design and production, to artificial intelligence, which turns “making” into “having something made.” In this constantly shifting scenario, what space remains for the designer? And what value do you attribute today to design and craftsmanship?
It is true that we are seeing such a separation. However, in my own practice, the opposite happens. I come from the legacy of Enric Miralles, who used drawing as a tool to think through architecture. He designed through layers of knowledge, overlapping art, social context, the city, and history. For me, these layers also include production processes and an entrepreneurial understanding: I cannot conceive of a project as separate from its construction or from its feasibility.
As designers, our ability lies in bringing together very different dimensions: the production process, the understanding of space, an artistic reference - such as a painting by Paul Klee - and transforming all of this into a coherent piece for a specific place. This profound synthesis cannot yet be replaced by artificial intelligence.
I feel that we are experiencing a return to origins. I was particularly influenced by Rem Koolhaas’s publication for the 2014 Venice Biennale and his project Elements, which analyzed the fundamental components of architecture. Today, perhaps what is truly disruptive is precisely this return to the essential - to human virtues reflected in objects and spaces.
For me, designing means building. And this ability to build necessarily passes through craft and craftsmanship. Only through a direct knowledge of material - of its limits, its timing, and its processes - can we push it to its limits with intelligence. This understanding is not only cultural or poetic, but also economic: good architecture and good design must be rigorous and agile in their processes. Without economy and constructive clarity, they can hardly sustain themselves over time.
>>> Discover the playful design of Leonardo Possati, between Bologna and New York
Except otherwise indicated photography by José Cortés
All images courtesy of the author
