Josha Roymans
Stranger #8
Josha Roymans, founder of Studio Josha
The first time I encountered Josha’s work, I was immediately drawn to its playfulness and clarity — simple yet striking, with an energy that’s hard to pin down. His practice resists easy labels: it could be art, it could be design, but it never stems from market-driven research. Instead, it feels spontaneous, authentic, and deeply intuitive — a method he has developed for himself.
In our conversation, Josha spoke about the freedom of following the heart rather than the head, and the joy of creating not for systems or categories, but for emotions and stories. For him, the process becomes light and effortless when guided by curiosity and play. Perhaps the most powerful lesson he shared is one that shapes both his work and his life: to let go and trust the process. And in doing so, everything becomes more fun.
How would you introduce yourself?
My name is Josha Roymans. I work as an independent designer and artist, and through my studio, I focus on creating collectible design pieces and functional art.
I’d probably introduce myself as someone who thrives on diversity. I’m excited by doing different things each week. I don’t usually lead with “I run a business” or “I run a creative space”—those are just expressions of who I am, not definitions.
My introduction also depends on the context. One day I’m in a corporate meeting, the next I’m working with teenagers in public schools, and the day after that I might be in my studio or at an arts event. So, what I say about myself shifts depending on where I am and who I’m with.
That’s also why I try not to lean too heavily on labels or titles. When I meet someone, I prefer to ask questions that get to what they’re passionate about. “What do you do?” doesn’t always tell you much. I’m more interested in who someone is beyond their job.
You run a multidisciplinary design studio, creating a wide range of functional interior objects. Could you share the key moments that have brought you to where you are today?
Yes, there’s a very specific key moment for me. I had been working in product design for almost ten years, creating and producing lamps, tables, and chairs, and selling them through shops. It was going quite well, but I started to feel I didn’t have creative freedom anymore.
Then my wife got pregnant, and it became a moment of real clarity. I realised, “Okay, I’m not enjoying myself. I should be doing what I really want to do.” It brought me back to the feeling I had during my graduation project in 2012, when I felt completely free to create without thinking about saleability, consumer price, or production costs.
So I decided to go back to that freedom. I created my first collection of six sculptural design pieces, and for the first time in my professional career, I felt that creative joy again. Knowing I was about to become a father, I felt it was the right moment to focus on what was truly important to me.
It’s interesting because when people start a family, they often think the opposite…
I set myself a sort of deadline: I had six months before the baby arrived to create a new collection with total freedom. If it didn’t work, I would start looking for a job to provide for my family. I had this six-month window to rediscover the fun of creating.
The funny thing is, when I started creating from the heart instead of the head, everything became easier. Ideas came naturally, and the response to my work was much more positive. Within those six months, I received a lot of publications and interest, and three galleries wanted to represent my work—something I had never experienced before.
Previously, with production design, I was constantly pushing my work, trying to get it published, into design shows, into stores or sold. I was always in sales mode. But with this new collection, I didn’t need to sell in that way.
I like to compare it to painting: when someone sees a painting, they instantly decide if they connect with it. It’s about emotion—you either feel something or you don’t. Two years ago, I presented my work at Collectible Design in Brussels. I was just standing there, answering questions, not selling. Now, I focus on creating emotions and stories, not just products—and it’s no longer a struggle.
What has been the greatest challenge you’ve faced in your career, and how has it shaped you?
I would say the greatest challenge has been dealing with insecurity and not knowing how things will turn out. Becoming a father and having children taught me a lot about being patient and accepting that things might not always go the way you expect.
I used to be a bit of a control freak. I wanted to have control over the relationships I built and the potential business I could generate. But because I was so focused on controlling everything, I ended up doing more harm to my business than good.
The biggest lesson for me has been learning to let go. Now, when I create something, I put it out there and allow it to speak for itself. I would say that has been my biggest challenge: learning to let go and trust the process.
You’ve mentioned that during your early years at the art academy, you felt you didn’t have strong drawing skills, and later realised these drawings had character precisely because of that. What do “skills” mean to you in this context, and how would you describe what you bring to your work instead?
This example you’ve given has everything to do with self-confidence. Over time, I realised it’s about the integrity of your work—acknowledging the individual quality it has. Instead of trying to pretend I had the same “skills” as everyone else, I learned that the skill was already within me. But it took me a long time to accept that.
It wasn’t until almost the end of art academy that a teacher finally said to me, after seeing a small drawing I did, “Just make this. Don’t do anything else, don’t overthink it, just make what you drew.” It was the first time someone encouraged me to trust what I was creating. It still took me years to fully embrace this, but once I did, the creative process no longer felt like hard work.
For a long time, when things felt too easy, I thought I was cheating somehow. But it wasn’t cheating—it was me staying close to my intuition and integrity. The more feeling and honesty you put into your work, the better it becomes.
When I first arrived at art school, I thought everyone else had “skills.” But in reality, nobody’s skills overshadow the creative process. You can learn craftsmanship and techniques, but you can’t learn how to be creative. You can only learn how to accept and value your creativity. That’s what art school taught me—not skills, but how to appreciate and embrace my own creative voice, even if it shows up in sketchy, almost naive drawings. There’s beauty in that.
As for “skills,” I’ve always been someone who builds things. As a child, I was always taking things apart, fixing them, and building new things out of them. That intrinsic motivation to create has always been there. For me, building my functional design pieces feels almost the same as fixing an electrical circuit or working on my car. It’s about making things with my hands.
The difference with my work is that it starts with an image in my head, then I put it on paper, and then I just build it without overthinking. During the process, I figure out the skills I need to bring that vision to life so others can understand what I saw in my head. I have the skills, but I also like to pretend I don’t, to keep a sense of naivety and character in the work.
You developed a method based on intuition. Could you tell me more about your Intuitive Creative Method?
I don’t think too much—I just work from a feeling. I have an idea in my head, make a quick sketch, and move on to the next page. I don’t make a hundred versions of the same drawing. Later, when I look back at these sketches, sometimes I think, “This is a really nice drawing, this could be a beautiful piece.” Then I imagine it as a big piece—maybe two meters high, maybe as a lamp—and I just go and make it.
I use foam and different materials to carve out the exact shape of the little sketch. I’ve actually stopped using my 3D printer and don’t do computer modelling anymore because it takes away that intuitive, naive handwriting I have in my sketches. I want my 3D sculptural work to have the same integrity and feeling as my drawings, so that when you look at my sketches, you see the same spirit in the final piece.
The trick is to constantly look back at the drawing while I sculpt, making sure I capture the same energy. If I’ve been working on a lamp for three days and it doesn’t feel right, I’ll scrap it and start over. I keep going until it looks and feels the same as the sketch.
It’s all based on intuition and feeling. I’ve found that the closer I stay to this intuitive side—the less I use my brain and the less I try to be a “designer” and instead let myself be an artist—the better the work becomes.
You describe your approach as not bound by style, material, or aesthetic, yet your work has a very personal and recognisable character. Where does this research come from?
I don’t actually do any research. It all started with the first piece that became a lamp, and in my experience, whenever I’m working on one lamp, I get an idea for another lamp in the process. That’s how the collection naturally evolved into lights—simply because I was working on lamps at the time. Now, some of my latest pieces include a cabinet and a daybed, but they still have light integrated into them. That said, I don’t necessarily see myself as a light designer.
I can’t tell you exactly where my inspiration comes from—it’s just everywhere, and it goes back to intuitive creativity. Ideas come to you whenever they want, and when I find one interesting, I sketch it, I make it, and only then do I decide if it’s good or not. Everything has potential, but you only find out by developing the idea and letting it become something. For me, the process is built on taking every idea seriously, because you never know where it might lead.
I can see what you’re saying about there being a distinct “handwriting” in my work, and that’s probably because each piece progresses from the last. But I feel there are actually two lines in my work: one that’s more free in style, and another made using old cardboard boxes. The colours and materials might be the same, but the form language is different. This came about simply because I had all these cardboard boxes from online shopping, and it felt like a waste to throw them away. So I started working with them, and a new form language appeared—I just went with it to see where it would take me.
Now, I feel I’ve reached a point where I’ve explored these directions enough, and it’s time to try something new. I’m currently experimenting with new materials, like stone and wool, to see what comes out of it.
You define your works as functional objects that find a balance between art and design. In your view, what is the difference between art and design?
That’s a nice question, and honestly, it’s something people have talked about a lot, but it’s also becoming less relevant now. Things can be art, they can be design, and it’s really up to the viewer to decide what is what.
In my own work, I don’t worry about it—I just create. For example, I made a lamp that stands on five legs with the light bulbs underneath it, so it’s very impractical as a lamp. You could say it’s not a good design, but as a sculpture or installation, it’s interesting because it plays with the tension between the glass bulbs and the light source. In this piece, the lamp actually stands on the light source instead of the other way around, and for me, it was about pushing those boundaries.
I had a conversation with an artist about this once. He makes paintings, and I asked him why something is considered an art sculpture versus a design piece. He told me my piece was a design piece because it had a power cord and needed electricity. I thought that was strange, because a painting has a frame to hang it—does that make it a design object too? If a painting is functional because it can be hung, when does it stop being art and start being design? I don’t necessarily take a position on this, but it was interesting to talk to him because he had such clear ideas about the separation between art and design.
A friend of mine once said, “The viewer is always right.” If someone sees it as a beautifully designed lamp, that’s fine. If they experience it differently, that’s fine too.
What I find really interesting now is that there’s so much freedom because it feels like nobody really cares anymore whether something is art or design. My gallery, Tableau in Copenhagen, sells collectible design pieces, but now they also sell paintings. When people buy things, they’re looking for emotions and stories, and it doesn’t matter if it’s a painting or a lamp. At this moment, I feel the freedom to create whatever I want, and the question of whether something is art or design just doesn’t feel relevant anymore.
I found it interesting when you said, “The less I care about it, the better the work gets.” Is this only related to your creative process, or does it also apply to how you manage your studio?
I would say it applies to my whole life! (laugh)
But it’s a difficult process for me because it’s also very personal. I have a tendency to want to control things, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed how much this shows up in different areas of my life—friendships, experiences, creating work, and building professional relationships.
For example, in the early days, I would call companies every week to check in on how things were progressing. But I’ve learned that if you just put an idea out there and someone likes it, you can sit with that, have a conversation, and then step back. In that sense, this mindset of letting go applies to my whole life: to simply experience life as it is.
Someone once told me that life is like a river—you’re sitting on the bank, and sometimes a big tree floats by. If you like it, you can grab onto it and jump on, but you’re not the one pushing it along. You just go with the flow. That idea applies to almost everything you do, and it makes things easier. But it’s also a very difficult practice.
I don’t believe in market research for what I’m doing, because you don’t ask people what they want—you show them what they want. Most of the time, people don’t know what they want, right? You should create and reflect on what you’ve created, and if it’s not good enough, you develop new skills and try again. Find your niche, keep working on it, and let people respond to your collections.
Is there a project you still dream of realising—something that, for some reason, hasn’t yet taken shape?
It would be nice to do a collaboration with a high fashion brand.
But I think my boring answer would be that my real dream is simply to have the freedom to do what I want. I once had a client from New York who called me on a Sunday evening and said, “Hey, I’m scrolling through Instagram, and I love this piece you made. Can you create something for me?” I had total freedom on that project, and he paid for it—and that’s what we all want, right? We all want total creative freedom while also getting paid for it.
It would be amazing to have more clients like that.
Could you name a person who inspires you or whom you admire?
One person who was very important for my career is my former art school teacher, Bas van Beek. After I finished school, he also became a friend, which is really nice—we still share a lot of experiences and keep in touch.
He’s important to me because he was the first person to really acknowledge my drawing skills. That moment was a life lesson for me when I was a student.
“Bas,
Thank you so much for believing in me as a student, and for having patience with me. You were always straightforward — and while that sometimes clashed with others, it pushed me to become straightforward too. You taught me to “cut all the bullshit”. In other words, you inspired me to just do it. I learned to let the work do the talking. And I still carry your famous words with me: don’t give up, just keep going.”
