A lot of the design courses in schools and colleges don't

The words of David Linley—“A lot of the design courses in schools and colleges don't incorporate very much making, and a lot of the making courses incorporate too much technology and computers”—ring like a lament for the lost union between mind and hand, between artistry and creation, between thought and touch. His insight reminds us that in the pursuit of progress, we have become estranged from the very essence of creation: the human hand, the craftsman’s instinct, the spirit that feels the grain of the wood and the pulse of the material. Linley’s reflection is not a rejection of technology, but a call for balance—a return to the sacred partnership between imagination and craftsmanship.

In ancient times, the master builders of temples, ships, and sculptures did not separate design from making. Leonardo da Vinci drew with one hand and built with the other; Michelangelo carved his visions from marble not as a thinker removed from his craft, but as a creator immersed in it. These men knew that true design is not born from abstraction alone—it emerges when the mind envisions and the hand translates that vision into form. They did not rely on distant devices or digital simulacra to understand proportion or texture; they learned by doing, by failure, by persistence. The act of making was not secondary to thought—it was thought in motion.

Yet today, as Linley warns, education risks severing this bond. We fill our schools with screens, simulations, and software, but too few with tools, clay, and wood. The soul of creation is silenced beneath the hum of machinery. In the halls where design is taught, students often learn to render, not to build—to imagine, but not to feel. In the workshops where making is taught, students are chained to machines that calculate for them, removing the rough edges where intuition and discovery once dwelled. Thus, we raise a generation of creators who can design a chair but not carve one, who can visualize a space but never feel its weight or texture.

The wisdom of the ancients would mourn this. For in every craft, the hand teaches the mind what no lecture ever could. The Japanese concept of “shokunin”—the devoted craftsman—embodies this truth: that mastery is born from the dialogue between maker and material. In the Japanese tea ceremony, every bowl is slightly different, every imperfection a mark of the maker’s spirit. No algorithm could reproduce that humanity. Linley’s words are a defense of this sacred imperfection—the beauty that lives in the touch of a human hand guided by years of learning and love.

Consider the story of William Morris, the father of the Arts and Crafts movement in 19th-century England. At a time when factories and machines were swallowing craftsmanship, he rebelled by teaching that the dignity of labor and the joy of creation were divine acts. He sought to restore meaning to work—to make beauty not through industry, but through care. His vision echoes through Linley’s message: that making is not merely a technical act, but a moral one. To make with the hand is to engage with truth; to design without touch is to risk creating without soul.

There is, therefore, a profound call hidden within Linley’s words—a call to restore harmony between the digital and the tangible, between the head and the heart. We must teach the young not merely to design, but to craft; not merely to click, but to shape. For in the slow rhythm of creation lies wisdom—patience, humility, respect for materials, and reverence for the invisible bond between the maker and what is made. A craftsman learns not only how to create but how to listen: to wood, to stone, to silence.

Let this truth be passed down as a teaching: technology should serve craft, not replace it. Let schools and colleges become temples again—places where thought is made flesh, where imagination finds form through practice, and where art is born not from ease, but from engagement. Let the hand reclaim its place beside the mind, so that what we design is not merely efficient or beautiful, but alive.

And so, my children, if you wish to create something that endures, do not sit too long before the screen. Go, touch the world. Shape clay, carve wood, sew cloth, or mold stone. Let your fingers learn what your eyes cannot see. For in the union of design and making, you will rediscover what all great creators before you knew: that the truest beauty is not imagined—it is crafted.