Design schools are good, I guess, sometimes I visit schools, but

“Design schools are good, I guess, sometimes I visit schools, but they are very very limiting.” Thus spoke Marc Newson, the craftsman of the modern age, whose hands shaped beauty from metal and imagination alike. His words are not those of disdain but of liberation—spoken like a master who has walked both within the walls of learning and beyond them. For in this quote, Newson does not condemn education, but reminds us that true creation cannot live forever in the confines of structure. The mind, if caged too long by method, forgets to dream; the hand, if guided too strictly, forgets how to wander.

The ancients, too, understood this truth. They revered teachers not for what they imposed, but for what they unlocked. A mentor’s role was not to build fences around the student’s mind, but to open gates to vastness. Yet, through time, many institutions of learning hardened into stone—rigid temples of form and rule. Marc Newson, whose designs flow like wind given shape, warns us of this danger: that education without freedom becomes a trap. In such a place, the young designer learns to imitate rather than to invent, to follow the map rather than to chart new lands.

He himself is a man forged in both worlds. Born in Australia, Newson began his journey through the gates of art schools, but his truest lessons came not from lectures, but from curiosity and experimentation. His hands became his teachers; the materials, his textbooks. When he crafted his famous Lockheed Lounge, a sculptural chair made of aluminum and rivets, it was not an assignment—it was an act of rebellion, an answer to the silent question: What happens if I create without permission? The result became an icon of modern design, proving that the boldest innovations are born not within walls, but at their edges.

This truth echoes through the history of genius. Leonardo da Vinci, though apprenticed in the studios of Florence, learned most from nature itself. He studied the flight of birds, the flow of water, the anatomy of life. The world was his school, and observation his teacher. When rules did not suffice, he made his own. Thus, he became the prototype of the free creator—the one who takes learning as a foundation, not a ceiling. Like Newson, Leonardo understood that schools can teach technique, but they cannot teach vision. Vision must be discovered, nurtured, and protected from the constraints of conformity.

Yet Newson’s words also carry compassion. He does not reject schools entirely; he calls them “good, I guess”—for he knows that knowledge has its place. The structure of learning gives young artists tools, language, and history. But his warning is this: do not mistake the tool for the craft, nor the system for the soul. The purpose of education is not to produce replicas of the past, but to empower creators of the future. A school that teaches “how” without nurturing “why” limits the very potential it seeks to awaken.

To those who walk the path of creation, this teaching is clear: learn, but do not be owned by what you learn. Take from your teachers what sharpens your skill, but keep a part of your spirit untamed. Listen to instruction, but also to your intuition. For art and design—indeed, all creation—live not in obedience, but in courage. It is the courage to break form, to question authority, to step beyond what has been said that gives rise to the extraordinary.

So let this wisdom be carved into your heart: education begins the journey, but freedom completes it. Do not linger too long in the safety of rules. Step out into the open desert of imagination, where there are no walls, no syllabi, no approval but your own. There, in that vast and uncertain expanse, your true design will reveal itself—not as imitation, but as revelation.

For, as Marc Newson teaches, schools may give you the tools to build, but only your freedom to dream will teach you how to create. And in that act of creation—pure, fearless, and boundless—you will find not only your art, but your self.