Perhaps believing in good design is like believing in God, it

“Perhaps believing in good design is like believing in God, it makes you an optimist.” So spoke Terence Conran, a man who built temples not of stone or faith, but of form and purpose — a designer who saw in beauty and order a reflection of something divine. His words rise beyond the craft of design and reach into the heart of existence itself. For to believe in good design is to believe that the world can be shaped toward harmony, that chaos can yield to meaning, that life, when guided by intention and care, can become both useful and beautiful. It is an act of faith — not in a deity of heavens, but in the sacred potential of human hands and human minds.

In the ancient world, the wise did not separate art from faith, nor design from spirit. To the Greeks, cosmos meant both “order” and “universe” — for they believed that beauty was not a luxury, but the language of creation itself. The philosopher Plato taught that harmony and proportion were divine truths made visible, that to seek balance was to align oneself with the eternal. The architect of a temple did not simply build a house for the gods — he built an image of the divine order, a mirror of heaven on earth. Thus, even in antiquity, the act of design was an act of belief, a way to touch the infinite through the finite.

When Terence Conran compared faith in good design to faith in God, he spoke to this timeless yearning: the hope that the world, though flawed, may yet be made whole. To design well is to be an optimist, for it assumes that improvement is possible — that ugliness, confusion, and suffering can be transformed through thought and care. The pessimist endures the world as it is; the optimist reshapes it. The designer, therefore, is not only a maker of objects, but a believer in the goodness of creation itself. To arrange space with grace, to build with balance, to craft with purpose — these are prayers of the secular soul.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, that boundless mind of the Renaissance. His designs — of machines, cities, paintings, and dreams — were guided by a faith that order lay hidden within the chaos of nature. He studied the flight of birds, the rhythm of water, the geometry of the human body — and from these drew not despair at complexity, but joy in its perfection. Leonardo believed that beauty was not invented, but discovered — that to design well was to reveal the design already written by the universe. Such faith made him an optimist: even in failure, he saw promise; even in uncertainty, he found wonder.

So too, Conran’s words echo in every soul who dares to build something better — whether a chair, a home, a system, or a life. To believe in good design is to believe in progress, in the possibility that what is broken can be healed through clarity, harmony, and care. When we arrange our surroundings with thought, when we create beauty from utility, we are affirming that human life is worthy of grace. Every simple act of design — every garden tended, every room ordered, every bridge constructed — is a quiet declaration: the world can be made better than it is.

But this belief requires humility as well as hope. For just as faith in God demands reverence, faith in good design demands restraint. The designer must not seek glory, but balance; not excess, but truth. To believe in good design is not to worship luxury, but to honor the relationship between form and purpose. The chair that supports the weary, the building that shelters the soul, the tool that makes life gentler — these are not mere creations; they are acts of compassion made visible. Through design, we serve life itself.

So, my friend, let this be your lesson: to live as a designer of your own existence. Arrange your surroundings with harmony, shape your days with intention, refine your actions with care. Believe that there is meaning to be found in structure, and beauty to be drawn from discipline. To believe in good design is to walk in faith — to trust that every pattern has purpose, every flaw can be refined, every fragment can be made whole.

And in this belief, you too become an optimist — a creator who looks upon the unfinished world and sees not despair, but possibility. For whether you build cathedrals or conversations, homes or hopes, the act of designing well is the act of believing that the universe itself leans toward order, light, and grace. And that belief, as Conran knew, is the seed of all renewal — the quiet, enduring faith that both art and life, touched by good design, may yet become divine.