Economists have interest rates, unemployment figures, inflation reports, and financial markets. The rest of us have far more peculiar theories. We look at nails. Hemlines. The way people dress. Fashion campaigns. The restaurants that suddenly become popular. The objects that seem to appear everywhere all at once.

We live in a time where almost everything is available all the time. Food, clothing, music, shows, inspiration, luxury, opinions, bodies, experiences. Never before have we had so much access — and yet desire has rarely felt this exhausted.

We believe we desire freely. That what we like comes from within us, like a kind of personal intuition—almost natural. We choose a city, an aesthetic, a way of life, and assume that choice belongs to us. But desire doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It is learned.

To those who insist on thinking when the world only wants to optimize.
To those who study symbols while others demand metrics.
To those who understand that legitimacy is not printed—it is built.
To those who work in the invisible.

The first time I saw the Razorbill, I felt something strange: a mix of admiration, aesthetic envy, and a subtle how dare this bird be more chic than a person? Perfect black and white, flawless white eyeliner, an attitude that reads I just walked out of a Scandinavian editorial and I don’t need your approval. A polished, almost silent presence, with the same calculated restraint as a Nordic designer billing in peace.

On any given Sunday, the temples of wellness open their doors: organic brunches adorned with edible flowers, yoga studios scented with palo santo, playlists of mantras carefully curated on Spotify. There, between oat milk lattes and affirmations printed in minimalist typography, consciousness has become a lifestyle.

A few days ago, a robbery at the Louvre reminded us that value does not always lie in what something costs. Someone stole jewels, but what truly disappeared was the narrative that made them unique. We obsess over the shine, forgetting that nothing holds value on its own. Gold without a story is just metal. And luxury—like art or identity—only exists when it is sustained by narrative.

Napoleon understood early on that clothing is never just clothing. As Frédéric Godart recounts, in a calculated gesture, Bonaparte would dress in the simple uniforms of his soldiers while simultaneously wearing the insignia of an emperor. That contrast allowed him to project both proximity and authority. It wasn’t fashion—it was power.

“We are not told what to think, but how to overthink.” This phrase—a sharp synthesis of how media operates in the era of narrative capitalism—captures the way symbolic structures shape not only our desires, but also the boundaries of what we believe is possible.

Every culture produces symbols, but not every individual has agency over them. In an era where power has shifted from volume to representation, mastering the symbolic is not aesthetic frivolity—it is an ontological strategy.

From the earliest stages of human history, rituals have functioned as symbolic technologies—tools to produce cohesion, meaning, and social order. Long before algorithms existed, there was fire at the center of a circle. Bodies moving around it. Crowns, rings, flags.

This year marks a decade since I stepped into a university classroom—not as a student, but as a professor.

I was 26. Fresh out of my second degree in Graphic Design, I was invited to teach Editorial Design and Print Production at UJMD, my alma mater and the place where I had just finished a beautiful double academic journey in Communications and Design.

For a long time, I believed in the saying that "there's no accounting for taste." However, I have realized this is more myth than reality over time. Taste is not purely arbitrary or entirely personal. Criteria, theories, and principles define what looks beautiful or unattractive, luxurious or inexpensive. While personal preference does play a role, it is not the sole determining factor in how we perceive design, aesthetics, and value.