Local Ties: Industrial Designer Clark Mendoza on Designing with Empathy

Filipino craftsmanship has taken the EMERGE at FIND Design Fair stage yet again! Curated by Supermama founder Edwin Low, and with the theme “Dialogue Through Design,” this year’s showcase is a conversation between people, cultures, materials, and time. The exhibition will feature works that push boundaries, from subtle gestures to often-overlooked details, celebrating thoughtful design and fresh perspectives. It will include some 150 works across 1,000 square meters from leading Southeast Asian design nations.

Five designers from the Philippines will form part of the exhibitors at EMERGE 2025, showcasing Filipino craftsmanship through pieces that reflect our heritage, culture, and tradition.

Bataan-based Clark Mendoza joins our EMERGE 2025 interview series with a look back on his creative influences from childhood, his mentorship at the Design Center of the Philippines, and the remarkable experiences and encounters woven into his design philosophy.

Hello, Clark! Your work often begins with vernacular forms: bangko, basahan, woven textures, but does not end with mere nostalgia. Can you let us in on your process of translating these everyday objects into something conceptually charged yet emotionally familiar?

Clark Mendoza: Hi Kanto! I go through an entire journey to work on a design. I like walking around the city and observing how people live. I find that there is creativity in the everyday: vendors turning discarded items into seating, manongs making makeshift seats or beds on the street. These gestures, though unpolished, carry ingenuity and resilience. I do observe and absorb these small but meaningful moments. I often take photos of them, and later I scroll back through my gallery or archives. Those photos spark ideas: a shape, a texture, a material, or simply the configuration of something that was put together. These are familiar fragments, rooted in personal or collective memory, and I see them as a catalyst for design ideas.

I think this sensibility traces back to my childhood. My grandfather, Tatay Dadeng, was my first model in terms of creativity and hard work. I remember him working with discarded fabrics, turning them into pillowcases, bed sheets, even a makeshift trapal for the house. He was a skilled sewer, tracing patterns on fabric with pencil and chipboard templates, leaving precise margins before piecing them together into patchwork. All of this was inspired by a simple craft pattern book gifted to him by my tita. Together with my grandmother, Nanay Angeling, he once worked as a sewer for manufacturers in Pampanga. I remember the cut and embroidered fabrics being delivered to their house to be sewn together, which were holiday décor bound for export.

That stayed with me—the resourcefulness, the patience, the beauty in making something out of what’s available. In my own work, I try to carry that same spirit forward, translating the ordinary into forms that resonate.

What a childhood you’ve had! Now, you’ve shown across Manila, Bangkok, and Milan, but your work remains deeply rooted in Filipino material culture. How do you maintain that sense of place while engaging global audiences?

I believe that it is the people and the materials behind the work that truly make a product Filipino. Once a piece is made by Filipino hands, it carries our unique sensibility—our way of working, our patience, and our resourcefulness.

My creative DNA has been shaped by the place where I grew up, my family, the people I meet, and the materials that are part of everyday life. At the same time, I remain open to influences. My work often translates what I encounter, sometimes even subconsciously—walking the streets, watching how communities adapt, visiting museums or galleries, or engaging in conversations with other artists. Even theater and dance inspire me, especially in the use of rhythm, layering, and movement, which I later explore through objects.

I was also fortunate to be tapped by Catalina Embroideries for my Teacup collection, which is inspired by the shapes of teacups I’ve seen in Japanese surplus stores. The collection became part of the Design Philippines Pavilion at Salone del Mobile in Milan. Beyond that, I’ve also been influenced by what I grew up with—television as my constant companion. I watched Discovery Channel, National Geographic, Reporter’s Notebook, I-Witness, and Urban Zone on Sundays. There was even a Japanese channel on cable that showcased anything and everything about Japan—their crafts, food, and culture. Those images left a lasting impression on me about how design and tradition can be deeply intertwined.

You’ve described your practice as “empathetic design.” What does empathy look like in your collaborations with craftspeople, and how does it shape the final object?

Empathy in design is not an abstract idea—it’s something I learned, practiced, and continue to carry with me through the communities and people I’ve worked with. Since graduating from university, I’ve been with the Design Center of the Philippines, and those years have shaped the very foundation of my practice. The center exposed me to the full spectrum of the industry—from grassroots communities and artisan workshops, to manufacturers and exporting companies. Seeing both gave me perspective: the big picture of design as an industry, but also the small, intimate details that are often invisible yet essential.

One of the most formative experiences for me was working with Nelson Sepulveda at the Design Center. Nelson is someone who overflows with wisdom, energy, and an instinctive sense of empathy—not just for people, but also for materials. Together, we worked on projects for Manila FAME, particularly the “New Generation Weaves,” where we explored fibers, palm leaves, metal, paper, and other materials across different weaving traditions in the country. From him, I learned that empathy in design is also about listening to the materials— understanding their nature, their limits, and their potential—and translating them into objects that carry stories and meaning for the world to see.

That early training led me to the New Design Graduate Training Program of the Design Center, where the final phase required us to immerse ourselves in a design studio or manufacturing company. I chose Bacolod, where I trained with Artisana Island Crafts. There, I deepened my relationship with weaving, particularly the pandan weaving of Negros Occidental. Working side by side with artisans gave me a different kind of lesson—not only about materials, techniques, and process, but also about life. I remember my time in the ceramics workshop at Artisana, where the artisans treated me not just as a trainee but as family. Every day, without fail, they would rotate bringing me snacks— simple gestures from Nang Gloria, Gelai, and Jocelyn—that made me feel like part of their workshop family. It was a profound lesson: Malasakit is lived in the everyday, in small acts of care, and in the way we choose to treat one another. It is also the core value of the Design Center, and I carry it until now.

Every project with a community reminds me that behind each product is a family striving, a livelihood sustained, and a culture being kept alive. To see communities pour so much effort into their craft, often against difficult odds, is humbling. Empathy, in this sense, is not only about designing for people—it is about designing with them. It means creating pieces where their voices, skills, and traditions shape the outcome, and where design becomes a tool for dignity and continuity.

Empathy, to me, is a way of life and work. It is built from years of listening, observing, and being embraced by the very people and materials I collaborate with. It is what carries design from objects into relationships—between maker and material, designer and artisan, community and world.

Your bangko + bangkito series at FIND reimagines seating as layered memory. What led you to pair these forms, and what kinds of stories or tensions are embedded in their juxtaposition?

My first encounter with the basahan or “trapo” was in 2018, in preparations for the 2018 ASEAN Furniture Competition. At the time, I was still training for the Atelier Phase of the Design Center’s New Design Graduates Training Program (NDGT) in Bacolod, and I planned to present the Rolyo stool in abaca. I had prepared locally sourced leather belts for the piece, but since I was in Negros, I couldn’t produce the abaca mats myself. A designer friend based in Manila, who was from Bicol where the mats are woven, helped me with production and had them shipped through Artisana Island Crafts to Bacolod.

Unfortunately, I contracted dengue and had to be hospitalized in Bataan before the showcase. Good thing I had a backup plan: larger-than-usual basahan made from jersey scraps collected from local tailoring shops, woven by inmates at the city jail. The Rolyo in abaca didn’t make it on time for my showcase, so I was able to present the Rolyo in basahan at the Style Bangkok Fair.

I’ve also been shaped by exposure to structural ideas like the Möbius strip and the catenary arch. These concepts fascinated me, and I began translating them into forms. For the bangko + bangkito, I worked with the idea of a vaulted seat with catenary-arched legs, building on how bangko can be in any form and material.

There was also this Bangko Bangko Bangko activity I initiated at the plaza of Balanga City, where I invited passersby to take part in finishing a piece of furniture. We provided a metal frame and materials for them to engage with through sewing or weaving—a creative experiment that looked deeply into the innate creativity of people, even if they had never been exposed to or trained in design. The activity turned into a moment of gathering, making, and discovering how design can live in everyday hands.

All these threads—observation, material exploration, design research, personal circumstance, and community engagement—led me to continue from Bangko Bangko Bangko and eventually create the bangko + bangkito. It’s not only about reimagining seating, but about layering stories, memories, and even tensions into the forms we think we already know.

Thank you for being so generous with your stories! You’re now in EMERGE, a regional dialogue with design as language. What do you hope your work contributes to that conversation—especially in terms of how Southeast Asian design can speak through material and form?

During the interview shoot with Supermama, it felt like coming full circle—a reminder and realization of how my journey as a creative began and continues to unfold. I traced it back to childhood, early images of people, craft, and livelihood, before I had professional training in my chosen industry.

All these moments are threads in one fabric—the stories of people and materials, and how they come together as hanapbuhay. I also learned the importance of embracing availability. Whether it’s discarded fabric, woven basahan, or repurposed metal, I’ve always seen design as a practice of making the most of what’s at hand and finding meaning in it. Even before I was born, my father had already been designing and producing metal furniture for our home. Growing up surrounded by these practices made me see design as something woven into daily life.

The bangko + bangkito itself is also a product of bayanihan. It was made possible with the help of my parents, Mama Tess and Papa Tony, my brother Chris, and collaborators like Nanay Leng and Tatay Delfin in Hermosa, Bataan, who helped weave the basahan. The process of making was not solitary—it was collective, built on family, community, and shared effort.

Joining EMERGE is a way to continue that creative journey. I am deeply thankful that this platform exists, creating space for new ideas and emerging talents. In conversations with fellow designers, we often talk about how it’s about time that young creatives are given the chance to be highlighted—not just for ourselves, but to continue designing with and for the Philippines. That, I hope, is what my work brings to the entire dialogue: design rooted in family, community, and resourcefulness, all while reaching forward to new possibilities. •