Could you tell us about your early life and what sparked your interest in footwear design? Were there any particular moments or influences that guided you towards this path?
Before designers like myself, Tinker Hatfield, and Wilson Smith came onto the scene, footwear design, especially athletic footwear, wasn’t really considered a career. Growing up, I was always interested in shoes. My parents weren’t wealthy, so Back-to-School season meant getting one pair of shoes, which made me very selective about what I chose. I gravitated towards durable options, like the low-top Dr. J Adidas basketball shoes and the Adidas Country running shoes.
My older sister was a runner, and our parents sent me out running with her when I was around 11 or 12. This introduced me to running shoes, and I started to develop a keen interest in what made certain shoes better than others. I remember being fascinated by this weird Converse running shoe that came in multiple primary colours. They were affordable, so my parents bought me two pairs, and this experience made me start thinking critically about what made shoes durable and comfortable.
Even though I was an artist growing up, I had this analytical side that made me curious about why some shoes held up while others didn’t. I was into what we now call action sports—BMX, motocross, skateboarding—which were kind of fringe activities in the late ’70s, and I applied the same critical thinking to my gear choices.
When New Balance came out with the 990, the first $100 shoe, my older brother got a pair, and I was blown away by how durable they were. I started running in them, and they just solidified my love for New Balance. Later, in high school, I fell in love with the aesthetics of the New Balance Super Comp, and that was the moment I knew I wanted to design products.
I went to school for product design, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after graduation. Most people were going into early computer companies or medical services, but I heard about a job at New Balance. I thought, “Maybe people really do design sneakers for a living.” I interviewed, got the job the next day, and joined Kevin Brown, who was their first full-time designer, as part of the entire design team for New Balance.
It was amazing to apply my personal experience with running and my love for New Balance to the design process. I was designing the next version of the shoe I ran in, with direct knowledge of how to improve it. Back then, it wasn’t just about introducing a new style, it was about improving performance, with the style following naturally. This approach shaped the way I think about design: it’s not just about creating something new and different, but something exciting and better.
There wasn’t this pressure to follow a strict schedule, like needing to release a new version every fall just because we launched the previous one in the fall of the previous year. Instead, we were always working in the background, focused on making the shoe better. If we could genuinely improve it, then we’d redesign and introduce the new version. It was a much more thoughtful and deliberate process compared to how things are done today.
What was the first pair of sneakers that you felt a deep connection with, either as a designer or as a fan? How did they inspire your work?
I actually kept every pair of shoes I had, but one day my mom threw them all out, and I was pretty upset about it. I remember running in a Puma Power Cat that I really liked, and I went through three pairs of Adidas Country consecutively because they were just solid shoes. But the one that always eluded me, the one I really wanted, was the New Balance Super Comp. Eventually, I managed to get a deadstock pair for about 20 bucks, but I ended up selling them when someone made me a ridiculous offer. Looking back, I wish I’d kept them because those were the ones.
The original colorway of the Super Comp was just fire. It had this unique snake tongue overlay on the toe, and that detail actually influenced the design of the toe shape I later used on the Instapump Fury. That shape ended up being almost like a signature, becoming known as the “Steven Smith toe shape,” which you can see on the Fury, the Wave Runner, and a lot of the Yeezys. The Super Comp was a racing flat and it was expensive, so my parents wouldn’t spend that kind of money on something I’d only use for running track. All I got were my spikes and that was it.
What were some of the first designs or sketches you created when you started out in the footwear industry? Do you remember your initial approach to design?
It’s funny, when I first got to New Balance, I was like the new kid, so I started out doing smaller tasks. One of my first jobs was working on the perforation patterns for the 995, and then I ended up working on basketball shoes like the 428 and 427. I was mainly handling details—trim pieces, refining the lines, and so on. Those projects were kind of fun because the shoes were already about three-quarters finished, and they were pressed for time, so they had me come in to finesse and finish them off.
After that, the team started to notice my work, and I got to work on the 996, which was really cool because I was already familiar with the 990 and 995 from running in them. It was an awesome experience to update a shoe I personally knew and loved, and to make it even better. The 996 became one of my favourites for that reason.
Then there was the 574, which actually emerged from two other shoes I had worked on. Even working on the 550 basketball shoe was a lot of fun. At the time, Kevin Brown was working on the James Worthy shoe, the Worthy Express, and I was focused on the more mainstream models like the 550 and 650. It was cool to work on those “meat and potatoes” models—the high-volume, mainline products that really define the brand even today.
One thing New Balance has always been known for is making quality products. Their shoes are practically indestructible—you just can’t kill them. It’s really fun to see those styles I worked on when I was 22 or 23 years old making a comeback now. There’s a certain pride in knowing that something you had a hand in creating has stood the test of time and is still appreciated today.
I remember when we did the team bank colours for the pro basketball shoes. It was all about those authentic player styles—Carolina blue, Celtics green, Lakers purple, the basics that you’d expect for each team. What’s cool is seeing how those designs have evolved over time. People often ask me what I think about the new versions, and honestly, I think it’s amazing. It shows that the original design was such a strong foundation, an incredible canvas that people can reinterpret with new colours, materials, and tweaks.
It’s a testament to the inherent beauty and versatility of the original designs that they can keep going, just with some upgrades and fresh colourways. The same goes for the Instapump Fury, I’m always blown away by how many different versions have been created over the years. And with the 550, it’s clear that the design was so good and versatile that it can be played up or down in countless ways. It’s really satisfying to see something you worked on continue to inspire and evolve like that.
Could you share some of the challenges you faced in your early career, and how did you overcome them? Were there any breakthrough moments that defined your journey?
A big part of my growth as a designer was just learning by doing, and one of the breakthrough moments for me at New Balance was being co-located above the factory in Massachusetts. That proximity really made me a better designer because whenever I had a question about how something was done, I could just walk downstairs into the factory and ask. For instance, if a process engineer told me something couldn’t be done, like having a part go “over and under” in the assembly process, I’d ask why not. Seeing the sequence of assembly firsthand helped me understand that it was all about efficiency and affordability, which made sense once I saw it in action.
New Balance had specific methods, like pallet stitching for products made in the U.S., where each part had to go together in a flat sandwich-like manner for the automatic stitcher to sew it together. For example, my original sketch for the 1500 had this over-and-under design around the heel counter, but they couldn’t produce it that way because it needed to be made in the U.S. using the flat stitching method. I’ve often thought it would be cool to revisit that original vision and reintroduce it because the aesthetic is slightly different.
Those early experiences of understanding how things were made, right there on the factory floor, were invaluable. Many young designers today don’t have that luxury, as most production is overseas, and even before COVID, companies were cutting back on designers traveling to factories—usually just sending developers and engineers. So, having that kind of hands-on experience early in my career was pretty rare and incredibly beneficial.
Back in the day, things were quite different at New Balance compared to today. We didn’t have the massive infrastructure or advanced tools that companies have now. There was no CAD software so everything was done by hand. I used to draw blueprint drawings with lead holders and precision tools. These were called control drawings because they were used by drafting departments in factories and mould experts.
In those days, my hand-drawn designs were directly used to cut the steel moulds, which was quite unusual. The drawings had to be 100% accurate because the steel moulds were made from them. This meant you had to account for shrinkage rates, heel kick angles for the outsole, and specific templates for each layer of the midsole. There were distinct paper templates created for the sole as it emerged from the mould and for the midsole, which was to be applied to the upper. These templates took into account factors such as foreshortening and heel kick.
It was incredibly complex and time-consuming. I remember it would take about a week just to complete the midsole and outsole drawings by hand. Today, all of this can be done digitally, which is mind-blowing to think about given how manual and intricate the process was back then. The sheer speed and efficiency of modern tools contrast sharply with the painstaking work that used to be required.
Understanding the engineering behind the designs was crucial back then. It made me a better designer because I had to grasp how every decision affected the final product from start to finish. If a change was made in one area, it could impact other aspects down the line, so I needed to anticipate and solve these issues as I went along. This comprehensive approach helped in every phase of the design process.
Today, design is often compartmentalised, with different people handling different aspects, and digital tools allow for easy adjustments with features like “Undo.” Back then, though, if you made a mistake, you had to start over or painstakingly erase it. I remember marketing folks asking for colour changes, and I’d tell them, “Sure, if you give me four more hours, I can make it blue.” They often didn’t appreciate the time and effort involved in hand-drawing everything. Without colour copiers, every change meant redrawing the whole thing, which was incredibly time-consuming.
Technology has advanced so much since then. Even simple things like black-and-white copiers were groundbreaking at the time. We had thermal paper that smeared when you hit it with a marker, making precision crucial. It’s easy to take these modern conveniences for granted, but back then, it was a very different world of design.
How would you describe your design philosophy when it comes to sneakers? What elements do you prioritise most in your designs?
When I approach design, I always begin with a clear purpose and intent, focusing on understanding the product’s function and its target audience. Over the years, incorporating performance features has become second nature, ensuring the shoe supports the foot effectively and offers proper cushioning. It’s like following a recipe where you mix in various technologies to achieve the desired outcome.
Going back to those early days, I was focused on how the shoe looked from every angle. Back then, without the advanced 3D tools we have now, I had to rely on hand-drawn perspectives and then adjust the patterns based on how the actual product turned out. This process taught me to appreciate the importance of holistic design. I wanted every aspect of the shoe to look right from every angle, much like how some cars are designed.
Take the Jaguar XJ-S, for instance. It’s a car that, to me, looks like it had different designers working on different parts, leading to a mismatch in design coherence. Compare that to the Jaguar E-Type, which Enzo Ferrari famously called the most beautiful car ever designed. The E-Type’s design is seamless and integrated from front to back, which is something I strive for in my work.
My goal is to ensure that every component of the shoe—upper, midsole, and outsole—integrates seamlessly, creating a unified aesthetic. I want the design to feel like a single, cohesive object rather than a collection of disparate parts. This holistic approach helps ensure that the final product is both visually appealing and functionally effective.
You’ve created some legendary designs over the years. Which one of your designs do you consider the most iconic, and what was the creative process behind it?
It was funny how the idea for the Fury came about. Paul Litchfield and I were initially working with the Pump One, which was a regular basketball shoe with the pump system inserted inside. As we were assembling it, we thought, “Why not make the pump the central component of the shoe itself?” This led us to explore flame laminating, which allowed us to combine fabrics with the pump system more effectively.
At the same time, we were inspired by the Dodge Viper concept car, which had just been introduced. The Viper’s bold design and striking colors, like Viper red and yellow, along with my own love for the Super Comp—where the shoe looked like your feet were on fire—led me to envision the Fury as a shoe that made you feel like you were blazing fast.
We decided to reduce the shoe to its absolute essentials. By integrating the pump system directly into the shoe upper, we eliminated the need for the usual 150 parts in a traditional shoe, which included numerous reinforcements and stitching processes. We also introduced the graphite arch piece, which was a minimalist approach that cut the midsole in half, much like a striptease—revealing the most essential components in stages.
The goal was to build the ultimate running shoe, much like creating a high-performance race car. We took inspiration from Formula One and stealth fighter technology, utilising cutting-edge materials like carbon fiber. The Fury was a proof of concept, showing that we could build something revolutionary and groundbreaking. Even today, the Fury’s innovative design and approach stand out, proving that sometimes, less really is more.
To me, designing the Fury wasn’t just about creating a sneaker; It was about crafting a running machine. I wanted to give runners an advantage in speed and lightness, akin to the precision and performance of a Formula One car. At that time, only stealth fighters and Formula One cars utilised Carbon Fiber to such an extent, it was unprecedented in the sneaker world.
The Fury was designed to be revolutionary, a breakthrough that would stand the test of time. It’s now part of prominent collections like the London Design Museum and the Smithsonian, and it’s featured in traveling exhibits such as the recent one at the Portland Art Museum. It’s fascinating to see that something I sketched in 1992 and that was released in 1994 is still considered futuristic today. The fact that it continues to be recognised as an innovative design speaks to how groundbreaking it was and still is.
I always say that I never set out with the intention of creating something iconic or designed to outlast me. Instead, I focused on doing the best I could with the tools and the brand DNA available to me at the time. Paul Fireman was a big influence, encouraging us to push the envelope and create something that could shape the future. And that’s exactly what we aimed to do. The results, like the Fury, ended up being revolutionary not because of any grand plan, but because we were committed to pushing boundaries and innovating with the resources we had.
The sneaker industry has seen tremendous innovation over the decades. How have you kept up with technological advancements while staying true to your design roots?
I’ve been fortunate to work at pivotal moments in several companies, witnessing and contributing to significant technical revolutions. For instance, I was at Nike during the emergence of Flywire and Flyknit, and at Reebok when we developed the Pump technology. It’s been a mix of timing and being in the right place to work on these groundbreaking projects.
One of the advantages Reebok had was our openness to innovations from outside the footwear industry. While Nike often focused on developing technologies in-house, we actively sought inspiration from other fields. The Pump, for example, was inspired by a blood pressure cuff. We attended automotive, aerospace, and medical device shows to explore ideas and technologies that could be adapted for footwear. Our background in mountain biking led us to the Interbike trade show, where we discovered concepts like air inflators that influenced our designs.
By keeping an eye on advancements in diverse industries, we were able to bring fresh ideas into the footwear business. This approach not only allowed us to innovate with technologies like the injection EVA process but also emphasised the importance of risk-taking. Many companies become risk-averse as they grow, focusing on incremental improvements to protect their revenue streams. This conservatism can stifle the bold, revolutionary ideas that originally set them apart.
In essence, staying aware of developments outside your immediate field and being willing to take risks can lead to significant breakthroughs, even if it means challenging the status quo and stepping into uncharted territory.
You’ve worked with several top brands throughout your career. Which companies did you enjoy working at the most, and what made those experiences special?
Every place I’ve worked had its moment of excitement and challenge. At Reebok, we were in a unique position where we could truly innovate. Our facility was like a think tank, with its own research lab and team dedicated to pushing boundaries. It was a great environment because we were encouraged to experiment and create new ideas.
However, as time went on, things started to shift. People began to see the fun and success we were having and wanted to be part of it. It’s natural for people to want to be involved in exciting work, but it also led to some frustration. I’d often hear, “Why don’t you let others do what you do?” My response was always, “Make your own job fun.” The opportunities for innovation are there; it’s about stepping up and making the most of them.
When I was at New Balance, I was eager and soaking up knowledge. The US and UK manufacturing aspects were particularly meaningful to me. There was a lot to learn, and I was deeply engaged in the process.
At Nike, the scale was different—there were incredible budgets and facilities at our disposal, like the ability to injection mold anything we wanted right in Beaverton. The resources were fantastic, but as the company grew, it became more about navigating office politics and less about pure creativity. When the focus shifted to defending one’s position or spending more time in meetings than creating, it became less enjoyable for me. I’m a creator, not a politician, and I always found that when the job became more about politics than innovation, it was time for me to move on and find new challenges.
Creating something truly groundbreaking is tough. It’s one thing to take an existing design, polish it up, and say you’ve made it better—but to be the first to create something? That’s a whole different challenge. It’s hard to make a first of anything because you’re venturing into uncharted territory. You’re not just improving on what someone else has done; you’re starting from scratch, figuring it out as you go, and that’s incredibly difficult.
When you think about it, creating something completely new is what really pushes boundaries. It’s easy for someone to take a concept that already exists, tweak it, and call it an improvement. But the reality is, it’s the original creation… the first of its kind… that sets the stage for everything that follows. And that’s not easy. It’s a tough process, but it’s also what makes the final product so impactful.
Collaborative designs have become a big part of sneaker culture. What have been some of your favourite collaborations, and why do you think they resonated so well with the community?
You know, it’s kind of funny how a lot of my designs get rediscovered after I’ve moved on from a company. Take Nike, for example—when Stüssy partnered with them, they chose my Spiridon design and then Supreme used it too, right? By that time, I was already gone from Nike. Supreme dived into the vault and pulled out one of my designs. It’s cool to see that happen. The same goes for when ALD picked up the 550. I mean, that shoe was probably created before most of the people involved with it were even born. So it’s kind of fun to see these things resurface.
What’s interesting is that many of these shoes had their roots in performance, not just style. Like the Spectrum—I worked with Japanese Ekiden runners and Paula Radcliffe to create that shoe. Now, a lot of these shoes are seen as streetwear, but they originally came from a place of pure performance. People tend to forget that. The Spiridon, for instance, was the debut shoe for Cage Zoom technology. That’s where it all started, and it was designed as a lightweight marathon shoe for Japanese runners.
So, seeing these performance-driven designs cross back into the lifestyle scene or get revived is really satisfying. It shows that they were inherently good—whether it was for performance, comfort, or both. They’re just solid platforms to build on, and that’s why they keep coming back.
I mean, part of it is about leaving something behind that gives future designers a solid foundation — a good palette they can work with. It’s something that colour blocks well, that you can break up in different ways to tell new stories, even just through colour and materials. It really just goes to show that the original designs were strong, that they can stand the test of time and keep evolving. Good designs have that kind of longevity that they can take on infinite variations and still hold up.
How do you feel about the evolution of sneaker culture over the years? Do you think it has positively influenced the industry, or are there aspects you find concerning?
I think it’s cool, you know? People sometimes don’t realise that, at the end of the day, my degree is in fine arts, a Bachelor of Fine Arts! So, to me, sneakers are a form of art. But what’s special about them is that they’re accessible art. They’re not just something you hang on a wall; they’re usable, functional pieces of art. I think that’s what makes them more important in a way.
Sure, some kids do hang them on their walls, and that’s great—it shows their appreciation for the work that myself and other designers have put into creating these shoes. But at the end of the day, these designs have a purpose. You can wear them, show them off, or even collect and trade them. It’s pretty amazing to see a whole culture built around that. I never imagined it would get to this point, but it’s really cool.
And, you know, I get it—I was a collector nerd myself back in the day. I’d hunt down those Super Comps and find dead stock pairs in old running stores. The guys who ran those stores were always stoked to sell off what they considered old junk for 10 bucks a pair. So, I totally understand the passion behind it, and it’s kind of surreal to see how it’s evolved into what it is today.
Outside of your own creations, are there any sneaker designs from other designers or brands that you particularly admire? What makes them stand out to you?
I always say, Bruce Kilgore probably thought I was full of it and just brown nosing, but the Sock Racer really changed my world. We were building some solid stuff at New Balance, but when that shoe came out, it blew my mind. I remember thinking, “What is this thing? It’s from the future!” That design was just so ahead of its time.
I’m planning to do an Instagram post later about this because I made these custom Sock Racers for Rick Nielsen. His thing was the black checkerboard, so I created what I’d call a one-off pair, though we probably made about six in total. Funny enough, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith ended up snagging one of my pairs. But yeah, the Sock Racer—it was Kilgore’s masterpiece.
And the guy also created the Air Force One, which is just wow, right? When the Sock Racer came out, it was like nothing else out there. Just two straps and a stretch upper that fit like a sock—it was a whole new concept. This was back in ’86 or ’87, and there was nothing like it. I remember seeing it and thinking, “What is that?” That question became my philosophy: I want to create something where people see it and say, “What is that?”
It was such a beautiful, minimalist solution—so comfortable and completely unique. That shoe really shifted my whole perspective on what sneakers could be.
Looking back on your career, is there anything you would have done differently in terms of your approach to design or the brands you chose to work with?
Sometimes I wonder if I should have played the game more, been more of a politician for the sake of survival or wealth accumulation. But then again, I don’t know. I mean, even in recent situations, I reach a point where I feel like something isn’t working out for me anymore. And at that moment, you can either suck it up and keep taking the check, or you can do the right thing and move on. Sometimes, you just have to do the right thing and move on.
For me, satisfaction has always come from the creation process, not from accumulating wealth. Sure, I’ve done okay, I’m not a multi-millionaire but at the end of the day, I’m happy because creating brings me joy. Money can buy you some fun things, but those are just momentary distractions. You can’t buy the feeling you get when you’re walking down the street and you see five different people wearing something you’ve had a hand in creating. They have no idea who’s walking beside them, no clue that I was the one who designed what they’re wearing.
It’s kind of fun to keep that to yourself, to be humble about it. Sometimes, I’ll even go up to someone and compliment them on their New Balance shoes, and they have no idea I’m the one who designed them. It’s nice to see their face light up, appreciating the recognition for their fashion choice, not knowing the compliment came from the designer himself.
Design is faceless in many ways, unlike being a pop star where people immediately associate a song with a person. So it’s cool to walk around, see your art everywhere, whether in the street or at an airport, and know that people valued it enough to spend their money on it. It feels good inside, really good.
You know, each place I’ve worked at had its own moment in time where it was truly amazing, but also moments where things weren’t so great. It’s tough when things end on a negative note, but that’s part of the journey. New Balance always had a special place in my heart because it’s where I started my career. I’ve always admired the Davis family for continuing U.S. and U.K. manufacturing—it’s such a rare thing in this industry. And in a way, I feel like I’m pretty unique in this industry too, so it was fitting that I started there. The culture at New Balance really shaped how I approached everything from that point forward.
Reebok, on the other hand, was where I experienced some of the most innovative and empowering moments in my career. There were these magic times when we were given the freedom to create like never before. Each company has had its high points, but my heart has always leaned toward New Balance.
Sam from New Balance U.K. is great. He still reaches out to me, asking if they got certain details right or what I think about certain designs. He even sends me pairs to critique. It’s nice to know the brand cares that much. Reebok is similar—they care about getting their reissues right, making sure they’re designed well. Those little details really matter, and it’s clear that they go a long way.
New Balance has the hardest job when it comes to reissuing some of the older designs. They have to track down vintage pairs or scramble to find the original drawings. Back in the day, everything was done by hand. Those original hand-drawn sketches were sent to the factory, and often, they were never seen again. If they have any scraps left from those days, it’s pure luck. So bringing back those designs is no easy task.
I had my own personal archive of prototypes and samples, things I kept over the years. When New Balance invited me as a guest speaker, I brought all my original stuff. They were amazed because they had never seen most of it before. These were one-of-a-kind pieces I made myself in the sample room after hours or during lunch breaks, so they were very special. They even asked to buy them back from me, and I sold them at a low price, much less than what a collector would have paid. Now, New Balance has them in their archive for reference.
Bringing those pieces back to Massachusetts felt right. Standing in that factory building in Lawrence, surrounded by my old work as I gave that talk, it just felt like positive vibes, like those items were meant to be there. It made sense, and it made me feel good that they were back where they belonged.
What do you see as the future of design? Are there any emerging trends or technologies that excite you, and do you plan to integrate them into your work?
I appreciate the digital tools available today, and I understand all the buzz around AI. But to me, it’s a bit like taking a beautifully crafted meal with distinct courses and just mashing it all together into one big mess—like when you’re a kid and you mix your mashed potatoes with your green beans and peas. It loses that careful craftsmanship, that balance.
AI can be impressive, but it often feels like it takes everything we’ve created and throws it together without that thoughtful separation. People say AI is amazing and that it’s going to take over, but it wouldn’t be able to do anything without the source material that people like myself have created over the years. There’s always going to be a place for originality. AI can be a useful tool, maybe for getting a different perspective, but it still relies on the creativity and originality that we bring to the table.
There’s definitely a push and pull between embracing the latest technology and holding onto traditional methods. I think a lot of people don’t realize that while technology opens up incredible new possibilities in design, there’s still an inherent value in the natural, the handcrafted, and the traditional. It’s not just about nostalgia; it’s about maintaining that connection to something real and tangible.
When I did that short stint at North Face, we were exploring new processes like 3D printing at universities, and it was exciting. These new methods offer fresh opportunities and aesthetics, which is what design should always strive for—innovation. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the fact that there’s something irreplaceable about natural materials. Leather, for example, is skin, and it has a feel that’s deeply connected to who we are as part of nature. It’s hard to replicate that kind of warmth and texture with synthetic materials.
There’s a kind of symbiotic relationship between us and these natural materials that just makes sense. Even as we push forward with new technology, there’s this human need to reconnect with the tangible, with the authentic. It’s why, even in the age of mass production, you see movements like the resurgence of crafting, making spaces popping up all over, and a renewed appreciation for things that are handmade.
Going backwards sometimes isn’t really a step back at all; it’s about reconnecting with something deeply human, something that can’t be fully captured by technology alone. There’s a beauty in tradition that, when combined with modern innovation, can create something truly special.
What advice would you give to aspiring footwear designers who are looking to make their mark in the industry? What should they focus on to build a successful career
Success, for me, isn’t about wealth acquisition. It’s more about the process of creation and constantly pushing the boundaries of what’s possible. I see it in a way that’s similar to how I approach product design—you’re never really done. There’s always something new to discover, a better way to do things, or a new tool that changes the game. The work is always on a continuum of form, function, and fashion, and the balance of those elements shifts depending on the context.
I thrive on doing the hard things, the things that most people shy away from because they’re difficult or because they challenge the status quo. It’s about questioning everything, refusing to settle for “just another one,” and always striving to make something better. That’s what drives me, taking a product and within whatever constraints you have, pushing it to be something more, something innovative.
But this mindset isn’t without its challenges. It can be isolating because not everyone is on board with constantly challenging the norm. People often prefer to stick with what’s safe and predictable, which is why there’s a lot of pressure to just “draw the next $65 shoe” without pushing for more. But that’s not how I operate. If I can make something better, then that’s what I want to do, even if it’s harder, even if it means questioning everything.
And then there’s the issue with originality and sharing ideas. I’ve had people, often young designers, send me their sketches, and I always have to caution them about doing that because it leaves them vulnerable. Ideas are tricky—if they’re unsolicited and sent out, it’s easy for them to be misinterpreted or even unintentionally duplicated by someone who’s already working on something similar. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s tough for those involved because it feels like their ideas were stolen, even if that’s not necessarily the case.
Doing something truly original is incredibly challenging, but that’s where the real growth and innovation happen. I often get submissions from young designers, where they’ve made slight tweaks to an existing design, like an Air Force One, and while I appreciate the effort, I have to encourage them to push further. My biggest challenge to them, especially when I speak at places like Pensole, the sneaker design school that D’Wayne Edwards started, is simple: show me something I’ve never seen before.
I want to see designs that make me stop and think, “Wow, I wish I had thought of that.” That feeling of seeing something so fresh and innovative that it raises the bar for everyone else—that’s what drives progress in design. When you create something that makes others step up their game, that’s where the magic happens.
So my advice to any aspiring designer is to always challenge the status quo. Don’t just tweak what’s already been done—reimagine it, reinvent it, and strive to create something that elevates the entire field. When you do that, not only do you contribute something new and exciting, but you also push others to reach for that next level. Because now the bar is raised, and I have to jump higher. That’s my advice. It’s like, always challenge it.
