[Korean Version of this newsletter was sent on 9/11/2025]

It’s only been ten days into September, yet the U.S. has already seen multiple reports of shootings. Most tragically, just yesterday (the 10th), young activist Charlie Kirk was shot and killed while giving a speech at Utah Valley University.

To be honest, I don’t know much about Charlie Kirk personally. What I do know is that he led an organization called Turning Point USA and often engaged in public debates with people who held opposing views. I remember seeing clips where, even after heated exchanges, he would end with words like, “Thank you for coming,” or “I hope this gives you something to think about.” That gesture of respect stayed with me.

At just 31 years old, a father of two little children—ages three and one—losing his life to gun violence on a college campus is heartbreaking. Yet online, I saw countless posts mocking his death: “Serves him right for calling to abolish gun control,” or “This is the price of extremist speech.” Such comments reminded me of victim-blaming in other forms, like telling a sexual assault survivor, “It’s your fault for dressing that way.” It’s the same cruel dismissal of someone’s suffering.

Shifting blame onto the victim is another kind of violence. Regardless of ideology or beliefs, shouldn’t we first show the basic respect that every human being deserves when confronted with death?

I’ll close with Charlie Kirk’s own words in response to a question he was once asked: “Why do you do this work?” In an age when algorithms only show us what we want to see, his answer is one worth reflecting on. #RIPCharlieKirk

“When people stop talking, really bad things begin to happen.

When communication breaks down in a marriage, it ends in divorce.
When communication stops in a church, the church collapses.
And when dialogue ends in a civilization, society itself falls apart.

Once we cut off human connection with those we disagree with,
it becomes much easier to justify violence against them.

The horrific genocides of the past hundred years happened
because people stopped talking—and in doing so, lost their sense of humanity.

📊 A Screen-Free Phone, A World of Possibilities

Since the pandemic, teenagers’ daily lives have revolved around screens. Constant notifications disrupt study, endless reels lure them in, social media breeds exclusion, and anxiety runs deeper than ever. In response, several U.S. states have decided to ban phones altogether in schools.

It’s in this moment that Pentagram introduced the KARRI Phone—a device designed for kids ages 5 to 13. Instead of a screen, it connects only through voice. With a simple LED matrix, a few buttons, and a push-to-talk feature, children can exchange voice messages with parents and friends.

For parents who want their kids to stay reachable but not yet tied to a smartphone, the KARRI Phone offers only what’s necessary: voice messages, GPS, and a flashlight. No apps, no algorithms, no endless internet. The device will launch in four colors in 2026.

This aligns with the fast-growing “Smartphone-Free Childhood” movement across the U.S. Already, more than 140,000 parents from 13,500 schools have pledged not to give their children smartphones until at least age 14. And it’s creating an entirely new category: products that bridge the gap—devices that keep kids connected while helping them avoid addiction.

As digital well-being rises to the top of family priorities, parents are seeking devices that allow safe, simple communication. For brands, this shift is both a challenge and an opportunity. It’s no longer about grabbing kids’ attention but about giving them back their time. Not about perfecting algorithms but about having the courage to turn them off. Not about dazzling spec sheets but about making technology that both parent and child can understand together.

The true goodness of technology lies not in hiding complexity, but in transforming it into simplicity that families can live with.

The phrase “digital data perfectly realized in reality” never fails to spark wonder. That subtle gap between what exists on a screen and the tangible world—this is something we’ve always faced in the car design process. Every time we move from clay models or prototypes, we meet that difference head-on. Countless discussions and revisions begin with the familiar sigh: “It feels different from the screen…” That’s why Dusty Robotics’ story kindles a new spark of imagination in me.

I quietly picture it: the studio floor filled with the key lines and layouts of a car we’ve envisioned, rendered at a true 1:1 scale. Designers, modelers, and engineers walking across it together, communicating design through gestures and glances. Perhaps this is the most beautiful way to solve costly rework and latent problems.

The innovation brought by this small robot on construction sites can’t be captured by cold terms like “automation” or “efficiency” alone. It’s the result of bringing the intent of the digital world into reality with honesty. I truly hope that, in the not-so-distant future, such an honest technology will rest gently upon our own small-scale models as well.

What’s even more striking is that this vehicle wasn’t designed solely for the “average” user. Designing from the edge—with its seat always aligned to gravity—shows a deep attention to the needs of a minority who must travel extremely rough terrain with exceptional smoothness. In solving the most extreme user challenges, Swincar uncovered a value that is universal.

Swincar almost seems to whisper to us to view problems not as car designers, but as experience designers. This week, as we look at this strangely shaped spider-like robot, perhaps it’s worth asking ourselves: what assumptions have we taken for granted?