Moving fluidly across interior architecture, scenography, furniture, and objects, Durant’s design language resists easy definition, blending traditional crafts with high-tech processes in an ever-evolving remix. This cross-disciplinary fluency was forged early on—first during five formative years at Mathieu Lehanneur’s studio, where he navigated projects ranging from industrial design to immersive environments, and later through a radical shift to ceramics while co-running Atelier Super in Le Havre with Virginie Willerval.

Durand’s latest works, which we spotted at Alcova’s installation during Milan Design Week in April, reflect this layered approach. The Canidogz lamp series, sewn in part by his mother using performance fabrics strapped over machined steel, is at once domestic and dystopian, tender and tactical. The Hyperbeast armchair—a luminous, cable-strung throne of metal and plywood—nods to gamer aesthetics while reading like the salvage of a sci-fi archaeologist. Ceramic pieces like DR-008 meanwhile hint at a fossil-free future, where humanity survives through ingenuity and repurposing, crafting meaning from technological ruin.

A compelling visual metaphor for our overstimulated, overloaded lives and the spectre of an AI-shadowed future, Durand’s work doesn’t seek to soothe our techno-anxieties—it confronts them head-on. Yet, paradoxically, it offers relief. Through unfiltered creative freedom, flashes of humour, and a palpable emotional charge, his designs recalibrate what design can mean in the age of algorithms. Yatzer recently caught up with the designer to talk about his practice, his fascination with dystopia, and collaborating with his mother.

Answers have been condensed and edited for clarity.

There’s a playful absurdity in your work—fluorescent straps, pseudo-functional parts, unexpected hybrids. What role does humour play in your practice?

Humour is super important! I don’t set out to make “funny” pieces, but if people see humour in them, I love it. When people project their own meanings onto the objects, that means that the work isn’t neutral—it’s alive.

Your aesthetic is distinctive, but never static. Who or what are your enduring sources of inspiration across art, design, or elsewhere?

Inspiration can come from anywhere: science, art, technology. I see my work as aesthetic research, so I'm always on the lookout for anything visual that sparks my interest.

If one of your objects were to be unearthed in 200 years, what do you hope it might say about our time—or about you as its maker?

If people just thought, “He was a nice guy,” that would be enough. The rest… I’ll leave that up to you.