The Digital Mirage
We live in a world of glass and light. We swipe, we scroll, and we store our most precious thoughts in "clouds" that we can’t actually touch. There is a clean efficiency to the digital world that fits the modern Dutch aesthetic I love, but there is also a profound loneliness in it. A screen has no memory. It doesn’t matter if you tap it with joy or with anger; the glass feels exactly the same.
In my bookbinding studio, I work in the opposite direction. I work with paper—a material that remembers everything. If you fold it, it stays folded. If you spill a drop of ink, it carries that mark forever. As a Creative Rebel, I’ve realized that our obsession with digital "perfection" is actually making us forget what it feels like to be human.
The Architecture of a Notebook
When I sit at my workbench to bind a new journal, I am thinking about more than just a place to write. I am building a vessel for someone’s soul. I combine the minimalist, clean lines of Dutch design—vibrant colors and modern textures—with binding techniques that haven't changed in centuries.
There is a specific rhythm to it. The sound of the bone folder creasing a heavy sheet of cotton paper. The resistance of the needle as it pulls the waxed linen thread through the spine. To the outside world, this might look like a slow, inefficient way to make a product. But for me, this is where the "work" actually happens. Each notebook is a bridge. It’s a physical object that forces you to slow down, to feel the grain under your fingertips, and to actually inhabit your thoughts.
The Ritual of the Blank Page
I often hear people say they are "afraid" to write in a beautiful, handcrafted journal. They don't want to "ruin" it with messy handwriting or unfinished thoughts. But that fear is exactly why we need these objects.
In my Raku pottery, I’ve learned to love the way fire and smoke leave their unpredictable marks on the clay. Paper is no different. A used notebook—with its frayed edges, its tea stains, and its hurried scribbles—is infinitely more beautiful than a pristine, empty one. It becomes a physical record of a life lived. It has "weight" in a way an app never will. When you hold a book I’ve bound, you are holding a piece of craft that was designed to weather the storm of your ideas.
Why We Hold On
Travel has taught me that we don't remember the sights as much as we remember the feelings. I remember the texture of the old walls in Rome and the way the air felt in the Alps. We need objects that act as anchors for those feelings.
A handcrafted notebook is a rebellion against the temporary. It is a statement that your thoughts are worth more than a "post" that disappears in a feed. It is a commitment to the slow process of becoming who you are. Whether I am binding a journal or firing a ceramic bowl, I am looking for that connection—the moment where the material and the maker become one.
The Rebel Lesson: The Power of the Tactile
The most radical thing you can do in a high-tech world is to keep a low-tech ritual. We are being pushed toward a life that is "frictionless," but it is friction that gives us character. It is the resistance of the paper and the heat of the kiln that create beauty.
Don't be afraid to leave your mark. Don't be afraid of the messy, the slow, or the permanent. A Creative Rebel doesn't seek perfection; we seek resonance. We seek things we can hold in our hands that remind us we are still here, still breathing, and still creating.
What is one physical object in your life that you could never replace with a digital version? Why does it matter to you? I’d love to hear about your "anchors" in the comments.
Craft your own path,
Bertie