Why designers belong in the biolab
When you’re familiar with the fields of biodesign, biofabrication, or engineered living materials (ELMs), it might seem perfectly normal to see designers or architects playing with microbial cultures in a petri dish. You may have come across workshops, conferences, or collaborations where creative professionals engage with scientists, bridging the gap between art and biology. Yet, if you step outside of these intersections, you quickly discover that many biolabs (and the professors and researchers leading them) don’t necessarily see why they would hire someone with a different degree—someone whose background is not strictly biology, engineering, or chemistry.
The pushback is understandable: lab space is limited, academic funding is often in short supply, and there is an assumption that professional designers might not “add direct scientific value” to the research. However, this view overlooks the critical role designers play in addressing complex challenges, aligning scientific innovation with real-world needs, and shaping how emerging technologies interface with society.
“The Odd Duck” in a biolab
For the past decade, I’ve been working with living materials as a biodesigner—cultivating mycelium and other forms of ELMs. Despite my years of experience, I’ve often felt like an “odd duck” in the biolab, an interloper with a design background instead of the “required” credentials to conduct scientific research. Even basic lab protocols—things as straightforward as sterilizing my workspace or safely disposing of biological waste—could draw scrutiny from colleagues not used to seeing a designer in a lab coat. Whenever contamination issues arose, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt and wonder if I had unknowingly messed up a protocol yet again. Working in a lab as a designer meant that any slip-up, real or imagined, could reinforce the perception that I didn’t truly belong there. In hindsight, I see now that contamination is simply an inherent risk in this kind of research, one that even the most seasoned scientists confront. But at the time, the pressure to prove myself—and to demonstrate that a designer could be just as precise, diligent, and trustworthy as anyone else on the team—made every unexpected contamination event feel like a personal failure.
Another challenge is that my creative process thrives on prototyping, failure, and iteration—approaches akin to an artist’s studio. But in many academic labs—especially in microbiology—experimentation follows strict protocols, leaving little room for the trial-and-error mindset that design and art practices rely on. I’m frequently reminded, “This is a microbiology lab, not a prototyping lab,” as though the two approaches are inherently at odds. And yet, failure in design and science isn’t a sign of carelessness; it’s part of a deliberate process that leads to new insights and breakthroughs.
Eventually, these experiences spurred us to create a dedicated lab space for interdisciplinary, design-led, and prototyping research. We realized we needed a place where the open-ended nature of iterative processes wouldn’t hamper the precise environment required by traditional scientific experiments. Balancing these two worlds requires a mutual understanding of each other’s methodologies.
I often see my fellow biodesigner colleagues grappling with the same questions of legitimacy, acceptance, and recognition in biolabs. This shared struggle motivates me to lay out why creative professionals—designers, architects, and artists—belong in these scientific environments.
Designers collaborate with the organism’s metabolism
As synthetic biology, biofabrication, and ELMs advance, we’re gradually redefining what it means to “design” products or environments. We’re entering an era where living organisms collaborate with us to create materials. Designing with living organisms challenges our traditional relationship to matter, shifting the focus from inert substances to active, responsive systems.
For designers working in biolabs, this perspective opens extraordinary possibilities for both form and function. By harnessing the natural growth and self-assembly abilities of organisms, it becomes possible to produce structures that reflect the living processes guiding their formation. Rather than merely molding a static material, designers collaborate with the organism’s metabolism, nudging its growth in ways that harmonize aesthetic vision and functional requirements.
What makes the designer’s role so crucial here is the recognition that living materials demand more than just scientific rigor—they require an empathetic framework that respects the autonomy and adaptability of the organism. Engaging with life at the microscopic level goes beyond replicating shapes or textures; it asks designers to observe, and respond in turn. When these living processes are treated as malleable components to be pushed around, they lose their greatest assets: agency and the capacity for self-directed adaptation. By framing microorganisms as co-creators rather than passive tools, designers unlock genuinely novel applications and solutions that grow out of a partnership between biology and human intention.
Design happens during growth—not after
In the realm of living materials, design isn’t an afterthought that’s tacked on once the organism has done its work; it’s embedded in the very process of growth. While traditional manufacturing might wait until the final stage to shape or decorate a product, working with fungi, bacteria, or other living organisms rewrites the script. From the moment a designer chooses the substrate and sets environmental conditions, they are already making critical decisions that determine how the organism grows, which structures form, and ultimately, what the finished material can do. Every fluctuation in temperature, every subtle shift in moisture, every nutrient introduced is part of an active design conversation between human intention and microbial agency.
Instead of imposing a shape from the outside, they harness growth patterns, metabolic pathways, and the innate intelligence of cells to achieve results that traditional methods often cannot replicate. If a fungal organism is more inclined to branch in certain conditions, the designer may use that branching pattern to create intricate textures or reinforce structural points. If microbial colonies respond well to a particular mix of nutrients, that choice becomes a design decision—shaping not only the look and feel of the material, but also how durable or adaptable it will be.
This approach demands a different mindset—one that is iterative, patient, and deeply appreciative of biological nuance. In this dance between craft and biology, design decisions emerge in real time, evolving along with the living material itself. The result is a shift away from static finality and toward a dynamic process in which creation is inseparable from its growth, and aesthetic choices are interwoven with environmental cues. This synergy not only yields unique and often unpredictable outcomes, but it also offers a glimpse into the future of sustainable production: a future in which design is cultivated rather than constructed.
Rethinking manufacturing as an iterative process
In practice, designers translate these ideas into biofabrication processes that look more like ongoing conversations than neatly orchestrated production lines. Through careful adjustments to environmental factors—temperature, humidity, nutrient composition—they guide microbial behavior within a three-dimensional design space. Rather than a single, rigid script, the process operates as a give-and-take, where the organism's metabolism itself provides feedback that can steer the design in unanticipated and inventive directions.
Because living materials continue to respond to their surroundings, their potential extends well beyond fabrication. An ELM product might not remain inert after it leaves the lab; it can adapt to new contexts, self-replicate, or retain a kind of memory of the environment it inhabits. This perspective nudges the role of the designer away from the traditional pursuit of total control, and toward a mindset of nurturing and stewardship. Production becomes an iterative, context-aware process, where environmental cues guide shaping, binding, or reinforcing. Once the product is grown, the “living” aspect may remain active, driving further transformations during its usage.
Designers excel at weaving scientific insights into holistic systems
Designers are trained in methodologies that emphasize rapid prototyping and iterative design—a combination that can drastically speed up and refine scientific research. Instead of waiting until the very end of a project, a designer might build prototypes early, gathering feedback and adjusting concepts right away. This loop of test-feedback-improve is common in design, but it can be enriched by scientific inquiry and data.
In practice, form exploration becomes more than a mere exercise in aesthetics; it’s a way to see how a living material interacts with the environment. Similarly, incorporating material experiments into the design process invites cross-disciplinary insight: testing not just the scientific viability of an ELM product, but how it might look, feel, and perform in everyday use. By treating “failure” as an expected step rather than a setback, designers also help labs pinpoint critical weaknesses or constraints long before a project reaches a costly scale-up phase.
At its core, designing with microorganisms highlights why it’s so critical to have designers actively engaged in biotechnology research. Scientists may map an organism’s genetic blueprint or perfect the growth medium, but designers excel at weaving these insights into holistic systems and envisioning real-world applications that resonate with human values and practical needs. Their ability to translate scientific complexity into functional, beautiful, and socially relevant outcomes is essential for moving innovations out of the lab and into wider society.
By acknowledging living materials as responsive, interactive partners, designers promote empathy, care, and responsibility—traits that have long been missing in an industrial design paradigm rooted in extraction and disposability. This shift paves the way for a new generation of biotechnological solutions that are sensitive to ecological realities and structured around long-term adaptability. Instead of forcing living organisms into rigid production lines, designers co-create with nature, tapping into processes shaped by billions of years of evolution.
Designing for ethical and ecological responsibility
The application of engineered living materials inevitably raises questions about safety, containment, and environmental impact—areas where designers can play a pivotal role. Instead of viewing these concerns solely as technical hurdles, designers excel at framing them within a broader cultural and experiential context, bringing empathetic problem-solving skills to a field traditionally guided by lab protocols and efficiency. Whether the issue is preventing contamination, mitigating the escape of a modified organism, or managing end-of-life scenarios, designers can help by translating abstract concerns into tangible strategies that resonate with both scientists and the wider public.
Think of a designer as a catalyst—someone who helps the entire research team see new possibilities, communicate ideas more effectively, and ensure that breakthroughs in biotechnology aren’t just technologically brilliant but also accessible, ethically sound, and meaningful for the world around us.
In fields reliant on living processes—where collaboration between biology and design can spark transformative breakthroughs—welcoming creatives into the lab should be a logical next step, not an exception.