We believe that growth is an act of construction. That life is about adding things: more knowledge, more achievements, more people, more certainties. We build the house of our "self" with great care, filling it with furniture that defines us: our beliefs, our plans, our relationships, our identity.
And we feel safe in that house.
But true growth, the kind of transformation that tears you in two, rarely begins with construction. It begins with a dismantling.
It's not a violent, sudden demolition. It’s a slow process, almost imperceptible at first. One day, without warning, life enters your house—not to steal, but to begin emptying it. With a relentless calm.
First, it takes a picture from the wall. A friendship you thought was solid vanishes into conflict, leaving behind a pale, dusty space.
Then, it comes for a piece of furniture. Your career, your business, the way you make a living… it all begins to creak. Uncertainty seeps in like a persistent leak, staining the ceiling of your future plans.
You cling to what’s left. You try to protect the rooms that are still untouched. But the process continues. It takes the health of a loved one, and with it, the rug of normality you used to walk on. The house grows cold. The hallways, once full of noise and life, now echo with the sound of your own footsteps.
You fight. You prop up the walls. You try to fix the cracks. You refuse to accept the emptiness.
Until one day, you surrender.
And you find yourself standing in the middle of a single, empty room. No furniture, no pictures, no rugs. None of the things you thought defined you. Just the bare floor, the bare walls, and the silence. A silence so deep it’s terrifying.
It is in that silence, in that harrowing emptiness, that you finally feel it. It's not a thought. It’s a physical certainty. What remains when nothing is left.
The floor. The foundation upon which everything was built and from which everything was taken. Your awareness. The silent witness that watched it all without ever breaking.
You were not the furniture. You were not the walls. You were, and always have been, the floor.
The RAW collection was not born from a design idea. It was born in that empty room. Each piece is not an ornament. It is a fragment of that bare floor. The evidence that, even after the most complete dismantling, the essential remains.
Intact.
— Workshop Journal. Collection: RAW.