Read 3 remaining paragraphs | Comments

Before I get to Snap’s new Spectacles, a confession: I have a long history of putting goofy new things on my face and liking it. Back in 2011, I tried on Sony’s head-mounted 3D glasses and, apparently, enjoyed them. Sort of. At the beginning of 2013, I was enamored with a Kickstarter project I saw at CES called Oculus Rift. I then spent the better part of the year with Google’s ridiculous Glass on my face and thought it was the future. Microsoft HoloLens? Loved it. Google Cardboard? Totally normal. Apple Vision Pro? A breakthrough, baby. 

Anyway. Snap announced a new version of its Spectacles today. These are AR glasses that could finally deliver on the promises devices like Magic Leap, or HoloLens, or even Google Glass, made many years ago. I got to try them out a couple of weeks ago. They are pretty great! (But also: See above)

These fifth-generation Spectacles can display visual information and applications directly on their see-through lenses, making objects appear as if they are in the real world. The interface is powered by the company’s new operating system, Snap OS. Unlike typical VR headsets or spatial computing devices, these augmented-reality (AR) lenses don’t obscure your vision and re-create it with cameras. There is no screen covering your field of view. Instead, images appear to float and exist in three dimensions in the world around you, hovering in the air or resting on tables and floors.

Snap CTO Bobby Murphy described the intended result to MIT Technology Review as “computing overlaid on the world that enhances our experience of the people in the places that are around us, rather than isolating us or taking us out of that experience.” 

In my demo, I was able to stack Lego pieces on a table, smack an AR golf ball into a hole across the room (at least a triple bogey), paint flowers and vines across the ceilings and walls using my hands, and ask questions about the objects I was looking at and receive answers from Snap’s virtual AI chatbot. There was even a little purple virtual doglike creature from Niantic, a Peridot, that followed me around the room and outside onto a balcony. 

But look up from the table and you see a normal room. The golf ball is on the floor, not a virtual golf course. The Peridot perches on a real balcony railing. Crucially, this means you can maintain contact—including eye contact—with the people around you in the room. 

To accomplish all this, Snap packed a lot of tech into the frames. There are two processors embedded inside, so all the compute happens in the glasses themselves. Cooling chambers in the sides did an effective job of dissipating heat in my demo. Four cameras capture the world around you, as well as the movement of your hands for gesture tracking. The images are displayed via micro-projectors, similar to those found in pico projectors, that do a nice job of presenting those three-dimensional images right in front of your eyes without requiring a lot of initial setup. It creates a tall, deep field of view—Snap claims it is similar to a 100-inch display at 10 feet—in a relatively small, lightweight device (226 grams). What’s more, they automatically darken when you step outside, so they work well not just in your home but out in the world.

You control all this with a combination of voice and hand gestures, most of which came pretty naturally to me. You can pinch to select objects and drag them around, for example. The AI chatbot could respond to questions posed in natural language (“What’s that ship I see in the distance?”). Some of the interactions require a phone, but for the most part Spectacles are a standalone device. 

It doesn’t come cheap. Snap isn’t selling the glasses directly to consumers but requires you to agree to at least one year of paying $99 per month for a Spectacles Developer Program account that gives you access to them. I was assured that the company has a very open definition of who can develop for the platform. Snap also announced a new partnership with OpenAI that takes advantage of its multimodal capabilities, which it says will help developers create experiences with real-world context about the things people see or hear (or say).

Having said that, it all worked together impressively well. The three-dimensional objects maintained a sense of permanence in the spaces where you placed them—meaning you can move around and they stay put. The AI assistant correctly identified everything I asked it to. There were some glitches here and there—Lego bricks collapsing into each other, for example—but for the most part this was a solid little device. 

It is not, however, a low-profile one. No one will mistake these for a normal pair of glasses or sunglasses. A colleague described them as beefed-up 3D glasses, which seems about right. They are not the silliest computer I have put on my face, but they didn’t exactly make me feel like a cool guy, either. Here’s a photo of me trying them out. Draw your own conclusions.

Read 7 remaining paragraphs | Comments

Enlarge / The state of New York says that this guy is the "assman," not me. Show him the butt ads! (credit: Seinfeld)

According to my research, everyone has a butt.

But that doesn't mean, when I'm imbibing my morning cuppa and reading up on the recent presidential debate, that I want to see an ad showing an illustrated derrière with a bar of soap clenched firmly between its two ripe cheeks.

The ad that finally broke me.

Yet there it was, a riotous rump residing right in the middle of a New York Times article this week, causing me to reflect on just how far the Gray Lady has stooped to pick up those ad dollars lying in the gutter.

Read 28 remaining paragraphs | Comments

Serhii “Flash” Beskrestnov hates going to the front line. The risks terrify him. “I’m really not happy to do it at all,” he says. But to perform his particular self-appointed role in the Russia-Ukraine war, he believes it’s critical to exchange the relative safety of his suburban home north of the capital for places where the prospect of death is much more immediate. “From Kyiv,” he says, “nobody sees the real situation.”

So about once a month, he drives hundreds of kilometers east in a homemade mobile intelligence center: a black VW van in which stacks of radio hardware connect to an array of antennas on the roof that stand like porcupine quills when in use. Two small devices on the dash monitor for nearby drones. Over several days at a time, Flash studies the skies for Russian radio transmissions and tries to learn about the problems facing troops in the fields and in the trenches.

He is, at least in an unofficial capacity, a spy. But unlike other spies, Flash does not keep his work secret. In fact, he shares the results of these missions with more than 127,000 followers—including many soldiers and government officials—on several public social media channels. Earlier this year, for instance, he described how he had recorded five different Russian reconnaissance drones in a single night—one of which was flying directly above his van.

As well as the frontline information he shares on his public channels, he runs a “support service” for almost 2,000 military communications specialists on Signal and writes guides for building anti-drone equipment on a tight budget. “He’s a celebrity,” one special forces officer recently shouted to me over the thump of music in a Kyiv techno club. He’s “like a ray of sun,” an aviation specialist in Ukraine’s army told me. Flash tells me that he gets 500 messages every day asking for help.

Despite this reputation among rank-and-file service members—and maybe because of it—Flash has also become a source of some controversy among the upper echelons of Ukraine’s military, he tells me. The Armed Forces of Ukraine declined multiple requests for comment, but Flash and his colleagues claim that some high-ranking officials perceive him as a security threat, worrying that he shares too much information and doesn’t do enough to secure sensitive intel. As a result, some refuse to support or engage with him. Others, Flash says, pretend he doesn’t exist. Either way, he believes they are simply insecure about the value of their own contributions—“because everybody knows that Serhii Flash is not sitting in Kyiv like a colonel in the Ministry of Defense,” he tells me in the abrasive fashion that I’ve come to learn is typical of his character. 

But above all else, hours of conversations with numerous people involved in Ukraine’s defense, including frontline signalmen and volunteers, have made clear that even if Flash is a complicated figure, he’s undoubtedly an influential one. His work has become greatly important to those fighting on the ground, and he recently received formal recognition from the military for his contributions to the fight, with two medals of commendation—one from the commander of Ukraine’s ground forces, the other from the Ministry of Defense. 

EMRE ÇAYLAK

Despite a small number of semi-autonomous machines with a reduced reliance on radio communications, the drones that saturate the skies above the battlefield will continue to largely depend on this technology for the foreseeable future. And in this race for survival—as each side constantly tries to best the other, only to start all over again when the other inevitably catches up—Ukrainian soldiers need to develop creative solutions, and fast. As Ukraine’s wartime radio guru, Flash may just be one of their best hopes for doing that. 

“I know nothing about his background,” says “Igrok,” who works with drones in Ukraine’s 110th Mechanized Brigade and whom we are identifying by his call sign, as is standard military practice. “But I do know that most engineers and all pilots know nothing about radios and antennas. His job is definitely one of the most powerful forces keeping Ukraine’s aerial defense in good condition.”

And given the mounting evidence that both militaries and militant groups in other parts of the world are now adopting drone tactics developed in Ukraine, it’s not only his country’s fate that Flash may help to determine—but also the ways that armies wage war for years to come.

A prescient hobby

Before I can even start asking questions during our meeting in May, Flash is rummaging around in the back of the Flash-mobile, pulling out bits of gear for his own version of show-and-tell: a drone monitor with a fin-shaped antenna; a walkie-talkie labeled with a sticker from Russia’s state security service, the FSB; an approximately 1.5-meter-long foldable antenna that he says probably came from a US-made Abrams tank.

Flash has parked on a small wooded road beside the Kyiv Sea, an enormous water reservoir north of the capital. He’s wearing a khaki sweat-wicking polo shirt, combat trousers, and combat boots, with a Glock 19 pistol strapped to his hip. (“I am a threat to the enemy,” he tells me, explaining that he feels he has to watch his back.) As we talk, he moves from one side to the other, as if the electromagnetic waves that he’s studied since childhood have somehow begun to control the motion of his body.

Now 49, Flash grew up in a suburb of Kyiv in the ’80s. His father, who was a colonel in the Soviet army, recalls bringing home broken radio equipment for his preteen son to tinker with. Flash showed talent from the start. He attended an after-school radio club, and his father fixed an antenna to the roof of their apartment for him. Later, Flash began communicating with people in countries beyond the Iron Curtain. “It was like an open door to the big world for me,” he says.

Flash recalls with amusement a time when a letter from the KGB arrived at his family home, giving his father the fright of his life. His father didn’t know that his son had sent a message on a prohibited radio frequency, and someone had noticed. Following the letter, when Flash reported to the service’s office in downtown Kyiv, his teenage appearance confounded them. Boy, what are you doing here? Flash recalls an embarrassed official saying. 

Ukraine had been a hub of innovation as part of the Soviet Union. But by the time Flash graduated from military communications college in 1997, Ukraine had been independent for six years, and corruption and a lack of investment had stripped away the armed forces’ former grandeur. Flash spent just a year working in a military radio factory before he joined a private communications company developing Ukraine’s first mobile network, where he worked with technologies far more advanced than what he had used in the military. The  project was called “Flash.” 

A decade and a half later, Flash had risen through the ranks of the industry to become head of department at the progenitor to the telecommunications company Vodafone Ukraine. But boredom prompted him to leave and become an entrepreneur. His many projects included a successful e-commerce site for construction services and a popular video game called Isotopium: Chernobyl, which he and a friend based on the “really neat concept,” according to a PC Gamer review, of allowing players to control real robots (fitted with radios, of course) around a physical arena. Released in 2019, it also received positive reviews from Reuters and BBC News.

But within just a few years, an unexpected attack would hurl his country into chaos—and upend Flash’s life. 

EMRE ÇAYLAK

By early 2022, rumors were growing of a potential attack from Russia. Though he was still working on Isotopium, Flash began to organize a radio network across the northern suburbs of Kyiv in preparation. Near his home, he set up a repeater about 65 meters above ground level that could receive and then rebroadcast transmissions from all the radios in its network across a 200-square-kilometer area. Another radio amateur programmed and distributed handheld radios.

When Russian forces did invade, on February 24, they took both fiber-optic and mobile networks offline, as Flash had anticipated. The radio network became the only means of instant communications for civilians and, critically, volunteers mobilizing to fight in the region, who used it to share information about Russian troop movements. Flash fed this intel to several professional Ukrainian army units, including a unit of special reconnaissance forces. He later received an award from the head of the district’s military administration for his part in Kyiv’s defense. The head of the district council referred to Flash as “one of the most worthy people” in the region.

Within roughly a month of Russia’s incursion, Flash had created a private group called “Military Signalmen” on the encrypted messaging platform Signal, and invited civilian radio experts from his personal network to join alongside military communications specialists. “I am here to help you with technical issues,” he remembers writing to the group. “Ask me anything and I will try to find the answer for you.”

The kinds of questions that Flash and his civilian colleagues answered in the first months were often basic. Group members wanted to know how to update the firmware on their devices, reset their radios’ passwords, or set up the internal communications networks for large vehicles. Many of the people drafted as communications specialists in the Ukrainian military had little relevant experience; Flash claims that even professional soldiers lacked appropriate training and has referred to large parts of Ukraine’s military communications courses as “either nonsense or junk.” (The Korolov Zhytomyr Military Institute, where many communications specialists train, declined a request for comment.)

EMRE ÇAYLAK

He demonstrates handheld spectrum analyzers with custom Ukrainian firmware.

News of the Signal group spread by word of mouth, and it soon became a kind of 24-hour support service that communications specialists in every sector of Ukraine’s frontline force subscribed to. “Any military engineer can ask anything and receive the answer within a couple of minutes,” Flash says. “It’s a nice way to teach people very quickly.” 

As the war progressed into its second year, Military Signalmen became, to an extent, self-sustaining. Its members had learned enough to answer one another’s questions themselves. And this is where several members tell me that Flash has contributed the most value. “The most important thing is that he brought together all these communications specialists in one team,” says Oleksandr “Moto,” a technician at an EU mission in Kyiv and an expert in Motorola equipment, who has advised members of the group. (He asked to not be identified by his surname, due to security concerns.) “It became very efficient.”

Today, Flash and his partners continue to answer occasional questions that require more advanced knowledge. But over the past year, as the group demanded less of his time, Flash has begun to focus on a rapidly proliferating weapon for which his experience had prepared him almost perfectly: the drone.  

A race without end

Larger strike drones similar to the US-made Reaper have been familiar in other recent conflicts, but sophisticated air defenses have rendered them less dominant in this war. Ukraine and Russia are developing and deploying vast numbers of other types of drones—including the now-notorious “FPV,” or first-person view, drone that pilots operate by wearing goggles that stream video of its perspective. These drones, which can carry payloads large enough to destroy tanks, are cheap (costing as little as $400), easy to produce, and difficult to shoot down. They use direct radio communications to transmit video feeds, receive commands, and navigate.

MARCO CORDONE/SOPA IMAGES/SIPA USA VIA AP IMAGES

But their reliance on radio technology is a major vulnerability, because enemies can disrupt the signals that the drones emit—making them far less effective, if not inoperable. This form of electronic warfare—which most often involves emitting a more powerful signal at the same frequency as the operator’s—is called “jamming.”

Jamming, though, is an imperfect solution. Like drones, jammers themselves emit radio signals that can enable enemies to locate them. There are also effective countermeasures to bypass jammers. For example, a drone operator can use a tactic called “frequency hopping,” rapidly jumping between different frequencies to avoid a jammer’s signal. But even this method can be disrupted by algorithms that calculate the hopping patterns.

For this reason, jamming is a frequent focus of Flash’s work. In a January post on his Telegram channel, for instance, which people viewed 48,000 times, Flash explained how jammers used by some Ukrainian tanks were actually disrupting their own communications. “The cause of the problems is not direct interference with the reception range of the radio station, but very powerful signals from several [electronic warfare] antennae,” he wrote, suggesting that other tank crews experiencing the same problem might try spreading their antennas across the body of the tank. 

It is all part of an existential race in which Russia and Ukraine are constantly hunting for new methods of drone operation, drone jamming, and counter-jamming—and there’s no end in sight. In March, for example, Flash says, a frontline contact sent him photos of a Russian drone with what looks like a 10-kilometer-long spool of fiber-optic cable attached to its rear—one particularly novel method to bypass Ukrainian jammers. “It’s really crazy,” Flash says. “It looks really strange, but Russia showed us that this was possible.”

Flash’s trips to the front line make it easier for him to track developments like this. Not only does he monitor Russian drone activity from his souped-up VW, but he can study the problems that soldiers face in situ and nurture relationships with people who may later send him useful intel—or even enemy equipment they’ve seized. “The main problem is that our generals are located in Kyiv,” Flash says. “They send some messages to the military but do not understand how these military people are fighting on the front.”

Besides the advice he provides to Ukrainian troops, Flash also publishes online his own manuals for building and operating equipment that can offer protection from drones. Building their own tools can be soldiers’ best option, since Western military technology is typically expensive and domestic production is insufficient. Flash recommends buying most of the parts on AliExpress, the Chinese e-commerce platform, to reduce costs.

While all his activity suggests a close or at least cooperative relationship between Flash and Ukraine’s military, he sometimes finds himself on the outside looking in. In a post on Telegram in May, as well as during one of our meetings, Flash shared one of his greatest disappointments of the war: the military’s refusal of his proposal to create a database of all the radio frequencies used by Ukrainian forces. But when I mentioned this to an employee of a major electronic warfare company, who requested anonymity to speak about the sensitive subject, he suggested that the only reason Flash still complains about this is that the military hasn’t told him it already exists. (Given its sensitivity, MIT Technology Review was unable to independently confirm the existence of this database.) 

EMRE ÇAYLAK

This anecdote is emblematic of Flash’s frustration with a military complex that may not always want his involvement. Ukraine’s armed forces, he has told me on several occasions, make no attempt to collaborate with him in an official manner. He claims not to receive any financial support, either. “I’m trying to help,” he says. “But nobody wants to help me.”

Both Flash and Yurii Pylypenko, another radio enthusiast who helps Flash manage his Telegram channel, say military officials have accused Flash of sharing too much information about Ukraine’s operations. Flash claims to verify every member of his closed Signal groups, which he says only discuss “technical issues” in any case. But he also admits the system is not perfect and that Russians could have gained access in the past. Several of the soldiers I interviewed for this story also claimed to have entered the groups without Flash’s verification process. 

It’s ultimately difficult to determine if some senior staff in the military hold Flash at arm’s length because of his regular, often strident criticism—or whether Flash’s criticism is the result of being held at arm’s length. But it seems unlikely either side’s grievances will subside soon; Pylypenko claims that senior officers have even tried to blackmail him over his involvement in Flash’s work. “They blame my help,” he wrote to me over Telegram, “because they think Serhii is a Russian agent reposting Russian propaganda.” 

Is the world prepared?

Flash’s greatest concern now is the prospect of Russia overwhelming Ukrainian forces with the cheap FPV drones. When they first started deploying FPVs, both sides were almost exclusively targeting expensive equipment. But as production has increased, they’re now using them to target individual soldiers, too. Because of Russia’s production superiority, this poses a serious danger—both physical and psychological—to Ukrainian soldiers. “Our army will be sitting under the ground because everybody who goes above ground will be killed,” Flash says. Some reports suggest that the prevalence of FPVs is already making it difficult for soldiers to expose themselves at all on the battlefield.

To combat this threat, Flash has a grand yet straightforward idea. He wants Ukraine to build a border “wall” of jamming systems that cover a broad range of the radio spectrum all along the front line. Russia has already done this itself with expensive vehicle-based systems, but these present easy targets for Ukrainian drones, which have destroyed several of them. Flash’s idea is to use a similar strategy, albeit with smaller, cheaper systems that are easier to replace. He claims, however, that military officials have shown no interest.

Although Flash is unwilling to divulge more details about this strategy (and who exactly he pitched it to), he believes that such a wall could provide a more sustainable means of protecting Ukrainian troops. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to say how long such a defense might last. Both sides are now in the process of developing artificial-intelligence programs that allow drones to lock on to targets while still outside enemy jamming range, rendering them jammer-proof when they come within it. Flash admits he is concerned—and he doesn’t appear to have a solution.

EMRE ÇAYLAK

He’s not alone. The world is entirely unprepared for this new type of warfare, says Yaroslav Kalinin, a former Ukrainian intelligence officer and the CEO of Infozahyst, a manufacturer of equipment for electronic warfare. Kalinin recounts talking at an electronic-warfare-focused conference in Washington, DC, last December where representatives from some Western defense companies weren’t able to recognize the basic radio signals emitted by different types of drones. “Governments don’t count [drones] as a threat,” he says. “I need to run through the streets like a prophet—the end is near!”

Nevertheless, Ukraine has become, in essence, a laboratory for a new era of drone warfare—and, many argue, a new era of warfare entirely. Ukraine’s and Russia’s soldiers are its technicians. And Flash, who sometimes sleeps curled up in the back of his van while on the road, is one of its most passionate researchers. “Military developers from all over the world come to us for experience and advice,” he says. Only time will tell whether their contributions will be enough to see Ukraine through to the other side of this war. 

Charlie Metcalfe is a British journalist. He writes for magazines and newspapers, including Wired, the Guardian, and MIT Technology Review.

Voting really feels good to this werewolf. (credit: State of Michigan)

You can't just ask the Internet to vote on something and assume you'll get a "normal" result.

The town of Fort Wayne, Indiana, learned this the hard way in 2011, when an online vote to name a new government center in town went with "Harry Baals." Though Mr. Baals was in fact a respected former mayor of the town back in the 1930s, contemporary officials weren't convinced that his name was chosen out of merely historical interest.

Or there was the time in 2015 when the British Columbia Ferry Service asked Internet users to name its newest ships and perhaps win a $500 prize. Contest entries included:

Read 11 remaining paragraphs | Comments

Around 2012, at a bakery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Skylar Tibbits noticed someone wearing a shirt with the logo of a 3D-printing company. Tibbits, a designer and computer scientist, approached her and posed a question: “Why can’t I print something that walks off the machine?”

The idea kicked off a multiyear collaboration between the industrial 3D-printing company behind the logo, called Stratasys, and Tibbits’s Self-Assembly Lab at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Together, they explored 3D-printed materials that, while they couldn’t walk off the machine, could change their shape or properties after being printed—a concept that Tibbits dubbed “4D printing,” where the fourth dimension is time. Today, 4D printing is its own field—the subject of a professional society and thousands of papers, with researchers around the world looking into potential applications from self-adjusting biomedical devices to soft robotics. 

COURTESY OF SKYLAR TIBBITS

The concept of materials that transform—specifically, that “remember” their form after being deformed—had already been around for a couple of decades, says Thomas Gries, a mechanical engineer who was inspired by Tibbits’s innovations to conduct research on 4D textiles at RWTH Aachen University in Germany. “But to give it a name and bring it to a next stage of, let’s say, perception … this was definitely the main breakthrough by Skylar Tibbits,” he says.

Not long after 4D printing took off, Tibbits was already looking toward a new challenge: What other capabilities can we build into materials? And can we do that without printing?

Tibbits still does a lot of printing in his Self-Assembly Lab, which he founded around 2011. It recently spun out a company, Rapid Liquid Print, that can print large, stretchable products like furniture or prosthetics inside a gel bath; Tibbits also invented a novel technique called liquid metal printing that makes furniture from molten aluminum in a matter of seconds. But his research extends far beyond printing into a world that he refers to as “programmable materials”—those that can transform, sense, reconfigure in shape or property, or self-assemble without relying on robotic mechanisms. 

Tibbits’s interest in transforming materials stretches back to his bachelor’s degree in architecture at Philadelphia University in the 2000s. There he became “obsessively interested” in two emerging fields: digital fabrication (in which machines like 3D printers or laser cutters use code to physically make things) and the use of computation for design. He started working at a classmate’s father’s sign shop, which had an early computer numerically controlled machine. (The classmate, Jared Laucks, now co-directs the Self-Assembly Lab with Tibbits.) “We had unprecedented access to this early digital fabrication tool that our school didn’t even have at the time,” Tibbits recalls. Meanwhile, he was teaching himself to code so that he could design and fabricate things computationally. 

By the time he arrived at MIT, where he earned separate master’s degrees in computer science and design computation, 3D printing had exploded in popularity. True to his nature, Tibbits was already looking to the next unknown. His start in architecture and a few stints at design firms continued to influence his curiosity: He had studied code for design and code for digital fabrication, but there was not yet a way to code for assembling parts into a whole.  

“Most things that are assembled are still either by hand or it’s like a robot in a factory,” he says. “There is no elegant process for building very complicated things.” 

He imagined a way to embed information into material parts so that they could build themselves. That led him to self-assembly, which refers to components that come together on their own. For example, an early project at the Self-Assembly Lab involved placing unique chair parts, each designed to fit into one precise location in a final structure, into a tank of turbulent water, which caused the parts to bump into each other and, after several hours, click into their proper spot to form a chair. Around the same time, he became interested in the idea of programmable materials, in which properties and geometry—like what a yarn is made of and how it’s woven together—can determine behavior. 

Over the past decade, Tibbits’s team has worked on a long list of projects in many industries, from fashion to aerospace. He has helped make specially knitted spacesuits, developed an engine component for Airbus, and printed shoes for Converse. For BMW, he worked on printed car seats that can morph around a passenger’s body. For Google, he designed a structure for meeting spaces that can contract into the ceiling when not in use. With the National Science Foundation, he integrated dynamic braille into a textile sleeve. For Arc’teryx, he collaborated on a wearable textile prototype that he and the company’s senior design director, Greg Grenzke, tested out on a ski slope at Whistler Blackcomb in Canada. In all cases, Tibbits sees his team’s role as making the impossible possible. “That’s where we’re super, super good,” he says. 

“[Tibbits is] one of those people that thinks anything is possible,” says Grenzke. “And he’s very exploratory, which I think for innovation and more big blue-sky thinking—that’s a must-have.” 

It’s particularly important in manufacturing, where old methods often go unquestioned and change is difficult. “Sometimes people get a hammer, and then they just go around their whole lives looking for nails even when it’d be better to pick up a screwdriver,” says Michael Dickey, a chemical engineer at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, who has collaborated with Tibbits. “What Skylar’s done has been, I would say, fearless.” 

That mindset was important to Emeco, a US-based furniture company established in the 1940s. When they were struggling to make the foam in their upholstery more sustainable, Tibbits’s team was “really good at taking a step back and saying, ‘Okay, well, what if it didn’t have to be that way?’” says Jaye Buchbinder, a product development engineer at the company. “In our heads, it’s ‘Let’s find a better foam,’ and in their heads, it’s ‘How do you not use foam?’” Buchbinder also worked with Tibbits to run a course at MIT about reimagining a chair for the future—one that could be reconfigured or infinitely recycled. 

Lately, Tibbits has turned his attention to textiles—in particular, using fibers and yarns to create active structures that can sense and transform. For example, climate-adaptive clothing can open and close its “pores” in response to heat in order to regulate the wearer’s temperature. Or extreme heat can be harnessed selectively to custom-tailor a generic article of clothing. The lab, in collaboration with the fashion brand Ministry of Supply, recently showcased a knitted dress prototype that can be sized and styled in the store to fit a customer’s needs. A robotic arm applies heat to specific parts of the dress, shortening fibers and changing the garment’s shape.  

In all cases, the magic lies in the process. “There’s nothing magic about the material,” says Tibbits. “Every material is active.” In fact, that property is usually considered a nuisance: think warping wood. But, he says, “if you can help guide it to do some kind of useful transformation, then that’s great.”

If it all sounds a little whimsical, it is. Tibbits sees the importance of creating something practical—the textiles are exciting to him because they can be made on preexisting factory machines, which makes them possible to scale—but he likes it when the result is also radical. One of his most out-there projects is happening on the other side of the world in the Maldives, where the team has worked in collaboration with a company called Invena on underwater structures designed to influence wave energy and promote sand accumulation in certain spots along island shores—an alternative to dredging. The idea is to harness natural forces, rather than fight them, to help protect coasts against erosion and rising sea levels.

The way Tibbits sees it, his position in academia allows his lab to “fail often and, frankly, waste time and money”—resources that most companies could not afford to waste. He sees it as his obligation as a designer to spend time considering the radical and irrelevant.

“Sometimes they’re playful, sometimes they’re weird, sometimes they’re funny,” he says of his designs. “Hopefully, eventually, they’re useful, they’re helpful, they’re important.” 

Anna Gibbs is a freelance science journalist based in New York City.