Ryan Lew is the founder of Goofball, a Los Angeles design studio making character-driven objects for everyday living. Goofball began as a personal pursuit. Ryan made things for his own apartment: a skateboard, a rug, a lamp, a piece of furniture, until nearly everything he cared about most was something he had made. Friends kept asking about the objects; conversations kept starting around a lamp or a clock, and the studio grew from that realization. Every Goofball piece—from the intentionally asymmetrical, internally counterbalanced Bolb Lamp to the studio’s clocks—is designed, prototyped, and fabricated in-house. Every product is built to quietly become part of people’s routines and make everyday life feel a little more their own.

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Photos by Kala’i Fong

I’ve always been fascinated by the objects we live with every day, not necessarily the expensive or collectible ones, but the ones we interact with constantly. We spend so much of our lives around these objects that we often stop noticing them, even though they quietly shape how a space feels.

I started making things for myself because I wanted my surroundings to feel more like my own. One project turned into another: a skateboard, a rug, a lamp, a piece of furniture. I loved the entire process, watching those individual objects slowly come together into a home that felt increasingly like my own.

At some point, I looked around my apartment and realized that nearly everything I cared about most was something I had made. It wasn’t because I wanted a house full of my own work. I genuinely enjoyed living with these objects.

Then something unexpected happened. Friends started asking about the objects; conversations started around a lamp or a piece of furniture. The things that made my home feel more like my own seemed to resonate with other people too. That was the first time I realized that I wasn’t the only person looking for this.

Goofball grew from that realization. What began as a personal pursuit gradually reached more people than I ever imagined, but the motivation hasn’t changed. I want to create thoughtful objects that quietly become part of people’s routines and make everyday life feel a little more like their own.

The biggest constraint has always been making something feel original while still being genuinely useful.

A lot of contemporary design ends up at one of two extremes. It becomes either a sculpture pretending to be functional or a purely practical object with no personality at all. I’ve always been interested in the space between those two outcomes.

The clocks are probably the clearest example. The temptation is to solve the visual problem first. But a clock still has a job. It has to be readable. It has to fit into a home. It has to be easy to install. It has to justify occupying physical space every single day.

Those constraints forced me to refine constantly. Every curve, proportion, and material had to serve both the visual and functional experience.

Working as a small maker adds another constraint. Every object has to be manufacturable in-house by me, and it can’t lose what made it special in the first place. There are plenty of ideas that look great in a rendering and completely fall apart when you actually build them.

That limitation, however, has ended up being useful. It forces honesty. If an idea survives sketching, prototyping, fabrication, shipping, and daily use, it usually comes out stronger than it started.

One of the earliest examples was a lamp I designed called the Bolb Lamp.

The lamp was intentionally asymmetrical, which created a problem. Its center of gravity was heavily offset, making it prone to tipping over. From a manufacturing and engineering perspective, there was an obvious solution: change the shape.

Several people suggested doing exactly that. Make it more symmetrical. Reduce the overhang. Adjust the proportions so the problem would disappear.

The problem was that those changes also removed the thing I liked most about it. The asymmetry wasn’t a mistake. It was the entire character of the object.

Instead of redesigning the form, I became obsessed with solving the balance problem while preserving the design. That led to a much more complicated process of counterbalancing the lamp internally so it would remain stable without changing its appearance.

This adjustment took considerably more time, material, and engineering than simply altering the silhouette. But that experience shaped how I think about design. I don’t see engineering and design as separate disciplines in which one compromises for the other. The challenge is finding a solution where both can coexist.

The final lamp looked exactly how I wanted it to look, but it also behaved the way people expected it to. To me, that’s where design gets interesting. The best solution isn’t always the easiest one. Sometimes it’s the one that lets the original idea survive.

More than anything, I’ve learned to remove urgency.

I design constantly. There are sketchbooks full of ideas, folders of CAD files, and shelves of prototypes that will probably never become products. Early on, I felt pressure to turn every good idea into something real. Over time, I’ve realized that excitement isn’t enough.

If an idea still excites me six months later or even a year later, I pay attention. If I keep coming back to it, that’s usually a sign there’s something worth pursuing. Most ideas don’t survive that long, and I’m okay with that. Time has become one of my most valuable design tools.

I’ve also become much more conscious of removing anything that doesn’t improve the experience of living with an object. That doesn’t necessarily mean making it simpler. Sometimes, it means adding weight, choosing a mechanical connection over glue, or using a magnet because it creates a more satisfying interaction. Sometimes, removing something actually means adding something else.

I think good design comes from respecting both the idea and the material. Every material has its strengths, limitations, and characteristics. I don’t want to force materials into pretending to be something they’re not in the same way that I don’t want to force an idea into becoming a product before it’s ready. I’d rather make fewer objects that continue to feel right long after the initial excitement has worn off.

The clocks have been an incredible experience because they’ve shown me that people care much more deeply about everyday objects than I think the industry gives them credit for.

For a long time, investing in design meant buying a great sofa or dining table. Those pieces still matter, but I’m seeing people become much more intentional about the objects that surround them every day. The lamp they switch on each morning. The clock they check without thinking. The tray by the front door. The things that quietly shape a routine.

That’s what excites me.

I don’t really think in terms of categories. I think in terms of moments throughout the day. I want Goofball to become a collection of objects that all share the same point of view. Whether it’s a clock, a piece of furniture, or something much smaller, I want each object to earn its place and contribute to the feeling of living in that space.

What won't change is how those objects come into the world. They’ll still start with curiosity. They’ll still be prototyped, refined, and made with an obsession for the details people might never consciously notice but always feel.

I’m always drawn to brands that have a strong point of view without taking themselves too seriously. Work Louder is one that immediately comes to mind. Their products are beautifully considered, but what really stands out is their personality behind everything they create. It feels like you’re buying into a group of people, not just a keyboard.

Teenage Engineering is another great brand. They’re obviously much larger, but they’ve managed to maintain a distinct voice that makes every product feel intentional and unmistakably theirs. That’s something I really admire.

My pegboard tool wall. It holds the tools I use every day, and I like that they’re out in the open. Each one has been refined over decades, sometimes centuries. It’s functional storage, but it’s also a collection of thoughtful design.

I don’t think it was any one book. Everything I’ve read, watched, and experienced has shaped my perspective, but building things has taught me the most.

Opening the curtains first thing in the morning.

A heavy tape dispenser. I didn’t expect something so ordinary to feel so satisfying to use.

There will always be reasons not to start. If you feel compelled to make something, put pen to paper and see where it takes you.

Oddly enough, I find myself drawn to the pastry counter first.

Form & Function is a print magazine about the objects worth keeping. We write about the tools, gear, and everyday things that earn their place through good design and honest craft — the stuff that works as well as it looks. Each issue is made slowly and on purpose: matte pages, considered writing, no filler. This newsletter is where that same thinking shows up between issues — founder interviews, early looks, and the occasional thing we can't stop thinking about.

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