Tag Archives: Jony Ive

Beyond the Meme: A High-Fidelity Defence of the Ferrari Luce

I took my time (!) before I posted my wildly popular critique of the rail clock, but the noise around Jony Ive’s work on the Ferrari Luce interior is so loud and so utterly ignorant and misinformed that I couldn’t let it slide without getting my just-off-the-boil take on it.

The short story is that Ive’s LoveFrom team, with Marc Newson (more on him later) collaborated with Ferrari to produce the cockpit for the new and first full EV from the marque, the Luce.

I watched a long video that walked through the glorious little details, and I confess I was seriously impressed. But reading other people’s postings all over our favourite ‘professional’ social media, I simply couldn’t reconcile their takes with what I was seeing. Of course, much of it was ‘iPhone on wheels!’ ‘Lazy Jony just repeats himself’, some of it was the ‘not Ferrari’ commentary, from people who even plainly stated they were not Ferrari owners, nor ever likely to be. This criticism is for the birds; it’s as shallow as a puddle and, worse still, it ignores the brief.

The purpose of LoveFrom’s work here was interaction architecture first, styling taste second. Form followed function.

Photo Credit Jordon Golson

Let’s think about the context within which Ferrari is operating. This is their first full EV. A product which by its nature will be shorn of the usual mechanical theatre: the sound of the engine, the vibration, the drama of the gearbox. To this, the answer from Ferrari’s competitors and the sector in general has been to ‘tech it up’ with drama replaced by screens. Ive et al. sought to question “What replaces visceral connection in an electric Ferrari?” Very Emotional Design of them, I’d say. This is a challenge grounded in reality.

The stated principle is that an electric powertrain does not need to be represented in a fully digital interface. Connecting physicality to this electric vehicle is an intentional design move. It’s been at least a four and a half year exercise with Ferrari and LoveFrom, certainly not a quick styling pass. Golson reports that before they drew a single line, they spent over six months on research and produced four books covering philosophy, design history, Ferrari’s cultural meaning, human attention plus physical interaction. Ignorant of this, clowns on LinkedIn confidently assert that “they don’t get the brand”. Presumably, their Miro mood boards do a better job. Benedetto Vigna is quoted as still reading those books, and that they have forced Ferrari to re-examine why things were done a certain way – a specific example being a discussion about steering wheel spoke angles that drove them back to test drivers. That’s quite a rare admission: research artefacts being used internally as a continuing design governance tool, not a theatre prop. Flavio Manzoni, Ferrari’s Chief Designer, gave LoveFrom autonomy for the first months; at the six-month mark after the “first handshake” they returned with a cohesive proposal across exterior, interior, and UX, and it was described as “very disruptive.”

Let’s be clear too that Jony is a car man. He owns a Europa (from which the Nardi steering wheel inspiration came) Newson too, both of them demonstrate they have serious literacy in automotive. They have instrument and horological mentalities. They are obsessed with materials and process. Working together on this skewers both the idea that this was “Ive doing iPhone again” and that this is not for drivers.

There are multiple areas in this cockpit which show considerable attention to detail that bridge the historic innovation with the new sophisticated precision and digitalisation of objects. The three-spoke heritage steering wheel with integrated force-sensitive buttons and switchgear, the moving binnacle, a multi-layered OLED cluster with convex lenses, an adaptive multigraph with independent aluminium hands, the glass key and magnetic dock. Of course, it will run CarPlay (not everyone does), though not, it appears, CarPlay Ultra.

These are matters of real substance and not a simple case of ‘putting buttons back’ in the driver’s reach. LoveFrom have treated each part as an object in its own right, and while the “buttons are back” message is a neat meme, it simplifies the human factors win that when your hand is reaching, having a physical datum that allows you to locate and operate a control is unbeatable and safe.

Photo credit: Ferrari/LoveFrom

Personally, the most naive and juvenile critiques are those that frame Jony’s work here as repetitive, and optimisation led, and both are absurd for different reasons. Firstly, repetition is not a negative when one considers that this is about principles, not a signature style. LoveFrom under Ive is in demand for the former, not the latter. You know when you hire Ive (and to be clear, he can choose who he wants to work with) that you are going to be working with someone that’s going to abstract this design problem to an atomic level and do so with a human-centred approach, then render it with the most exquisite sense of object and materiality. That he chooses to do this with aluminium, glass, clean geometry, and reduction is much the same as how any artist chooses their palette.

To further insist that this is optimisation and not creativity is then to take the most narrow definition of creativity as if optimisation is not a most vital part of creativity and especially in the context of automotive where frankly the last decade has shown anything but: the irony that as cockpits got simpler with fewer or bigger screens that our cognitive load soared and even the regulators got windy about what this meant for safety.

Perhaps just as naive was the assumption that the Ferrari model had been lost along the way as the project moved into the reality of production and execution. LoveFrom undertook the lion’s share of the design, and as San Francisco took on the design and coding, it was left to the Italians to engineer and driver test, along with the product development. A popular view is that this has somehow holed Ferrari’s ‘personalisation’ upsell model, as if this is what keeps the execs up at night in Maranello. It’s not. They sell arguably the world’s most desirable supercars; this cockpit is absolutely in this mould. If a customer wants personal stitching, a tweak here, a tweak there, of course, they’ll still get it, but this interior will, like the engine, be based around Ferrari’s view of perfection. The customer’s bespoke layer is on top of that.

Photo Credit: LoveFrom / Ferrari

Naturally, the criticism can be levelled at me that I am fanboying over those involved and, whilst I admire Ive, I’m not without my beliefs that he’s made some mistakes in the past. It’s also fair to say that I wonder how much his view of this project was ever robustly challenged vs. being waved through. Did the research depth give it such credibility and momentum that it was a foregone conclusion? PRNDL notes both Ive/Newson and Manzoni are quoted as saying it barely changed from that initial proposal, changes were more about proportion and ergonomics than fundamental rethinking.

I question too the manner in which these proposals can scale, age and remain serviceable.

Jewellery-grade interior components are lovely on a plinth and less charming after 30,000 miles, UV exposure, expensive moisturisers, and a few winters of grime. Whether parts can be repaired and replaced without becoming a boutique restoration exercise is a real question. The car being ultra-high-net-worth doesn’t remove the problem; it changes who pays for it and how quietly they complain.

The reveal was notable for being a left hand drive setup. OEMs have got accustomed to reducing physical mirroring of cabin elements, harnesses. No doubt screens and disappearing buttons have assisted them in delegating this to a software switch. Given how driver-centred some elements are in LoveFrom’s design, it’s an open question whether Ferrari will fully mirror the high-fidelity interactions for UK/Japan/Australia, or accept a ‘good enough’ conversion. This could be the strongest tell as to whether Ive and Newson’s principles can withstand operational and financial realities. If they mirror these interactions properly, it strengthens the whole “human-centred, truthful function” argument. If they don’t, it exposes it as geographically parochial.

Can this design language be reproduced across future models? It took LoveFrom five years to get this far with Luce, and they’re unlikely to be on retainer to roll out variants for other products down the line. I’m sure Newson and Ive have left behind a whole bunch of principles and specifications but, without the coach on the field, I wonder how successful the in-house teams will be at sticking to the playbook, especially as once the forcefield of Ive and co. has left, the bean counters and manufacturing value-engineers begin to circle.

It’s fair to dislike the look. It might even be funny to meme its similarity to a Fisher-Price wheel, but lazy shorthand isn’t grown up criticism, and I think it’s hugely important to celebrate a process where design has mattered deeply to everyone involved and that has been executed with real care for the end user and the craft or materials, manufacturing and objects. Ultimately, this has been a serious attempt to solve a product transition problem, to invigorate the brand for a new epoch in electrification, and the real test will be on the roads and the tracks, not in screenshots.

AI: I used Ai to sub-edit, do a bit of fact-checking and then generate the tag list and excerpts. That’s it.

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The quiet panic of parenting in a digital world

A moody, hyperrealistic photograph shows a teenage boy and an older man, presumably his father, sitting across from each other at a wooden kitchen table in muted, late afternoon light. Both are absorbed in their smartphones, their heads bowed. A single slice of toast on a white plate sits in front of the father, while two closed books are stacked near the boy. The light filters softly through sheer curtains behind them, illuminating a quiet, timeless kitchen. The scene evokes a sense of mutual disconnection and the quiet ache of modern life.

When I was around 15, I’d get into trouble for calling a girl I was ‘seeing’ after 9pm on the house phone. I remember the jeopardy when her dad answered. It wasn’t just awkward, it felt catastrophic in that very teenage sense. There was no texting, no soft-launching your feelings via Reels. If you wanted to reach someone, you reached their entire household. Privacy was negotiated in real time, and a cordless phone allowing you to slink off to a private corner was borderline futuristic.

I mention this not to romanticise a pre-digital age but to mark a boundary: I don’t truly understand what it’s like to grow up now. Not really.

We’ve been told, often with good reason, that today’s teenagers are in trouble. Jonathan Haidt calls them the “anxious generation”, a cohort rewired by phones and social media. Since around 2012, adolescent mental health (especially among girls) has deteriorated alarmingly. Haidt blames the smartphone: a device that didn’t just enter childhood but, frankly, annexed it. The evidence is worrying, declines in sleep, attention, face-to-face connection. An uptick in self-harm, anxiety, emotional exhaustion. The argument isn’t hysterical. It lands.

But Dean Burnett suggests we’ve misdiagnosed the patient. The panic, he argues, isn’t just in the teens, it’s in us. The parents, the teachers, the adults nervously refreshing headlines while peeking at their own screen time stats. According to Burnett, much of this alarm stems from a mix of generational disorientation (a kind of collective unease that what we grew up with is no longer relevant), recurring moral panic, and good old-fashioned ignorance. We didn’t grow up with these tools, so we assume they’re harmful. We project. We catastrophise. We fear what we don’t fluently use.

The result is a pervasive sense of being at a loss. Some parents clamp down, banning apps, enforcing rigid rules on screen-time that feel increasingly arbitrary. Others detach, paralysed by the sheer bloody complexity of it all. But the most common response that I pick up from parents around me is probably the most human: low-level dread wrapped in middle-class guilt. We don’t really understand what our kids are doing, but we feel complicit anyway.

And then, just as we start to piece together a measured response, “Right! phone-free supper time!”, delayed access, schools running digital literacy workshops, the next threat pops up. Welcome to Whack-a-Mole Parenting. Just as the cultural tide begins to turn on one device, another rises, this time more subtle, more embedded, more seductive.

A recent Substack essay by Cal Newport took this from another angle. Reflecting on Ezra Klein’s critique of The Anxious Generation debate, he argued that we’ve become so beholden to statistical validation that we’ve lost touch with our own moral instinct. That rings uncomfortably true. We don’t just hesitate to act, we hesitate to know. When it comes to phones and parenting, our sense of what’s right is so often deferred, diluted, or apologised for.

Take me, for example. I ask ChatGPT more (personal) questions, now than I ever asked Google. Some are practical: how to structure an email, what to cook with these leftovers, when should I plant out these seeds. But others are… not. I’ve caught myself consulting it about health worries, internal dilemmas, parenting doubts, things I wouldn’t bring up at dinner, or even necessarily with my family, my friends. Because it remembers. Because it adapts. Because it flatters you by bending to your will.

And this is me: a reasonably grounded adult with (I hope) a steady compass and a mild allergy to digital hysteria. Yet even I find it maddeningly addictive. Not the technology itself, but the relation. The illusion of being known, helped, mirrored. I can only imagine how powerful this is for a 14-year-old who isn’t just seeking answers but identity.

So the question isn’t whether smartphones are making kids anxious. They are, in some ways. But the deeper story is that we’re all overwhelmed by the sheer pace of paradigm shifts. We can’t metabolise one tech wave before the next hits us in the face.

What Would Good Design Do?

This is where design comes in. Not as damage limitation, but hopefully as orientation. The best design doesn’t just solve problems. It asks better questions. Like: what rhythms support attention? What thresholds help people feel held, not hijacked? How can digital relationships exist without replacing the real ones?

The design problem is not abstract. It’s visible everywhere. Think of Snapstreaks – a design mechanism that rewards compulsive interaction with digital trophies. Or TikTok’s For You page – a personalised feed of videos that TikTok’s algorithm thinks you’ll be interested in, which notoriously appears to learn vulnerability faster than it learns taste. These aren’t neutral tools. They’re attention economies wired for compulsion, not care. If you’re a parent watching this unfold, it’s not just confusing, it’s existential.

Anna Dahlström, a UX designer and storyteller I trust deeply, put it like this: We need to design this—not as a roadmap, but as the future we want our kids and their kids to live in.”

A brief aside here: Earlier this year, OpenAI’s Sam Altman and LoveFrom’s Jony Ive announced a collaboration to create a physical device for the “AI age.” They talked about daily rhythms, calm interfaces, emotional connection. And while their vision sounds noble, it also confirms the underlying anxiety: that our tools are no longer just functional, they’re emotional infrastructure. If anything, their announcement makes this conversation more urgent. Because the question isn’t whether the tech will be beautifully built. It’s whether it will reflect what matters.

That means not just critiquing the addictiveness of AI companions, but imagining something better. Less extractive. More human. Here’s what that might look like (after an hour of making notes this morning):

  • Design for pause, not push. Platforms should default to stillness, not stimulation. Kill the endless scroll. e.g. “You’ve seen it all, for now” or opening to a prompt rather than a firehose of dopamine content, or making ‘like’ less of a tap and more of a hold, restricted to just a few per day. Default to a quiet mode after 20 mins. Ask a user “why are you sharing this?”
  • Design for self-awareness. Don’t just track engagement. Track how users feel when they leave. Make reflection part of the loop. e.g. “How did that make you feel?”, reporting this along with screen time weekly reports. An in-app emotion metric that algorithmically analyses your interaction cadence, scroll patterns, message tone.
  • Design for companionship, not substitution. If AI is going to listen, let it redirect. Let it nudge us toward real conversations, not just simulated ones. e.g. “This sounds important. Have you considered talk to [name]?” or helping the user plan social activities, remember dates or conversation starters.

The tools aren’t going away. But the way we design them can still reflect care, pace, and conscience. That’s not a nostalgic idea, it’s a classic UX problem and one worth solving.

Coda

When I was a teenager, the phone was something you had to ask permission to use. Now, it’s something we all struggle to put down. Maybe the answer isn’t more rules or fewer apps. Maybe it’s knowing what to do with ourselves in the quiet space that’s left when the screen goes dark.

That’s where design still has a role to play, instead of locking us out, it guides us home.

AI disclaimer: This piece was written by me, but I used ChatGPT to sub-edit, surface research, help shape the structure, and keep the tone aligned with my voice. The experiences, perspectives, and final edits are mine. AI also produced the tag list, excerpts and image that accompanies it.

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