The workshop list. Private.

The meaning of the things you keep, told in your own voice: a photo, thirty seconds of talking, kept on your own phone and never on a server. Where clearing out stops, this begins. One word opens it.

The quote. Private.

Private.

Sixty overalls, a century of history, and the deck that presents it.

The empty shell: a writer with no subject of its own. Fill in the profile — a name, a mission, the feeds — and it starts becoming an expert, one morning at a time.

The advisory brain: every search term becomes a dossier of six questions, answered from the web with a source behind each claim. Ask it: it grows where it fell short.

Every material for the Offshore project in one place, with photographs, functions and the properties that decide where it can go.

The public face of the card index: every material, function, project and solution as its own card, photographs included.

A keychain cut from real reclaimed wood, sold on the story of why people knock on it — and the real words for doing so in sixteen languages.

A fit graph instead of a periodic grid: parts as nodes, diamonds as the physical join between them — a sketch of a world with no raw material left, only things to redeploy.

keten's idea, checked against the periodic's real data: every material whose function becomes another real material, in 3D. The honest result is not a chain but a handful of dense hub materials — table and bar above all — each a small molecule of its own.

Not the whole periodic — one building, one car, one aircraft, each stripped to exactly a hundred parts, every part paired with one of the periodic's own functions and its own design brief.

The periodic's own material axis, given a second one: a turnable 3D grid of material × material × function, drawn from the real multi-material solutions in the card pile.

Private.

Order a cabinet, a chair, a bench — and the design is only finished when the holes it leaves are still a second piece of furniture. Both are nested on the same sheet and come out in the same cutting file, the second one in red. Every slider changes what the off-cuts can become, so how wide your cabinet is turns into a question about two pieces at once. It counts the sawdust too, because that is the only part that really disappears.

The Red and Blue chair, the Military chair, the bench, the end table, the bookcase, the hanging lamp — fifteen laths and two panels each, at the millimetres Rietveld really used. Or wound out of hand until a chair is two metres tall and a bench four and a half, and still something you could walk out of the workshop with: it gives itself more legs and more horizontals, and says when it would go over. Cutting list, 3D file.

How many holes do you have to saw in one board to stand it up? Every hole hands back a disc, the discs stack on a length of threaded rod, and that stack is a leg — so the height comes in steps of the board thickness and nothing in between. It cuts the top out of a real sheet, works out whether that top sags under the holes you just put in it (and which thickness would not), finds the optimum for you, and counts the only material that truly leaves: the kerf, in litres of sawdust, with what you can still do with it. Every table writes its own name by one formula — the holes, a colon, the height in centimetres — and the tool wears the name of the optimum it opens on: 120:74. Plan, one leg, the table turned in 3D, SVG, DXF, G-code for a router, OBJ and Collada.

Put in a photograph of a chair and it comes back as a table, drawn the two ways Refunc really builds this, with the height and the cutting steps.

How big must my table be? One elbow width per person, forty deep, the middle for the dishes and ninety behind every chair — press one more until everyone sits and read the size off the drawing. One word opens it.

Lay the table for everyone coming: forks outside in, knives blade inwards, glasses at the knife tip. Add a course and the setting grows.

A hammock cut from a sail: type its sides, turn it, and the biggest hammock that fits is drawn on — pillows from the rest.

Six plywood crates on a deck, and every side is two panels — photographs of the ones that were really built. Use the same window eight times over for a hut that is all glass, and the tool counts afterwards what you would still have to build.

Build with crates the way you build with pixels. Seven colours, full grid or half a crate over. Type a word and it builds itself. Export to SketchUp.

Build your own Hybrid Catalogue House. One silo skeleton — rods, rings, stacked floor decks — and eight sliders per floor that really do the work: diameter, wall thickness, window count, panel pattern, all live in 3D. Twelve places to start from, or invent your own.

Galvanised sheet, rectangular and triangular, and no round duct anywhere. Two floors: on the workshop floor you design one module — straight, bend, transition, tee, wye, offset, a door on hinges or a sliding one, single or double skin — and take hold of its two openings to pull them to size. On the site you stand them up, push them about, turn them to any angle and bolt them flange to flange; a section that does not fit does not go on. Cut boat windows and the rim stays, like the crates. Put the glass in and turn the lights on and it is evening. Sign it with the Refunc name. Out the other end: three views with the sizes on them, DXF, GLB, Collada, and an order a duct factory can quote from.

Type a word and play: it is hung in LED battens — surplus and new, as the location demands — the way Refunc has written in light for years, with letter specialist Indrė Klimaitė (studio ilegal, Berlin) for the refined touch. Shopping list, watts and a 3D model underneath.

Forty-eight discarded things, photographed on a lightbox. Stack three or four; where they overlap the colours mix into one neither had. What you stack is a lamp. Sign in to send it to Refunc.

The same lightbox, but drawn: seventy-seven things in colours you set yourself. Lay three over each other and watch them mix. What you stack is a lamp. Sign in to send it to Refunc.

Bring your own. Photograph anything; it is cut out on your own machine and stacked on the lightbox. Only the finished sheet reaches Refunc. 🔒 Sign in required.

Everything the three lightboxes have made, on one wall, newest first. A sheet is somebody's evening, so nothing here can throw one away — only a cut-out. 🔒 Sign in.

Paint a typeface on a wall and leave it out in the weather. Sun eats the side it falls on, wind scours across, rain runs down, and the old paint dries into a net of craquelé that cracks first and then lets whole flakes go. Every letter gets its own patch of wall, so no two rot alike. Start from a face already on your machine, drag the years, and take the whole alphabet away as a .ttf you can install. Nothing is uploaded and nothing comes back — the ageing happens on your side of the wire.

Exquisite corpse, played with the material stock: the head of a silo, a stretch of bicycle, the feet of a bathtub — and the contours carry on at every cut. Scale plays no part, the collage does. Two to four parts, side views by choice, a name to match. Print it on A5 and it is the flyer…

Wear a project. Pick something Refunc built and its photograph is traced into a white line drawing, ready to print on a black shirt. Nobody redraws a thing.

Wear a shift. A material in its circle, a verb in its square, the sentence underneath: make a pallet sit. It does not have to have been built yet.

Draws icons in the language of the system: a square for a function, a circle for a material, a diamond for a join. All 36 verbs have one — 17 drawn by hand between 2019 and 2021, 19 generated from the rule. Sign in to save a drawing into the system.

Turn a solution into the Refunc booklet: twelve pages, drawn steps, material and tool lists, joins in their own symbols. Print double sided, fold to A5. 🔒 Sign in required.

A cutting pattern for a neoprene sleeve. Give it the size of your laptop or tablet and it draws the shape to cut, to scale. Print, cut, sew.

Drop in a photograph of your camper and hit HOPPA. It reads the body out of the picture and keeps rolling new stripes along it, a decade at a time.

What does the fridge in your van actually need? The sum is done in front of you — the cold box as a cube, the walls as foam, the heat leaking in, the COP that turns it back into amps — and then the panel on the roof is asked to keep up, month by month, where you are. Twelve bars against one line, and the months you run out are red. Out the other end: the panel in Wp, the battery in Ah, the fuse and the cable in mm².

A SketchUp extension that builds an IBC tote out of numbers: pallet, tank and cage as three separate parts, each cut off at its own height, so you can take one apart and use the half you want. Install it through Window → Extension Manager and it appears under Extensions. It is not finished. It builds and it is usable, but the work stopped halfway and it will be updated — so treat this as the state it happens to be in rather than a released thing, and come back for a newer one.

A SketchUp extension that builds Layher Allround scaffolding parts from numbers: standard, ledger, diagonal, steel deck, timber board and adjustable base jack, at the real 2.57 m and 3.07 m bay lengths the system is built on, plus a whole parametric frame — bays wide, bays deep, lifts, diagonals, feet. Sizes that could be checked against Layher's own published catalogue (tube 48.3 mm, spindle 38 mm, foot plate 150 x 150 mm, handwheel 205 mm, the rosette's eight openings) are drawn to it; a few that Layher does not publish, chiefly the rosette's own diameter, are estimated. Install it through Window → Extension Manager and it appears under Extensions. Not fabrication drawings — a working guide.

The materials wallpaper from houseinaday.org as a real screensaver — the same drifting, travelling, slowly turning collage, Refunc and House in a Day small at the foot of it. Unzip, drop the .saver into System Settings → Screen Saver (or double-click it), pick it from the list. Not notarised — macOS will say it cannot verify it; right-click the .saver and choose Open (or System Settings → Privacy & Security → Open Anyway), once.

The same collage as sixteen stills of it, cycling slowly through the day as a proper macOS Dynamic Desktop. No app, no permission dialog — it is just a picture, so none of the screensaver's Gatekeeper trouble applies here. Download, then System Settings → Wallpaper → Add Photo (or drag the file straight onto the wallpaper picker).

The function generator. Type a material — anything, never photographed, no card — and forge picks one of the periodic's own 37 verbs and hands you the design brief it hands out for a real cell, with an invented name welded onto it.

Stand a levelling laser where you are and let it sweep all the way round. Level draws what it would touch: every place on earth exactly as high as you, seen from above, as one green line. Your telephone is hopeless at height — twenty metres out, in a country that lives between −6 and +3 — so the number is read out of the height map at your position instead. Seven scales, from the pavement to the planet. One button turns the line blue and fills it in: take away every dune, dike and barrier and that is the sea level carried straight on over the land, with three quarters of this province behind it.

The distance from you to your house, live, in one number — useless and cheerful, exactly as briefed. Stand at your front door once and press the button; from then on the number counts up as you leave and down as you return, and when you are getting nearer the page says so in green, because coming home deserves a colour. Metres if you insist — but also beer crates of 40 centimetres, pallets of 1.20 and containers of 6.06 laid end to end, the sizes an industry agreed on. An arrow points at your house, with the compass turned on it keeps pointing while you turn. Nothing leaves your telephone.

The chance of rain where you are standing, as one button with the number in it. The button fills from the floor up like a gauge, exactly as far as the chance, and past fifty the number turns blue because from there on rain is the likelier world. Three windows — this hour, the next three, the rest of today — each judged on its worst hour, since one wet hour is all it takes. Your position leaves the telephone once, rounded to a hundred metres, to ask an open forecast; nothing else travels and nothing is kept. Whether 62% means you go anyway is still yours.

A tally counter for trodden-in chewing gum. Tap the pavement where the gum is, let the page measure your walk, and the count becomes what your whole city is standing on — and the scraping bill, at a price you set yourself. Nothing leaves the phone.

The nearest toko, anywhere — reads OpenStreetMap for shops named toko and for restaurants that actually cook Indonesian food (never Indian), ranked by straight-line distance, the search radius widening on its own until it finds a few. A real map underneath, zoomable from a street to a country.

Reading a wall advertisement that has almost gone back into the brick. The trouble is never contrast but scale — a brick and a painted stroke are the same size on a phone photo, so every sharpening filter makes the masonry louder than the paint. Tell it how thick one stroke is and it shrinks the picture until that stroke is ten pixels, which is where the small radii finally work. Point at one line at a time, and check yourself against the same crop with the paint divided back out. Built out of a gable in the Vesdre valley: a BP campaign carrying the name IMPERIA, and the second wall that gave up the signature.

A pedometer for a bike. GPS measures the distance, the wheel size turns it into wheel rotations, and the gear you are riding in — front chainring teeth over rear sprocket teeth — turns those into pedal strokes, the same arithmetic the chain already does. A ride's count sits beside a running total that never resets on its own. Open, no sign-in, nothing leaves the phone.

Arnold draws with what he loses. Drive him to the next destination and there is a splash back in the sump — but the hole keeps tearing open, so every splash buys you less. You cannot lift the pen.

Build with pallets before you build with pallets. Stepped and turned courses make a leaning wall; rings of pallets on edge make a dome. It says where the weight lands.

Snake, played with your mouth. A high tone bends it left, a low tone right, silence sends it straight on. Ten fields. Or use the snake as a pen.

The piper the snake follows. Describe a drawing and Piper whistles the line that draws it. Hold your telephone to Snake Whistler in Draw.

Stacking chairs, because it can — and now pick which: a café chair, a Gispen cantilever, an office chair or a folding chair. The other stackers in this family pile up things never meant to stack; a chair is the opposite, designed to pile on the one below. Its legs are just wide enough to clamp down over the back of another chair, the way stacking chairs really hook — so you can hang one off the side and, with a few turned and mirrored, start to reach sideways into a chair arch. Face other way flips a chair so the arch can curve back.

An X-block is a breakwater armour unit — a cross of concrete cast so that, tipped onto a sea wall in a loose single layer, each one hooks its arms into its neighbours and the slope locks against the waves. They are made to lie down and interlock, never stacked. So this stands them on end and asks you to pile them up, where the very arms that make them lock are what the next block has to balance on. Refunc reused a run of these blocks as public seating; the material and the project are linked in the about. And now the sea comes in: once you drop the first block the tide rises and quickens, waves shove what you are placing, and if a crest comes over the top your whole breakwater is washed away — the one job these blocks were cast to prevent.

Stacking rubbish bags against a wall, and a heap that climbs past the dotted floor lines is bags reaching a window. Naples did this for real in the winter of 2007–08: collection stopped across Campania because every landfill was full, some 100,000 tonnes of waste sat in the open, and in the old city the bags piled up to the first-floor windows — with the Camorra running the whole disposal cycle behind it. So a pile reaching the storeys is not a score; it is what a city looks like when the cycle that carries its waste away stops. The full story is in the about.

A stick figure on a trampoline, and it never stops bouncing. Hold to tuck a salto — left for backwards, right for forwards — let go to open out, land straight and keep the height. Nothing to win; the bouncing is the point.

Draw and compose. A held note draws an arc, so a tune is already a drawing. DRACO writes it and plays it at Snake Whistler. 🔒 Sign in required.

Everything that falls is something you sit on, drawn from the side at the room it really takes: a stool is a square, a bar stool is a stick, a sofa is four wide and will not go through a gap of three. A row that fills up is carried out of the well straight through whatever furniture was standing in it — the halves drop past each other and the chair is sawn in two. The score is in seats, and a table seats nobody — which is the whole argument, written out on the board it keeps. Ten places, two letters and a number.

Freitag cuts worn lorry tarpaulins into bags; sammstag is the day after — donate the bag and it is unpicked and sewn back in, until a trailer wears a full curtain of 13.6 by 2.7 metres again. Every bag still knows which tarp it was cut from, so a patchwork is guaranteed and the prize is rarer: enough of the right donors and the lettering of one haulier closes again. Six invented fleets, 144 bags, one trailer. A thought about reversibility, collecting and reuse…

Five photos, whatever is in front of the camera, and Claude writes the story that ties them together. No posing, no theme picked in advance — the thread gets found afterwards. 🔒 Sign in required.

What your own staircase pays: mass times gravity times height, through a body at a fifth efficiency, translated into kroketten, stroopwafels and beers — and your year of stairs measured against Everest. Press CLIMB when you climb and the day builds up for real.

Your telephone as a lighthouse: type a line and the whole screen flashes it in real morse, a tone alongside, the code reading along underneath. No browser may touch the torch LED, so turn the brightness up — the screen is the lamp.

Paste any text and every name in it becomes yours — the king, the striker, the minister: you. The guessing is done in the open and every word stays a button. One word opens it.

Conduct a classical tune with one finger: draw and it plays, faster as you speed up, higher as you climb. Beethoven, Mozart and Bach, nothing fetched.

Fourteen work gloves filmed for the Futurium workshop in 2022, cut frame by frame into three reels the size of your screen. One button; three the same glove on the red line is the jackpot.

Twelve moka pots rendered for Hoogtij 78, dealt out full screen. Pull, and what lands on the red line is the draw — the reels are gently loaded, and the page says by how much.

Eight strips of Tupperware filmed on a shelf in Brixen, a chandelier behind them because that is what stood behind the shelf. The tall one of the three.

The original machine. It plays the refunc matrix itself — a material, a function, and whether anything was ever built on that square.

Private.

Every card of the periodic, editable where it stands: press Edit on the page itself, type in the card's own lines, and the change lands as a commit.

Private.

The periodic printed from the cards. Every material card against every function card, rebuilt the moment any card changes, and a cell only says what a card really says: a solution card exists, a photograph exists, or only the claim. Open a cell and take its design brief — one sheet with the order on it, what already stands either side of it, and a prompt to draw it before it exists.

Every material Refunc knows drawn as an element: a number, two letters, a name and its own photograph behind it. 310 of them, and the empty ones stay on the wall.

Point it at what you are throwing away and it says what you are actually holding: what it can be asked to do, and what is still blank.

Photograph what you are about to throw away, pick one of Refunc's own verbs, and it says one direct, concrete thing this could become — send the find on to someone who can use it.

The jackpot in words. A material, a function, and out comes a word for the thing that has none yet — palter, conteach, stoven. Scramble forges it again, and it may or may not hold.

See how objects shift into new functions — the bigger the leap, the wider it spirals. GALAXY, CROSSINGS and the network view, still finding their shape.

150 built shifts in pictures: the material, what it was made to do, and where it happened. Filter by verb or by project.

One material on a stage, one work at a time, with the verb for what it became. The wheelie bin goes first: 31 works under 11 verbs.

Auditions for the podium. 217 bins cut out in one pass: right is yes, left is no, up is later. A yes goes on the stage. 🔒 Sign in.

An interactive timeline of every Hoogtij edition, drawn as line work. Scroll along the years and the editions come past, each with its own drawing.

Listen to a picture. A line sweeps across it: every row a pitch, every bright pixel a voice. Loop it until it drones. Four tracks. 🔒 Sign in required.

ARNO with another mouth: every row blown rather than struck, the hollow odd harmonics of a stopped pipe, with breath around it and one slow vibrato. 🔒 Sign in required.

The optical hiphop and jazzinator. It plays a picture as music, not as noise: sixteen columns a bar, beat and key already set. Nine grooves.

The other side of JAS: this one hands you the picture. Run a finger across it and it sounds, always in key, no beat at all.

ARNO with sockets on the back. You say how the rows are tuned, and the notes go out to your own synthesiser. Desktop browser. 🔒 Sign in required.

It makes no sound of its own: you hand it a sample. Every row of a photograph is a filter, and the sample is pulled through it. 🔒 Sign in.

Thirteen machines and the room they stand in. Put the grinder in the far corner and it is a grinder in the far corner. Nothing here is a recording.

Twenty engines in a yard, from a single-cylinder thumper to a twenty. Each one bangs once per cylinder per cycle, at the crank angles of its own layout, through an exhaust that rings at its own pitch. Change one while it runs.

A drum machine with no drums in it: fifteen real hammers on real things, cut into single blows. A tap and a full swing are two blows that were actually struck, and no blow lands twice in a row.

Two YouTube players and a crossfader between them. Paste a playlist and it lands in the crate; throw a track on deck A or B by hand, or press AUTO MIX and the whole crate plays as one continuous set, every track faded into the next on the other deck. The proper DJ programs are not allowed to touch YouTube at all — so this one is built out of the one thing YouTube does hand out, its own player, twice.

C'est la rue qui fait la musique. A line sweeps across the live picture one pass at a time, never on a clock: a handful of discrete notes fire each sweep, on the road's own brightest spots, snapped to a scale — a real tune, not a wash. How fast the notes come depends entirely on how fast the sweep is going, your real speed stretching the preset's own pace. Eight presets set the scale and the voice — electro, disco, jungle, Mozart, Satie, hip hop, country, or the raw distorted drone alone — and the drum hits are real but never on a beat: a hit fires only when the road itself changes sharply underneath the line. GPS counts the kilometres and draws the ride as a line you can save when you are done — stand still and it goes quiet. Everything a preset sets is open to bend by hand, and your own mix can be saved on this phone. Nothing leaves it.

Lines lie on the road and never move; the road moves under them. A crack under a line is a note, a stripe across it is a drum. No clock.

A noise machine the road plays, and the picture is only its sensor: a strip at the top, no bigger than it needs to be. Add as many lines as you like, flat or upright, each with one job — a clown line fires honks, whistles, boings and ring-modulated screams; a smash line hits something hard; a noise line opens a blast, a riser or a howl of feedback; an engine line runs a motor the road revs; a drone line holds one tone that a whole stripe makes leap; a chop line stutters the lot. Underneath, three beds that never stop: a white wall, a brown rumble, and a siren sweeping through its own resonance. Over the top a mangle section — ring modulation, a stutter gate, a fold that eats the edges off everything. And a gabber floor at 150 to 220 out of your own speed, with its own switch: turn it off and the machine is what is left.

No camera, no picture: the phone on the bars feels every seam and kerb you ride over, and each blow is a note or a drum. ZEBRA’s sound, felt.