Jonathan Nesci’s G Shelf in a home by Joshua Rice Design. (Photo: Lacey Land)
Last year my therapist recommended that I get professionally screened for autism. I’d had suspicions over the years and passed many online tests, but friends told me that I definitely didn’t have it, so I let it go. Coming from my therapist, though, I thought I should pay attention.
I was shocked when the results came back: On a scale of 0 to 50, with 29 being the threshold, my number was 44. I was also relieved. This information felt like putting on a pair of glasses for the first time. Twelve years ago this would have been called Asperger’s syndrome—a term I feel is more precise than Autism Spectrum Disorder, though I understand why it was changed, due to medical ethics and its 2013 reclassification. I’m not personally calling autism a condition or disorder; it only gives a name to a feeling I’ve always had.
I constantly feel like I’m walking a tightrope of social norms and subtle cues. I miss many of these imprecise, variable behaviors, particularly with new people—and then feel bad, as I don’t want to leave them with an uncomfortable feeling. I love people, but only have the bandwidth for shorter, personal, meaningful conversations.
I feel there should be some type of valuable exchange if I am going to spend part of my daily allowance on someone. I have hacks to gain energy, such as spending time in the woods and practicing meditation. But mostly I’m on the defense, protecting my space with earplugs, AirPods, sunglasses, and a lot of time alone.
I wear the same thing every day. I have found the perfect black T-shirt, the perfect shoe, the perfect watch—everyday things that I buy on autopilot, that I don’t have to think about. The footwear in rotation: a pair for the woods, an everyday pair, and a perfectly clean pair for nice occasions. Once the clean pair gets dirty, it rotates down the line. I have the system down and love the simplicity of it.
Other systems I’ve created to free up my mind: I pay a guy on a quarterly basis to mow my lawn. I drive a Prius, which requires little more from me than filling up its tank. I only put health-related items on my calendar. I don’t go into my day without a plan. I’m not really a “Let’s see what happens” kind of guy.
For years I chalked my MO up to being an introvert. Now I understand: In the development of a neurotypical brain, synapses are naturally pruned for efficiency; someone like me absorbs much more sensory information. I can’t speak for other neurodivergent people, but I can’t help but see and hear things that others can tune out.
When I walk into a new place, I notice everything. As a designer, this has served me well: I am constantly reviewing the built environment, taking in every last finish, material, process, and orientation. The wrong environment is exhausting. Too much sound, bad lighting, or unbalanced rooms slowly suck the life out of me.
After a while in those kinds of conditions, my nervous system becomes completely overwhelmed and I enter a type of panic, dissociation, or meltdown. Once there, it is very hard to reorient myself. So I’m constantly trying to find ways to streamline my days, to remove complications and fill them with reliable objects that take good care of my domain. My orbit has to be energy-efficient. It is not a point of pride, but of survival.
My work is not complicated, because it can’t be. It is well-crafted, technical, and perfectly proportionate, but not complicated. I have to delicately balance time in with value out—a standard business practice that many artists and designers miss. I don’t own my own metal shop or have employees. I need a lot of time to sit, think, read, sketch, draft, and design.
I work closely with a long list of skilled craftspeople, folks I have learned to trust over the years, using standardized industrial processes. I pay them their asking prices for producing my work. Simple, one-line accounting: Cost of goods plus the profit margin equals retail price. I draft the plans and manage production with efficient site visits. I pop in, oversee the process, solve problems, then leave.
Interior designers, architects, and art consultants sell my work to their clients. I have a shipper who makes crates for everything, which is made to order. Much like an architect, I don’t have to physically make my designs to claim ownership of the idea.
Objects designed by Nesci in a workshop. (Courtesy Jonathan Nesci)
After my autism diagnosis, I began to see myself, objects, and spaces in a new light. Many people live with a similar condition, especially creatives. They might not know what those deep feelings are, but it gives them a lot of benefits, such as sparking an intense passion and obsession with detail that is perfect for a profession like mine.
I believe that improving the future of our living spaces will require more neurodivergent people leading the charge. These people see objects and spaces fully, and can tell it like it is. How can we rethink our homes to more efficiently restore, replenish, or give energy to the people who use them?
Think about it: Why does forced air make so much noise? Why do they even make 5000K bright fluorescent light bulbs? Why does so much art, architecture, and design today have to make such a grand statement? Can’t an object’s beauty lie in its thoughtful details, rather than being so visually performative?
I remember visiting the SoHo studio of Donald Judd. Tucked behind the cluttered but orderly kitchen was a windowless, wood-lined room with a bathtub in the center lit by a single light bulb. It looked like a restorative place. I wanted to be alone in there and take a physical and mental bath.
These spaces of retreat are so important, but also, the objects that inhabit a space should add value to one’s life. What you bring into your space should not compete for your valuable attention. It could, and should, be restorative.
Creating things that don’t demand so much energy to live with offers a point of respite for not just neurotypical people, but for everyone. So let’s bring back straightforward spatial comforts, the cozy inglenooks—anything that can diminish the range of anxieties brought on by everyday life. This kind of design frees us up to focus on more important things, like being present in our own bodies so that we can better show up for the people we love.
This isn’t my take on minimalism, but a call to focus on what we bring into our lives, and what deserves our energy. I think most of us have an inward sense that this is important, but don’t know why. Simple, ordered, precise, dependable environments—could this be what we’re all missing?
These kinds of spaces could provide real value for their users, and unlock feelings you might not know exist. Maybe the most energy-efficient space we can make is one with an energy that can’t be measured without a real, soft, human touch.