Henry Daubrez — Dogstudio
Design Director and CEO at Dogstudio, but before anything, just another designer on a holy war against impoverishment …
A happy accident. I was a naturally curious kid and when I was nine or ten was starting to explore how the electronic devices around me worked. I didn't have a formal teacher and so I taught myself by intense observation. I remember looking at sites for hours trying to understand how certain things worked, and while I usually didn't succeed in trying to copy what I saw, I think that process helped me develop an eye for both good and bad interfaces.
As all the really cool kids do, I asked for a calligraphy set for my 11th birthday. It came in a little wooden box with a scratchy fountain pen, thick card stock, Indian ink, and a wax stamp set. At the time, I was fascinated by the handwriting-inspired logos that were popular in the early 2010s—think Pinterest and Airbnb.
I loved every step of that process: drawing the ink into the pen, carefully avoiding drips, and writing these scrawly notes as if I were an aristocrat (though my commentary was far less substantive). I didn’t see any of this as “studying design.” I was just a bored kid with odd hobbies—and looking back, I’m really glad I was.
As distraction-free as possible. There is a phenomena in which people correlate a busy calendar with productivity, and it's a dangerous sense of satisfaction. It's pretty easy to see what you're spending your time on as satisfactory, but it's a lot harder to ask yourself why you're doing it in the first place.
One of the greatest things I've ever done was write out and publish my approach to work on my website. I put it up originally to serve as a reminder, it's since led to some intense debate with people over email.
One of those rules is about writing out what you spend your time doing. It's surprisingly scary once you begin how much of your day is spent doing tasks that lack true purpose. I try to instead spend my time either doing intense work or intense rest. Success at the former gives me permission for the latter.
“An unaccounted hour is a wasted one, Demarcate everything ad nauseam. A week is 2% of the year.”
Standard Operating Procedures, Luke Shiels (via: lukeshiels.com)
I universally work on digital products, but I love spending time in beautiful spaces. When I moved here there was a lot of pride in people sleeping on mattresses on the floor and living in forced austerity in an effort to claim total commitment to their work. I disagree, and I think it's your work that speaks to your commitment. Anything else is performative.
To that end, I spent a lot of time decorating my apartment. My work, like most early stage things, is intense and hard. I would never change that – but I'll admit I found myself giggling coming from fulfilling work back to a beautiful space. It's a privilege I don't take for granted.
I have a special edition of Felipe Pantone’s monograph Praesentia sitting on my coffee table. He's a Spanish-Argentine artist whose work uniquely blends bold geometric shapes and vibrant gradients. The dust cover features a dynamic, color-shifting design that echoes Pantone’s signature style, and every page feels meticulously curated, showcasing his large-scale murals, kinetic sculptures, and interactive installations in vivid detail. I find myself picking it up again and again, not just for the art, but for its beautiful presentation.
The ones that no one notices. The best design work often feels invisible because it just works. There’s a special kind of satisfaction in shipping something that people intuitively understand—no onboarding, no friction, just flow. I’ve had moments where I saw someone use something I built and never stop to think about how it worked, because it just made sense. That’s what I chase.
That said, I also love projects that make me better. The ones where I started off unsure, where I hit frustrating dead ends, and then, after enough iteration, cracked it. Good work is often a war of attrition against bad ideas, and I’m proud of the times I stuck it out.
Speed versus thoughtfulness. Startups reward moving fast, but great design demands time. The challenge is finding the right balance—knowing when to push something out quickly and when to fight for an extra few days to make it better. I think a lot of companies underestimate the long-term cost of rushed design decisions. Every shortcut adds complexity, and eventually, you wake up with a bloated, inconsistent product that no one knows how to fix.
Good design sits at the intersection of conflicting strong opinions, and sometimes, the hardest part isn’t making the right decision—it’s getting everyone to agree on what right even means.
Unlike most academic subjects like math or physics, I believe it's almost impossible to teach taste. You can guide and nurture it, but recognize that taste is your superpower. Early-stage companies need highly autonomous and product led people, sure, but what truly sets you apart is an ability to make sharp, instinctive calls on what feels right. Taste isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about knowing when something clicks, when an experience feels seamless, when friction should be reduced or even deliberately introduced.
And remember: in startups, the best designers aren’t just decorators. They’re builders, decision-makers, and product thinkers. The closer you are to shaping the product, the more impact you’ll have and the more valuable you'll become.
Sharpening your taste isn’t about reading design books or taking courses—it’s about relentless exposure. Surround yourself with great work. Deconstruct why it works. Build relentlessly. The more you create, the sharper your instincts will become.
I don’t have anything to sell you. But if you’re working on something ambitious and think I’d find it interesting, reach out. I love meeting sharp people who care about great work. Let's find the greatest cohort of design engineering talent on Earth and solve hard problems together.