It all began in the summer of 2024 when, riding my scooter through Kaunas, I noticed a large pile of concrete. This wasn’t just an ordinary construction material heap – it was like a “Concrete Cemetery”: decayed, crumbled, and chipped concrete blocks with rusty rebar rods sticking out from beneath the surface. Those irregular, seemingly time-and-environment-worn shapes touched me. They appeared like a silent proof that even hard, solid materials are vulnerable.

This thought stayed in my mind for a long time. It kept returning periodically, reminding me of itself, until one day I decided to stop at that spot again. I got off my scooter and went to talk to the security guard. He kindly directed me to the person in charge who could provide more information. When I arrived there, I asked what this pile of concrete was. .

I learned that it was defective concrete products – production leftovers that didn’t meet quality standards and therefore became unnecessary. They were left to wait for special equipment to arrive and break them down, separating the metal reinforcement from the concrete. I shared my idea with that person. I spoke about the desire to apply circular economy principles, about the power of creativity to create value from what is traditionally considered worthless waste.

It was important for me to show that even for an industrial company, a creative approach is valid – the ability to see opportunity where others only see loss or defect. I asked for a few pieces of concrete for experiments. He agreed without many questions, although his reaction was a mix of curiosity and misunderstanding.

When I got home, I began to think about how I could express this unexpected potential. Concrete is known for its strength, weight, and brutality. Naturally, I felt the desire to create contrast: to give it a sense of fragility and lightness, while not losing its powerful nature. But how could I do that? I started thinking about glass – a material that appears fragile and vulnerable, yet is surprisingly strong and irreplaceably important in modern industry.

I visited a few glass production and processing companies. There, I saw a familiar sight, only with glass: containers full of glass and mirror shards, waste that was destined for disposal. I was particularly struck when I saw how large, visually intact glass sheets were just being thrown into containers.

I asked the specialist working there why glass that seemed suitable for use was being discarded. He explained that storage costs were higher than the possibility of finding a new use for such waste. I shared my idea of combining concrete and glass. He gladly agreed to donate some of the discarded glass. A few weeks later, I returned to pick it up.

In my workshop, there were two contrasting materials: heavy, brutally imperfect concrete and fragile, elegant glass. I wasn’t in a rush, I allowed them to reveal themselves through their shapes, surface textures, and natural randomness. I began to see a vision: products that raise questions about beauty, perfection, boundaries, and acceptance.

I wanted life and color. I asked my sister and her daughter to paint characters from old cartoons on some of the products. The result amazed me: the combination of glass and concrete suddenly gained character. The lines and colors highlighted the organic, natural shapes of the products, giving them warmth and a unique image.

Then I realized: it’s not just the materials, not just the design. It’s a dialogue with reality itself, which teaches us to accept imperfections and find uniqueness in them. It’s resistance to established beauty standards and an invitation to see value where many only see defects. Like us, these products are unique in their imperfections. And sometimes, by simply allowing them to be themselves, an unusual but true harmony is born.