It all started two years ago. I was living in a shared apartment,
and I couldn't stand the white ceiling spotlights anymore.
Every evening, my flatmate would turn everything on. I would stay in
the dark for as long as possible. That cold, flat, directionless light—
it made the apartment unbearable as soon as the sun went down.

I looked for a lamp. Just one. Something small,
that could sit on a piece of furniture, that would create an atmosphere without
having to redecorate the whole room. I ordered several.
Each time, the same disappointment: the photo promised
an ambiance, but the box delivered plastic.

I never found the right one. So I decided to create it.

Months of searching. Testing suppliers, receiving
samples, being disappointed, starting over. The day the right one
arrived, I placed it on the living room sideboard, plugged it in,
and turned it on. My flatmate came home and said, "What is that
light?" That was exactly it. The room had changed.

Japan guided this entire search. It's a culture
that has inspired me for a long time—not the Japan of clichés,
but the Japan of objects. I went there, and what struck me was
the seriousness the Japanese put into everything they
make. A cup, a knife, a lamp—each object
is designed as if it will last a lifetime.

Tanizaki wrote about the beauty of shadow and low light—
the idea that it's not strong light that makes a
space beautiful, but subdued light, the kind that leaves
areas of shadow. Noguchi created paper lamps that
transform an entire room with almost nothing. It's this
level of exacting standards that I wanted to bring to raito.

The name comes from there—raito, ライト. Just the simplest
word for light in Japanese.

Each raito lamp is chosen for three things: the light
it produces, the material it's made from, and what it
does to the room when turned on. Nothing else.

raito is still in its early stages. The rest will be written here.
— Bastien