People often ask us what kind of design studio TACIT is. The answer usually depends on which project they have encountered first. Some know us through books such as Srimad Ramayana or Natyasastra. Others know us through games like Jeewanu and Samiti. Some have experienced our work through exhibitions, memorials, environmental graphics, healthcare communication systems, or digital platforms. On the surface, these projects appear unrelated. Yet when we look across nearly two decades of practice, we realize that the projects themselves are not what define us. What defines us is the studio culture that produces them. Over the years, we have come to see the studio not as a workplace but as a learning environment. Every project begins with uncertainty. We rarely approach a challenge with a predetermined method or a fixed outcome in mind. Instead, we learn our way into the problem. When we worked on Jeewanu, we were not simply designing a game; we were trying to understand how scientific inquiry could become a playful and meaningful experience. When developing Srimad Ramayana, we were not merely designing a publication; we were engaging with a living cultural text and asking how contemporary audiences might encounter it. In both cases, design became a process of inquiry rather than execution. Tacit Studio Space This way of working has shaped our understanding of design itself. At times, design feels like craft. We spend weeks refining typography, illustration, visual rhythm, and material expression. At other times, design becomes problem solving, requiring us to navigate complex systems, user needs, and institutional challenges. In projects involving healthcare communication, public spaces, or digital products, clarity and usability become critical. Yet there are also moments when design becomes research—an exploration of questions that do not yet have answers. We have learned that these different approaches are not competing philosophies. They coexist within the studio, and moving between them is an essential part of practice. Critique plays a central role in this process. We do not think of critique as evaluation. Instead, we see it as a mechanism for collective thinking. Most of our important decisions emerge through conversations rather than presentations. Ideas are questioned, challenged, expanded, and reshaped through dialogue with colleagues, collaborators, clients, writers, researchers, artists, and subject experts. Often the most valuable outcome of a critique is not an answer but a better question. Over time, we have discovered that the quality of a studio is determined less by the brilliance of individual designers and more by the quality of the conversations they are able to sustain. The studio itself functions as a shared learning space. Designers working on books encounter ideas emerging from exhibition projects. Researchers contribute to game design. Digital practitioners engage with environmental graphics. Knowledge moves across projects in unexpected ways. Some of the most significant learning happens indirectly—through observation, overheard discussions, unfinished prototypes pinned to walls, or informal conversations over coffee. The boundaries between teaching, learning, and practice become difficult to distinguish because all three occur simultaneously. This culture has also shaped our relationship with time. Contemporary design practice often rewards speed and efficiency, but many of the projects we care about demand something slower. Cultural interpretation, public memory, education, and social impact cannot always be reduced to accelerated timelines. They require immersion, reflection, and patience. We have learned that meaningful design often emerges not from working faster but from staying with a question long enough for deeper insights to surface. As a studio, we have also become increasingly aware that design is a form of performance. Every presentation, exhibition, publication, or digital experience is an act of storytelling. In projects such as the Freedom Fighters' Memorial or the environmental graphics for the Venkatappa Art Gallery, we are not simply arranging information. We are shaping how people encounter history, culture, and place. The designer's role becomes that of a mediator—someone who constructs experiences through which meaning can emerge. Much of our work is rooted in Indian contexts, traditions, and knowledge systems. This has taught us that design is never culturally neutral. Every visual language, narrative structure, material choice, or interaction pattern carries assumptions about identity and values. Working with classical texts, educational content, public institutions, and heritage projects has continually reminded us that design participates in culture rather than merely representing it. The responsibility of the designer extends beyond communication into interpretation. At the same time, we have found that the most rewarding projects often require a willingness to embrace uncertainty. Turning scientific history into a game, reimagining ancient texts for contemporary audiences, or creating experiences that bridge disciplines involves risks. Not every experiment succeeds. Yet experimentation remains essential because innovation rarely emerges from certainty. The studio must create conditions where ambiguity is not feared but welcomed. Perhaps the most important thing we have learned is that studios do not simply produce artifacts. They produce people. Over time, designers acquire more than technical skills. They develop ways of seeing, questioning, collaborating, and making sense of the world. They learn how to navigate complexity, engage with different perspectives, and remain comfortable with incomplete knowledge. The books, games, exhibitions, and digital experiences that leave the studio are visible outcomes, but they are accompanied by another, less visible outcome: the ongoing formation of design identities. Looking back, we realize that every project has been a vehicle for learning. Every critique has shaped our thinking. Every collaboration has expanded our understanding of design. The true work of the studio has never been limited to what we make. It has been about cultivating a culture where making, learning, questioning, and becoming are inseparable. In that sense, the studio is not simply where our work happens. It is the work itself. Tacit Studio Space

Design education is undergoing a profound shift. In a world where AI can generate images, interfaces, code, and even ideas instantly, the value of education no longer lies in producing outputs alone. What matters now is the ability to think critically, frame meaningful questions, work across disciplines, and create experiences that are emotionally, culturally, and socially relevant. At TACIT, we see mentorship not as teaching students how to use tools, but as helping them develop judgment, curiosity, systems thinking, and a deeper understanding of human experience. Over the past few months, we had the opportunity to guide three Masters of Design students — Kowshikan, Aditi, and Kedar — through very different but equally meaningful projects that explored immersive interaction, scientific storytelling, and sustainable material futures Kowshikan G — Interactive immersive exhibition experiences Kowshikan’s capstone project explored the design of interactive and immersive exhibition experiences inspired by the philosophy of Adi Shankaracharya. Rather than treating immersive media as a technological spectacle, his work investigated how interaction could become a medium for reflection, memory, and emotional connection. Through extensive research into museums, projection-based environments, and generative media systems, he developed experiential installations such as Tat Tvam Asi and From Chaos to Unity, where gestures and real-time visual transformations translated abstract philosophical ideas into intuitive experiences. Using tools like TouchDesigner, gesture-based interaction systems, and generative visuals, the project proposed a new way of thinking about exhibition design — one where technology supports contemplation instead of distraction. Interactive Experiments Our mentorship focused on helping Kowshikan move beyond “interaction for interaction’s sake” and instead build meaningful experiential narratives. In many ways, his journey reflects an important shift in post-AI education: the value no longer lies in simply learning software or producing visual outputs, but in developing judgment, conceptual clarity, and the ability to create emotionally resonant systems. We encouraged him to question why an interaction exists, what transformation it creates for the participant, and how philosophy, space, and technology can work together to shape human experience. Through iterative critiques, exposure to immersive media practices, and collaborative experimentation, Kowshikan learned to position design not merely as a tool for engagement, but as a medium for interpretation and reflection. Read Full Report here > Aditi Bathija — Reimagining Science Through Play Aditi’s project, Jeewanu: Can You Create Life?, transformed a forgotten chapter of Indian scientific history into an immersive strategy board game experience. Developed in collaboration with NCBS, the project revisited the historic Jeewanu experiments on protocell-like structures and translated them into a speculative laboratory simulation game. By combining cooperative gameplay, hidden traitor mechanics, deck-building, and resource management systems, Aditi created an experience where players actively inhabit the tensions, uncertainties, and social dynamics of scientific research. Rather than presenting science as static information, the game allowed participants to experience experimentation, failure, collaboration, and doubt as lived systems. The project stood out for its ability to merge scientific storytelling, systems thinking, and emotional engagement into a compelling playable narrative. Game Prototype Our role was to help Aditi evolve from thinking like a designer of artefacts into thinking like a designer of systems and human behaviour. Her process involved constant iteration — studying games, deconstructing mechanics, prototyping interactions, and testing emotional responses with players ranging from scientists to gamers. In a post-AI educational landscape where information is instantly accessible, projects like Aditi’s demonstrate that the real value lies in framing meaningful experiences and asking better questions. We worked closely with her to sharpen the relationship between narrative, agency, and uncertainty, encouraging her to treat gameplay as a form of inquiry rather than entertainment alone. Through this process, she developed a strong understanding of how design can make complex scientific histories participatory, accessible, and emotionally memorable. Read full report here > Kedar Shreekant Joshi — Luminaire design using Bio-degradable materials Kedar’s master’s thesis explored the design of a modular luminaire system using biodegradable materials such as banana fiber, bamboo cane, and wood. The project investigated how sustainable materials, tactile surfaces, and craft-based production methods could be integrated into contemporary lighting design while also introducing a “Do It Yourself” assembly experience for users. Moving beyond conventional product design, Kedar’s work examined how users could actively participate in weaving and constructing the luminaire themselves, creating a stronger emotional connection with both the object and the materials. His research combined industrial design, lighting science, sustainability, biophilic design, and craft traditions to produce a thoughtful system that balanced aesthetics, functionality, and ecological responsibility. Luminare Prototype Our mentorship with Kedar focused on helping him navigate the intersection of material research, emotional design, and systems thinking. In the context of post-AI education, projects like his remind us that the future of design is not only digital — it is deeply human, sensory, and ecological. While AI can optimize forms and generate endless visual variations, it cannot replace the lived understanding that comes from working with materials, understanding craft communities, and designing for emotional and tactile experiences. We encouraged Kedar to think beyond product aesthetics and consider the entire lifecycle of the object — from sustainability and repairability to user participation and cultural storytelling. Through iterative prototyping, material experimentation, and reflective discussions, he developed a nuanced design approach rooted in empathy, sustainability, and meaningful user engagement. Read full report here > Across all three projects, the focus was not simply on producing final outcomes, but on learning how to navigate complexity through research, iteration, and critical inquiry. Whether working with immersive media, speculative gameplay, or sustainable materials, Kowshikan, Aditi, and Kedar each explored how design today increasingly depends on systems thinking, contextual understanding, and the ability to create meaningful human experiences — skills that are becoming central to design education in a post-AI world.

Turning real situations into systems people can enter, act, and engage with deeply There is always a moment at the beginning when everything feels meaningful. The table is empty. There are no components yet, no rules to misread, no players to resist what you have made. There is only a question—often large, often generous, often carrying more weight than the game will ever be able to hold. This is where most Tacit games begin. With questions that feel important. And very often, these questions do not emerge in isolation. They arrive with our clients—already shaped by context, urgency, and expectation. A corporate team comes with a different kind of challenge. They are building a podcast featuring startup founders—conversations that are insightful, but increasingly predictable. They want to create a situation where founders are not just answering questions, but responding in real time. The need is not just content—it is differentiation, engagement, and a way to surface stories that do not usually get told. This became Hissa. A board game designed to be played during the podcast itself—where founders build startups, navigate funding, make trade-offs, and scale under constraints. The moderator is no longer just asking questions, but responding to decisions. The conversation emerges from play. The outcomes—successes, failures, tensions—become material for storytelling, for social media, for brand building. The game is not the product. It is the situation that produces the content. A research lab comes with another need. To recreate a real-world scientific situation—not as a demonstration, but as something students can inhabit. In Jeewanu, this meant translating work from NCBS into a playable system that could inspire the next generation toward fundamental science—not by explaining it, but by letting them experience uncertainty, constraint, and discovery. Jeewanu board game Samiti board game A public health system needs its people to work differently. In Samiti, the challenge was not knowledge, but hierarchy. Medical officers, ASHA workers, and local practitioners already operate within the same system, but rarely as equals. The game needed to create a space where conversation, planning, and execution could happen without those rigid structures—where the team could briefly become flat, and collaboration could be practiced rather than prescribed. Sometimes the need is perceptual. Bimba begins with something more fundamental: how do you invite someone into the visual world? How do you move them from recognizing patterns to questioning them—to seeing structure, symmetry, and ambiguity in what first appears obvious? Bimba board game Ramayana game And sometimes the need is narrative, but not passive. In the Ramayana game, the goal was not simply to retell an epic, but to engage school students actively—to help them remember sub-stories, challenge themselves on sequence, and understand how different parts of a larger narrative connect and unfold. These are not abstract goals. They are specific, grounded, and often urgent. But this is also where the first mistake is made. Because a need—even a precise one—is not yet a game. Creating a podcast format does not guarantee meaningful conversation. Recreating a lab does not guarantee engagement with scientific thinking. Bringing practitioners together does not guarantee meaningful interaction. Showing images does not guarantee deeper seeing. Retelling a story does not guarantee understanding. If a player can participate fully—follow the system, complete the activity, even enjoy the experience—without confronting the underlying intent, then the design has not resolved the need. It has only translated it into a softer, more comfortable form. So the work begins by narrowing. In Hissa, the question becomes: can founders be placed in situations where their decisions reveal how they actually think—not how they narrate their journey? Can the system create tension around funding, growth, and trade-offs that leads to authentic conversation, rather than rehearsed answers? In Jeewanu, the question becomes: can uncertainty be made playable without becoming confusion? Can students make decisions that resemble experimentation, rather than simply following steps? In Samiti, the question sharpens further: can a system genuinely dissolve hierarchy, or will existing roles quietly reassert themselves through play? Does the game create dependency across roles, or does it allow participants to operate in parallel, unchanged? In Bimba, the reduction is more severe. With almost no scaffolding, the system depends entirely on perception. But perception without resistance becomes passive. The question is no longer “can players see?” but “can they be challenged in what they think they see?” And in Ramayana, the tension lies in structure. If the sequence is too guided, players follow. If it is too open, the narrative dissolves. The system must force engagement with order, memory, and connection—not just recognition. This is where systems are not discovered, but constructed—and tested against failure. A system is not validated by how well it represents the real world. It is validated by whether it produces decisions that matter. In Hissa, if decisions do not meaningfully shape the conversation, the game becomes a prop. In Jeewanu, if choices do not affect outcomes, the lab is only aesthetic. In Samiti, if decisions do not carry consequences across roles, hierarchy remains intact. In Bimba, if interpretations do not encounter friction, seeing remains superficial. In Ramayana, if sequence can be ignored without consequence, the structure of the story is not being learned. Around these systems, a world forms—but not to explain, only to constrain. The startup ecosystem in Hissa must create real trade-offs. The lab in Jeewanu must enforce limits. The village in Samitimust create accountability. The epic in Ramayana must shape progression. And in Bimba, the constraint must come entirely from the images—their composition, their ambiguity, their resistance.This is where many designs become too accommodating. If everything is clear, nothing is discovered.If everything is open, nothing is required. And so the question becomes: what creates pressure? In Hissa, pressure comes from trade-offs—growth versus sustainability, funding versus control. In Samiti, from coordination across roles. In Jeewanu, from uncertainty. In Ramayana, from sequence and memory. In Bimba, pressure must come from disagreement. The image cards are not just objects—they are the site of play. If two players see the same thing, the system resolves too quickly. But if they see differently—and must justify or reconsider—then something deeper begins. This is where other players enter—not as participants, but as disruption. In Hissa, they create competing strategies and narratives. In Samiti, they challenge authority. In Jeewanu, they complicate decisions. In Ramayana, they create variation in understanding. In Bimba, they destabilize perception. Without this, the game becomes solitary—even in a group. And then, finally, choice emerges—not as abundance, but as resistance. A meaningful choice is one that cannot be reduced to a single correct answer. In Bimba, this is fragile. If all interpretations are equally valid, choice disappears. If too constrained, it becomes rigid. The design must hold ambiguity in place—structured enough to matter, open enough to explore. This cannot be assumed. It must be tested. And testing, if taken seriously, is not about confirming what works. It is about discovering what does not—and removing it. Founders will try to “win” Hissa instead of revealing thought. Practitioners will revert to hierarchy in Samiti. Students will look for certainty in Bimba. Players will oversimplify Ramayana.These are not failures of players. They are pressures on the system. What remains after responding to these pressures is the game. Eventually, the game reaches someone new. Here, clarity matters—but not simplification. What the game appears to be must match what it demands. If Hissa appears playful but does not create real stakes, it fails. If Samiti appears collaborative but allows hierarchy to persist, it fails. If Jeewanu suggests experimentation but rewards linear play, it misleads. If Bimba appears simple but offers no depth, it dissipates. If Ramayana feels like play but does not require engagement with structure, it becomes ornamental. The entry into the game must not lie. And at the end, the question returns—not as intention, but as outcome.Did Hissa create conversations that would not have happened otherwise?Did Jeewanu make students think like scientists?Did Samiti change how teams worked together?Did Bimba change how people see?Did Ramayana change how students understand narrative? These are operational questions. A game either changes how people engage with a situation, or it does not. Most games are engaging in the moment. Far fewer have any effect after. And that is where this work becomes real. Because when it works, a game does something few formats can. It creates a situation where people act differently—not because they are told to, but because the system requires it. It makes complexity usable. It surfaces assumptions. It creates conversations that do not emerge otherwise. So the question is not whether games are useful. It is more direct. What is the situation you are trying to change? Is it how your team works together?How your people engage with complex material?How your audience experiences your brand?How you generate insight, conversation, or understanding? If the problem involves people—and most meaningful problems do—then there is likely a way to translate it into a system that can be played. Not simplified. Not gamified. But structured so that people can enter, act, and learn from it. That is where we work. Not at the level of adding games to a program, but at the level of shaping systems that respond to your reality—your constraints, your people, your goals. The process is not quick. It involves defining what needs to change, testing whether it actually changes, and removing what does not hold. But when it works, the outcome is clear. People do not just participate.They behave differently.They understand differently.They make different decisions. And that is the point where a game stops being an activity—and becomes something that matters.

Pattachitra Painting of Ramayana Scenes There are stories that are told, and there are stories that are inhabited . The Ramayana belongs to the latter. It lives in memory, in performance, in ritual, in fragments of song and image that travel across generations. To design a book around it is not simply to arrange text and illustrations—it is to ask: how does a story like this take form today? The project began with urgency. A book for young readers—ages 10 to 16. A timeline of three months. A scale that extended beyond a single publication, into classrooms and schools across regions. But beneath the constraints lay a quieter challenge: how to create something that is at once structured and alive , capable of carrying a vast narrative without reducing its depth. Listening before drawing The first instinct was familiar—seek contemporary expression. Commission artists, reinterpret scenes, build a visual language from scratch. But early explorations felt unanchored. The imagery was compelling, but the system was not. There was no rhythm that could sustain the scale of the story. It was here that the process slowed down. Instead of asking how to illustrate , the question shifted to: what visual systems already exist that know how to tell stories like this? This shift—from making to observing—became the foundation of the project. The intelligence of tradition Across India, narrative traditions have long been embedded in visual form. Painted scrolls, temple murals, cloth-based storytelling traditions—each carries within it a grammar of sequencing, hierarchy, and rhythm. Among these, Pattachitra revealed something striking. At first glance, it appears ornate—dense with pattern, colour, and detail. But look closer, and a structure emerges. Scenes are framed within borders. Figures are scaled to denote importance. Narratives unfold in panels, each connected yet distinct. There is no emptiness; every space carries intent. It is not just decorative—it is systematic . And in that system lies its strength. From painted scroll to printed page What followed was not an act of translation, but of alignment. The team began to treat the painting not as an illustration, but as a framework . What if the book could be built the way these paintings are built? Gradually, a structure took shape: The borders of the painting became the edges of the page The division of scenes informed the flow of narrative The hierarchy of figures guided the placement of text and image The density of composition influenced the rhythm of layout The book was not designed in isolation—it was grown from an existing logic . In this process, design moved away from style and toward something more fundamental: relationships—between elements, between sequences, between reading and seeing . Book Grid A dispersed act of making The making of the book unfolded across distances. In Sringeri, scholars and writers shaped the narrative.In Bangalore, the design system evolved—testing grids, margins, and page flows.In Odisha, artist Karunakara Sahu and his team worked patiently, creating over 85 paintings , each aligned to defined proportions and narrative requirements. What connected these geographies was not proximity, but clarity. Because the system defined the rules, the work could move in parallel. Decisions became less about correction and more about execution. The process, though distributed, remained coherent. The weight of material decisions Beyond narrative and image lay another layer—material. The book was intended to reach classrooms, to be printed in large numbers, to be handled, read, and revisited. This meant that every decision—paper size, printing format, layout efficiency—carried weight. A single sheet of paper, measured at 20” x 30”, would yield eight pages. Margins had to account for trimming. Borders had to survive printing constraints. Costs had to remain viable without compromising clarity. Here, design met reality—not as limitation, but as context . When the book begins to travel Once printed, the book began its own journey. Into classrooms.Into the hands of students encountering the story, perhaps for the first time.Into systems where it was not only read, but studied—eventually even forming the basis of examinations. What made it effective was not just the content, but the way it unfolded—visually structured, sequential, accessible. The reader did not have to navigate the story alone; the book guided them. Srimad Ramayana Book Beyond the page The logic of the book did not end with the book. When extended into an exhibition, the same principles reappeared—this time in space. Panels arranged themselves around a central axis, radiating outward. The narrative wrapped around the viewer, no longer bound by pages. Original paintings, printed panels, artist demonstrations, children engaging with form and story—the experience expanded, but the underlying system remained intact. The story adapted. The structure held. Srimad Ramayana Exhibition Srimad Ramayana, Educational Kit - Game, Book, Aids What the process revealed In the end, the project offered a quiet but significant insight: That design does not always begin with invention.Sometimes, it begins with recognition . Recognition of patterns that already exist.Of systems that have endured because they work. Of ways of seeing that are embedded in tradition, waiting to be understood. The Ramayana did not need to be reimagined.It needed to be re-seen —through a lens that respects both its scale and its subtlety. And in that act of seeing, a new form emerged—one that allows the story to move forward, carried not just by words, but by structure, image, and experience. See Project Page >

Bhasya Series Designing classical texts is not merely an editorial exercise—it is an act of interpretation, continuity, and restraint . The Prasthana Traya Bhasya series , designed by Tacit for the Dakshinamnaya Sri Sharada Peetham, Sringeri , reflects this approach through a carefully constructed visual and structural system that honours both the philosophical depth and the textual tradition of the works. The series comprises four volumes— Brahmasutra Bhasya, Bhagavad Gita Bhasya, and the Upanishad Bhasya (in two volumes) —building on an earlier edition dating back to 1890. The challenge was not to reinvent the text, but to re-present it for contemporary readers while remaining rooted in its lineage. Cover Pages - Bhasya Series A design language guided by simplicity At the core of the design is a commitment to clarity and simplicity . The visual language avoids excess, allowing the text to remain central while offering subtle cues to help readers engage with the content. Each volume is anchored by a distinct symbolic motif , drawn from the conceptual essence of the text: Chin Mudra for the Brahmasutra Bhasya Peacock feather for the Bhagavad Gita Bhasya Om for the Upanishad Bhasya These symbols act as visual identifiers , creating familiarity across the series while gently hinting at the nature of each text. Building a system for continuity Rather than designing each book independently, Tacit developed a cohesive design system for the entire series . This ensures consistency across volumes while allowing each to retain its identity. Importantly, the system was structured to be implemented in LaTeX by the Peetham , making it repeatable, scalable, and sustainable . This shifts design from a one-time intervention to a long-term framework , enabling future publications to maintain continuity. Inner Pages Learning from manuscripts: structure and layout The inner pages draw inspiration from traditional manuscripts , where clarity emerges from disciplined structure. The layout is organised using three vertical guiding lines , which help structure content and create a consistent reading rhythm. This framework supports the presentation of dense philosophical material in a way that is legible, navigable, and balanced , making the books suitable for both study and reference. Restraint as a design principle A defining quality of the Bhasya Books is restraint. The design consciously avoids visual excess, allowing the content to lead. Instead of imposing interpretation, it provides a clear and stable framework within which the text can be experienced. Designing for continuity The Bhasya series demonstrates how editorial design can contribute to cultural continuity . By grounding the visual language in simplicity, structuring the content with clarity, and building systems for long-term use, the design supports the life of the text beyond a single edition. In doing so, the project reinforces a larger idea: that design, when practiced with sensitivity and discipline, can serve as a bridge— connecting tradition with the present, and enabling knowledge to remain accessible across generations . Link to Project page >

Reflections on Experiments with TouchDesigner In recent weeks, we did some experiments using TouchDesigner , a real-time visual programming environment that enables interaction between human gestures, sound, and dynamic visual systems. Our interest in these experiments was not merely technological. Rather, we hoped to test a set of questions that have long been central to the discourse of modern design. The questions are simple but not trivial: Do these technological effects clarify reality, or do they merely produce sensory distraction? And further: Do such systems help the viewer understand ideas and structures, or do they simply entertain through graphic spectacle? These questions are particularly relevant today, when digital tools allow designers to create increasingly complex and responsive visual environments. The ability to produce visual movement, particle systems, and reactive forms has become relatively accessible. However, the ease with which such effects can be generated also raises a concern: the possibility that design becomes absorbed into the production of technological spectacle rather than meaningful communication. The Experiments Our experiments were intentionally modest in scale. Using gesture recognition, audio triggers, and simple interaction systems, we constructed a series of interactive visual scenarios. In one experiment, when the index finger touches the thumb (gesture) , a chaotic field of dots on the screen gradually unifies into a single color. The interaction begins with dispersion and culminates in visual unity. In another experiment, a participant saying anything or clapping (voice) causes a spherical object on the screen to move in a fluid manner, resembling a water droplet reacting to vibration. In a third experiment, the screen appears covered with a thin layer of dust. Wherever the viewer touches the screen (touch), the dust clears , revealing the underlying image. In yet another interaction, text continuously changes and mutates until the viewer interrupts it through a tap or clap. These systems establish a simple but significant structure of interaction: Human gesture → sensor input → algorithmic transformation → visual response. What emerges is not simply a visual composition but a cybernetic loop , in which the viewer becomes part of the system that generates the visual event. The viewer is no longer merely observing an image; the viewer is participating in a space of interaction . The Seduction of Sensory Effects Our initial observations suggest that such interactions often begin as sensory attraction . Participants are immediately drawn to the responsiveness of the system. Movement, color, and transformation generate curiosity. The system reacts quickly to the viewer’s gestures, and this responsiveness produces a moment of engagement. However, at this stage the experience risks becoming nothing more than technological amusement . The viewer discovers that the system responds, but not necessarily what the response signifies. The interaction may become an exercise in trial and error rather than an encounter with meaning. In such cases, the work risks being reduced to what might be described as visual gimmickry —a spectacle of reactive graphics that produces momentary fascination but little lasting impression. Indeed, one of our early observations was precisely this: Pure visual effects are quickly forgotten. When interaction serves only to demonstrate technological capability, its cultural value remains limited. The Problem of Meaning A deeper difficulty became apparent as we continued our experiments. Most reactive visual systems, by themselves, do not produce meaning . They produce events: movement, transformation, response. Yet these events often remain detached from any conceptual structure that might guide interpretation. Particles that react to sound or gesture can be visually impressive, but they do not necessarily help the viewer understand any underlying idea, system, or cultural reference. This realization led us to reconsider the role of symbolism within interactive systems. Could interaction be structured in a way that connects bodily action, visual transformation, and conceptual meaning ? A Symbolic Approach To explore this possibility, we began to experiment with symbolic references drawn from philosophical traditions . One example involves the gesture of the index finger touching the thumb , a "Jnana mudra" associated with the teachings of Adi Shankaracharya . Within the philosophical tradition of Advaita Vedanta, this gesture represents the idea of non-duality —the unity of individual and universal consciousness. In our interactive system, when the participant performs this gesture, the previously chaotic field of particles gradually converges into a unified visual field.The visual transformation therefore becomes a metaphor: from multiplicity to unity. Here the interaction operates simultaneously at several levels: the physical gesture of the body the visual transformation on the screen the philosophical concept represented by the gesture In this situation, the interaction no longer functions merely as a technological effect. Instead, it becomes a symbolic system , in which action and perception together produce meaning. The end experience is the idea of unification by actor when he uses the "Mudra" to visually see the unification of chaotic dots to form a single color Embodied Interaction An interesting observation emerged during these experiments. Some participants appeared to respond not only to the visual effect but also to the conceptual structure embedded within the interaction . They recognized that the gesture, the visual transformation, and the philosophical idea formed a coherent relationship. This suggests that interactive systems may enable a different mode of understanding—one that operates through embodied interaction rather than purely intellectual explanation. In other words, the viewer does not simply read or hear the concept.The viewer performs it .The philosophical idea is experienced through gesture and visual response.This possibility is particularly intriguing because it suggests that interactive media may offer a way of communicating complex ideas through action, perception, and symbolic transformation . The Question of Recall Nevertheless, an important question remains unresolved. What is the recall value of such interactions? Digital installations often generate immediate excitement but leave little lasting memory. The novelty of interaction may produce engagement in the moment, yet the experience may fade quickly once the novelty disappears. Our experiments have shown that visual gimmicks alone have very limited recall value . Participants may enjoy the experience but struggle to remember it afterwards. When interaction is connected to a recognizable idea or symbolic structure , however, the experience appears to leave a stronger impression. This suggests that the longevity of interactive design may depend less on technological sophistication than on conceptual clarity . Toward Meaningful Interactive Design These experiments are still preliminary, and they do not yet offer definitive conclusions. However, they point toward a possible direction for interactive design. The true potential of such technologies may not lie in producing ever more elaborate visual effects but in designing systems of meaningful interaction . The designer’s task is therefore not merely to create images but to structure the relationships between gesture, perception, and idea . When these relationships are carefully constructed, interactive media can move beyond spectacle and become a form of experiential knowledge . In such cases, interaction is not merely entertainment.It becomes a way of exploring concepts through action and perception. Final thoughts Our experiments with TouchDesigner were motivated by a simple but important question: Do these technologies clarify reality, or do they merely produce sensory distraction? At present, both possibilities remain open. If used without conceptual discipline, interactive systems may easily become instruments of spectacle. Yet if designers approach them critically—structuring relationships between human gesture, visual transformation, and cultural meaning—these technologies may offer new forms of design knowledge. The responsibility therefore lies not with the technology itself but with the intentions and rigor of the designer . Interactive systems can either distract or illuminate. The difference depends on whether we treat them as tools for spectacle or as systems for thinking .

Wall, floor graphics at AMC Healthcare environments often carry a strong visual identity of clinical efficiency—white walls, functional signage, and systems designed primarily for medical workflow. But childbirth is not merely a medical procedure; it is a deeply human experience. The environmental graphics and signage system for the Aastrika Midwifery Centre was conceived to support a different philosophy of care—one that places the mother’s experience, dignity, and agency at the centre of the birthing journey . Located in Bengaluru, Aastrika Midwifery Centre promotes evidence-based, respectful maternity care with a focus on natural childbirth and midwifery-led support, offering alternatives to the high rates of surgical births in India. Within this context, environmental graphics became an important tool—not simply for navigation, but for communication, reassurance, and empowerment. Designing for a mother-led philosophy The design approach began by understanding the ethos of Aastrika: birth as a collaborative and mother-led process . Rather than presenting the centre as a medical institution, the graphics aim to create a calm, supportive environment that encourages confidence and awareness. Wall graphics depict natural and supportive practices during childbirth— walking, eating, listening to music, changing positions, and receiving support from midwives and companions —gently reinforcing the idea that birth is an active and participatory experience. Equally important was communicating the rights of women during childbirth : the right to dignity, informed decision-making, companionship, and respectful care. By embedding these ideas into the physical space, the centre becomes not only a place for treatment but also a place of learning and affirmation. A spatial narrative of the birthing journey The environmental graphics were organised along the centre’s corridors to reflect the stages of maternity care: pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum recovery . As expectant mothers move through these spaces over multiple visits, they encounter the narrative gradually, absorbing information and reassurance over time. This sequencing transforms the walls into a quiet educational journey , allowing the environment itself to guide and prepare mothers for the stages ahead. Calm, clarity, and intuitive navigation In parallel, Tacit developed a cohesive signage system to guide visitors from entry points to consultation rooms, birthing suites, amenities, and exits. The goal was clarity without clinical severity. Warm, soothing colours drawn from the Aastrika brand palette help create a home-like atmosphere, reducing the anxiety often associated with hospital environments. Signage is intentionally simple and unobtrusive, avoiding the visual language of conventional hospitals while maintaining clear wayfinding cues. Even the flooring contributes to orientation, subtly guiding movement through the space. Design as care The environmental graphics at Aastrika Midwifery Centre demonstrate how design can actively shape emotional experience in healthcare spaces. By combining clear navigation with thoughtful storytelling, the space reassures mothers, affirms their rights, and reflects the centre’s philosophy of respectful birth. In doing so, the project extends the role of environmental graphics beyond signage. It becomes a form of spatial communication—supporting care, building confidence, and reminding every visitor that childbirth is not just a clinical event, but a profoundly human journey. Door Signages at AMC Floor, Reception at AMC Symbol wall at AMC See full project here >

Tacit recently attended Codex , organized by the Codex Foundation in Oakland, California—an international gathering dedicated to the art of the book. What unfolded over two days was not a conventional book fair, but a deep immersion into book arts as a serious, political, and craft-driven practice . Nearly 100 artists and presses showcased works where the book was not merely a carrier of content, but the content itself. Many artists had even made the paper they printed on—revealing a level of material intimacy that felt worlds apart from large-scale publishing. The atmosphere was firmly rooted in craft, yet conceptually rigorous. For us at Tacit—accustomed to designing books for broader readership and mass circulation—it was a powerful shift in perspective. Here, the book existed on an entirely different spectrum:from deeply personal expression to political critique ,from intimate handmade objects to bold statements on identity, race, migration, place, and social justice . Most artists were developing their own content and shaping every stage of production—from paper making to binding to printing—resulting in works that were cohesive, intentional, and uncompromising. Book arts as critical practice A recurring theme across talks and exhibits was the book as a tool of resistance and reflection . Ana Paula Cordeiro shared insights into her personal creative practice—handmade books, photography, and letterpress printing—framing book art as a space for quiet reflection and community connection. Anne Covell offered a striking presentation on how artist books can function as political commentary. Through works such as The Record , In the Dark , and Palpable Mass , she addressed themes of historical revision, erasure, and unchecked power in recent U.S. political contexts. Her books were not neutral objects; they were visual responses to cultural and political moments. On the second day, Carole Texier presented her project Women in Printing , created in collaboration with Atelier du Livre d’art et de l’Imprimerie Nationale in France. Using traditional letterpress and historical printing methods, she foregrounded the overlooked contributions of women printers across Europe and North America since the 15th century. Listening to the struggles and resilience of women in the trade was especially moving. In the keynote lecture, Natalia Lauricella spoke about her curatorial practice and the growing recognition of artist books within museums—tracing a lineage from 19th-century French livres de peintre to contemporary experimental and conceptual book forms. It was illuminating to see how institutions are increasingly treating book arts as serious cultural artefacts rather than niche craft objects. Material devotion and collaborative excellence Among the works that particularly resonated with us were the publications of Datz Press , known for handcrafted photobooks produced collaboratively with photographers and designers. The precision of material choice, binding, sequencing, and print quality elevated these books into tactile experiences—where every design decision was deliberate and meaningful. Across Codex, one could witness a vast range of approaches: experimental forms, fine press printing, handmade paper, intricate binding techniques, sculptural book objects, and powerful visual storytelling. Each artist treated the book as a site of inquiry—both materially and intellectually. A welcome shift in scale and intent For a practice like ours, often engaged in large-scale projects and broader audiences, Codex offered a refreshing recalibration. It reminded us that the book can exist beyond utility or distribution—it can be intimate, fragile, confrontational, slow, political, poetic. Oakland itself felt like the right backdrop—deeply rooted in art and activism. Walking through galleries and neighborhood art spaces added another layer to the experience, reinforcing the sense that books, like cities, are vessels of layered histories and voices. Attending Codex was not simply about viewing beautiful objects. It was about re-encountering the book as a living art form —capable of craft, critique, devotion, and dissent—all bound within paper and thread.

The Tacit team recently attended The Sixth Sense Festival —India’s first and largest multidisciplinary immersive festival—held at Alembic City, Whitefield, Bengaluru . Conceived and realised by the team behind Echoes of Earth and curated by Swordfish , the festival brought together art, technology, music, design, and nature’s intelligence in a sprawling 200,000+ sq. ft. industrial space reimagined as a dynamic cultural playground. Spread across multiple zones, the festival featured large-scale digital installations, spatial sound performances, immersive environments, and interactive art-tech showcases designed by pioneering creators from around the world. Among standout works were The Banyan Tree by Stephen Bontly , a reflective light-and-sound environment, and Adrift by Metanoeia Studio (Sasha Kojjio & Alisa Davydova) —a generative audiovisual installation simulating melting glaciers. Immersive scale and responsive interaction For us at Tacit, the most striking experiences were the 20-foot-high screens , expansive digital canvases, and interactive zones where motion graphics responded dynamically to movement, touch, and voice . In several exhibits, visuals did not simply display content; they listened and reacted , creating a powerful sense of agency and presence. Walking through the space, the Tacit team found ourselves not just observing but participating —an embodiment of how design can dissolve the boundary between user and interface. Generative graphics and reactive design Many instalments employed generative graphics —systems that evolve in real time based on user input or environmental triggers. These works invited playful experimentation and held deeper implications for experiential design: when visuals are tied to gesture, speech, or motion, every interaction becomes a design moment , and every participant becomes a co-author of the experience. This reminded us strongly of how motion, code, and sensory feedback are reshaping design languages today. Instead of static artefacts, designers are now orchestrating behaviours and responses —patterns that unfold in time and space, inviting curiosity and collaborative exploration. TouchDesigner workshops and creative coding Some members of the Tacit team also attended the TouchDesigner sessions , presented in partnership with The NODE Institute (Germany) —a major highlight of the festival. These sessions, led by international experts, focused on creative coding, data visualisation, immersive media, lighting, AI, and live visual performance workflows. Tacit colleagues found the workshop especially stimulating, offering deep insights into interactive system design and real-time media creation. Cross-disciplinary inspiration What makes The Sixth Sense truly distinctive is its interdisciplinary spirit . Here, digital art sits comfortably alongside spatial sound works, ecological explorations, and participatory workshops. The festival is not just a showcase of technology or creativity—it is a platform for dialogue , where art meets science, where design practices converge with coding and ecology, and where audiences are invited to slow down, engage, and reflect. For the Tacit team, attending The Sixth Sense was both inspiring and eye-opening. It reaffirmed our belief that immersive design is not just about spectacle—it’s about creating meaningful interaction , encouraging users to engage with environments not as passive observers but as active participants. In a world increasingly defined by screens and sensor-based experience, this festival offered a glimpse of where design might be heading: towards environments that respond, adapt, and evolve with human presence. https://www.thesixthsensefestival.com Instagram

The exhibition Srimad Ramayana: A Story through Pattachitra Paintings was gracefully inaugurated by the divine presence of Jagadguru Sri Sannidhanam at Shankara Giri, Sringeri . His presence imbued the exhibition with spiritual depth and sanctity, affirming its purpose as more than a visual display—as a medium of cultural transmission rooted in devotion and tradition. Curated by the Shankara Advaita Research Center and designed by Tacit , the exhibition brings the timeless narrative of the Ramayana alive through the rich visual language of Pattachitra painting , offering visitors a contemplative journey where art, history, and spirituality converge. Remarkably, the entire exhibition was conceptualized, curated, and installed in a record time of nine days , made possible through focused collaboration and shared reverence for the epic. Curating the Ramayana as a visual narrative At the heart of the exhibition is a carefully sequenced presentation of 83 Pattachitra paintings , drawn from the book Srimad Ramayana . Tacit developed a structured panel system that arranges the works chronologically , transforming the exhibition space into a continuous visual narrative—from the origins of the epic to its defining moments and moral climaxes. To support this flow, the structural panel system was conceived as a simple, modular, and mobile exhibition format . The design intent was to keep the focus on content while ensuring ease of deployment. The panels are lightweight, stackable, and compact , allowing them to fit into a small carrier and be transported with ease. This makes the exhibition inherently scalable—capable of reaching villages, schools, and community spaces beyond formal institutions. Importantly, the system can be installed within a couple of hours , with a clear and intuitive assembly logic that minimizes on-site complexity and reduces the possibility of errors. This approach allows the exhibition to be set up quickly and repeatedly, without compromising the integrity of the artworks or the narrative structure. Living traditions: artists and demonstrations A defining dimension of the exhibition is the presence of the Pattachitra artiste Karunakara Sahu from Odisha , whose mastery of the traditional form brings authenticity and depth to the visual narration. During the exhibition, the artiste demonstrated the painting process for visitors, offering insights into the disciplined craft traditions—natural pigments, precise line work, and narrative detailing—that define Pattachitra. Select original paintings were also displayed, reinforcing the exhibition’s role as a celebration of a living artistic lineage rather than a static display. Engaging young minds through participation Recognising that epics endure through intergenerational engagement, Tacit introduced child-focused activities to make the exhibition accessible and joyful for younger audiences. A Ramayana "Vesha" Photo Booth allowed children to dress as characters from the epic, step into their roles, and capture memories—learning through play and imagination. Complementing this was a colouring activity featuring line drawings derived from Pattachitra compositions. This hands-on exercise sensitized children to the visual grammar of the art form, encouraging early familiarity and appreciation. The exhibition remains open to the public for a couple of months at Shankara Giri, Sringeri, allowing repeated visits and deeper engagement for devotees, families, students, and art enthusiasts alike. A blessed confluence For Tacit, this project has been a deeply humbling experience. To design and install an exhibition that weaves together epic narrative, traditional art, pedagogy, and spirituality within the sacred setting of Sringeri Sharada Peetham is both an honor and a blessing. On Official Sri Sringeri Sharada Peetham Website View Instagram Reel here > View Project Page >