A different lens changes everything.

Iris Bekkers

Setting the scene

With cold, semi-frosted fingers I cycled through the TU/e campus. The place always fascinates me. Behind every window someone is experimenting, prototyping, or researching something new. The walls don’t just stand there; they hum.

I was meeting Iris at her new studio in the Alpha building. I arrived a few minutes early and wandered through a long hallway where every door stood open. Each one revealed a different startup or research project. Nobody looked up when I passed. No badges, no scanners. The openness felt intentional. Innovation wants unlocked doors.

Then Iris arrived on her race bike, slightly rushed from another meeting. Present and warm, but clearly in motion. She opened her studio: a working space, not a showroom. A giant hexapod clay printer in the corner, a compressor next to it, clay on the floor, a simple desk by the window.

We sat down while she set up the coffee machine she’d just installed — until she realized the coffee was gone. A tiny pause, then: “Let’s just go somewhere where they have coffee.”

So we left. First stop: fully packed. Halfway to another café, she spotted the sports center. “Oh, that one’s fun too. Let’s just go there.”

We pivoted again, ordered drinks, and found a small table near the window. In just a few minutes we had changed course three times. It was practical, but also revealing. Before we got into any deep questions, I already knew something about her: she moves with the world, not against it.

What she does

Iris is a regenerative designer. She starts by understanding the ecological, cultural, and social patterns around a place before deciding what to add to it.

Her work sits at the intersection of humans and nature, guided by one question: How can we live more harmoniously with the natural world?

She sees the world as something humans constantly shape — intentionally or not. “Our impact is everywhere, so instead of minimizing or neutralizing it, I try to make that impact positive.”

Her designs always serve two audiences: people and the ecosystem around them. Her Life Markers project is a clear example. These 3D-printed clay memorials create a place for remembrance while offering habitat for insects and native plants. One object that holds grief and biodiversity at the same time.

She designs in collaboration with ecologists, biologists, engineers, manufacturers, and infrastructure partners — everyone who touches the system her work will live in.

We’re going to shape the world anyway, so her philosophy is simple: Let’s shape it in a way that helps other species thrive alongside us.

What we talked about

Designing for biodiversity

Iris doesn’t just hope her designs help nature; she builds that intention in from the start. She works with ecologists and biologists to translate what insects and plants actually need into design parameters: cavity sizes, humidity levels, microclimates, textures, and material behavior. That allows her to release a design into the world with an honest promise: “Designed for biodiversity.”

But she doesn’t stop at the promise. Once her pieces are installed, she studies how they perform over time. How many species show up? Which parts are used most? Where does it fall short? Her work is a series of living iterations — version 1 already contains the seeds of version 2 and 3.

That slow research allows her to move from intention to solid evidence such as “improved local biodiversity by x%.” Those are the claims that help her scale.

Hectometer signs genius

One project in particular lit me up. Hectometer signs — those small markers you see every 100 meters along the highway. There are millions of them across Europe. Everyone knows the front. Nobody thinks about the back. For decades, the backside has been empty. Untouched surface. Untapped space.

Iris looked at it and saw a home for insects. It perfectly fits the goals of infrastructure owners such as Rijkswaterstaat who owns over 18.000 ha of road shoulders and wants them to be both safe and biodiverse. The opportunity is enormous, literally measured in hectometers.

It’s the sort of idea that hides in plain sight. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And it made my hands itch — not just to think about it, but to build it. To make it real.

Tender rejection and the reality behind ideas

At some point during our conversation, Iris checked her phone. She told me she was expecting news about a tender she had submitted — a project that could allow her to bring one of her regenerative designs into the world.

The message came in: they didn’t select her. She shared it calmly. The concept had been praised, but there were concerns about realization: Was the supply chain ready? Were the right partners in place?

It was a quiet reminder that a great idea isn’t enough on its own. A design needs a network behind it — a production path, distribution partners, and operational confidence.

It wasn’t dramatic. “It happens,” she said. “It’s a challenge to do these pitches for free, especially if they expect you to fix everything in advance, but hey — I just keep trying.”

Imperfection as intentional craft

Back in her studio, the hexapod 3D printer was impossible to ignore. I asked whether the textured, irregular surfaces of her clay objects were a happy accident of the printing process.

She showed me two versions of a piece: • one with clean geometry and crisp edges • another with a more organic, fluidly shaped texture

The difference was Grasshopper — 3D software that allows you to apply algorithms and parameters to shape geometry. With it, she can add controlled variation, micro-shifts, and layered patterns that would never emerge from standard G-code.

Those “imperfections” were intentionally coded, parameterized, and dialed in.

We could have spent an hour just on that — how you use software to create something that feels both designed and alive. We didn’t have time, but we both knew this was the starting point for our next conversation.

Reflections

Supply chain

Great ideas alone are not enough. You need the pathway to sell and realize it. These invisible systems can hold even the best concepts back. It’s the scaffolding required to let ideas stand on their own. This is something that I want to continue strengthening in my own work.

“What is your vision?”

Where she needs stronger pipelines, I sometimes need stronger purpose. Halfway through our conversation she asked: “What is your vision?” It’s a small question, but I struggled to answer it. I don’t focus on a specific topic or category. And halfway through explaining this I realized that what she refers to as vision is what I call my superpower.

Most breakthrough ideas are born fragile. Too early, too risky, too incomplete. They die in the fog of doubt. I don’t let that happen. I clear the fog and find pathways to make what seems impossible real. I create enthusiasm around me and rally the team that will build it with me. This is my superpower, my vision — and it’s time I own it.

Founder mindset

What stayed with me most was how calmly Iris received the rejection. No drama, no frustration. Just a short pause, an honest acknowledgment, and then: moving on.

It made me realize how much of founder life is learning to absorb “no” without letting it define you. You have to take many shots before one lands. Rejection isn’t a sign you’re doing it wrong; it’s often a sign you’re in the arena.

Seeing how Iris handled it reframed failure for me. Not as something to avoid, but as something you build tolerance for. You harden, you learn, you adjust, and you keep going. That resilience isn’t optional. It’s a core skill.

Expanding context expands creativity

Meeting people like Iris feels like stepping sideways into another version of design. Our paths might not naturally cross, but they should.

She told me about the founder run, the community gatherings, the designers’ lunch where people share work-in-progress and give feedback. She invited me to join. And of course I will be there.

Moments like this remind me: If you keep saying yes to curiosity, your world doesn’t just grow. You grow inside it.