Linea Interior Design Studio Brand Identity Design

We invented a client so we could listen to ourselves, gave her one word, three syllables, and a single rule: every decision had to begin with a line. No mood boards of Santorini sunsets, no lifestyle imagery, just the moment a pencil leaves the paper and the room is still empty. Linea is the breath between walls, the woman who walks into a bare flat, hears the echo, and says, “Wait, keep it like this for a second.” She measures in millimetres but talks in memories: how the sun slid across a parquet floor in her grandmother’s apartment, the way a shadow can make a corridor feel like a cathedral. She does not believe in accent walls; she believes in one ochre thread that appears, then disappears, the way a song gets stuck in your head although you cannot remember the chorus. Her studio has no reception desk; you enter and hear nothing but the soft mechanical heartbeat of a slide out drafting board. She offers you water in a glass so thin you are afraid it will break, but it does not, and that is the promise: fragility held together by precision. She signs her proposals with a pen whose ink matches the warm bone colour of the walls, and when you flip the page you discover a little cut on the tail of the A, a detail you will only notice if you are the kind of person who notices. Linea never explains; she simply lets the line keep going in your mind after the paper stops.

The first ambush was the word itself. Linea lives in supermarkets, metro maps, face cream tubes, loved to death and emptied of meaning. We wrote it over and over by hand until the letters stopped trying to be clever and settled into the simplest form we could find, then we let two letters stand a little taller, a silent flag that says “start here,” and suddenly the word felt newly drawn every time we saw it. The second crisis was politeness: people nodded at the designs, then forgot them five minutes later. We needed one small surprise that would stick in memory without breaking the quiet. We let the ochre line move, just a breath, when you scroll or tilt the page. Overnight, people remembered. The final obstacle was weight: we wanted the site to feel like heavy paper but load like air. We left out every extra button and picture until the whole thing weighed less than a single photo on most sites. The result is the quietest interaction we have ever launched, and the one people talk about the loudest.

We needed proof that restraint is not the absence of personality; it is personality learning to whisper. Linea is our love letter to every future client who arrives saying, “We want less, but we are afraid nobody will feel it.” Now we can point to an imaginary studio and say: here, we said almost nothing, and you still remember the room. That is the confidence we sell, the ability to leave the door half open so the story can walk in on its own.