Last Friday I was scrolling through my phone looking for inspiration for an upcoming project when I came across an AI-generated image: a glowing red circular tunnel with neon letters spelling a beauty brand name. I immediately clocked it as AI and messaged my coworker with annoyance. Moments of frustration like this feel familiar to anyone who spends time sourcing references online — you think you’ve found something visually striking, only to realize it lacks the authenticity or specificity you actually need.

We all love a good Pinterest scroll or a carefully curated Instagram feed to dig into for inspiration. It's convenient. Everything lives on one platform. It's completely frictionless. But have we McDonalds-ified our creative process?

In the world of experiential, we're on a hunt to craft not only something done before, but experiences that shift people's perceptions — ways that people perceive a space, a brand, or a moment. The best projects leave people with memories that outlast the metric of impressions. One of the most compelling aspects of experiential design for me is how many disciplines it touches. It exists in the overlap between architecture, interior design, graphic design, psychology, sculpture, and technology. This interconnectedness means inspiration rarely comes from a single place; it moves between fields and between mediums.

But when the design process becomes too dependent on platforms that algorithmically decide what is "cool," our work can begin to mirror the system feeding those ideas to us. The tools shaping what we see can quietly shape what we create. It can feel like a uniquely modern problem: endless feeds, and infinite references constantly deciding what deserves our attention.

But this anxiety about distraction isn't new. Joe Stadolnik points out that even Seneca the Younger, a Roman philosopher living in the 1st century CE, was spiraling about new technology ruining his focus. His villain? Books. He wrote, "The multitude of books is a distraction." And he wasn't alone in that concern. Echoing that in 14th-century Italy, the scholar and poet Petrarch made even stronger claims:

"Believe me, this is not nourishing the mind with literature, but killing and burying it with the weight of things or, perhaps, tormenting it until, frenzied by so many matters, this mind can no longer taste anything, but stares longingly at everything, like Tantalus thirsting in the midst of water."

So yes, fractured attention has always been part of the human condition. That said, knowing these philosophers were also overstimulated doesn't exactly get you off your phone either.

A Field Guide for Reclaiming Your Creativity

As someone relatively new to the industry, I've started noticing how important it is to continually "water" my creative garden across different areas of life. What we read, watch, observe, and pay attention to inevitably seeps into the work. When I'm trying to reset creatively, I start with a simple question: 

What am I actually hungry for right now? 

An evolution of taste? Self-knowledge? Something unfamiliar? Or just stillness? That answer usually determines what kind of practice will actually be useful at that moment.

If You're Hungry to Know Yourself Better

One helpful practice is setting aside time in the morning to clear your thoughts through writing. Morning Pages, a concept popularized by Julia Cameron in The Artist's Way, involve writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts first thing in the morning. The practice acts as a mental reset, helping clear distractions and surface ideas that might otherwise stay buried.

Another useful habit is taking photos of the small things you notice and enjoy throughout the day, as simple as capturing the texture of a fire hydrant, the shadow a tree casts, or the feeling of sand on your feet. Over time, these observations begin to reveal patterns. Understanding what consistently draws your attention is one of the clearest ways to understand your own taste.

If You're Hungry for an Evolution of Taste

Museums can be powerful places to slow down and engage deeply with a single idea. Instead of trying to absorb everything in a gallery, it can be more useful to focus on one piece that genuinely resonates, then follow the thread: learn about the artist, their influences, and the movements they were connected to. One artwork often leads to an entire creative lineage.

Another helpful practice is keeping a simple cultural log. At the end of each month, document what you enjoyed: films, books, exhibitions, music, or articles that stayed with you. Over time, this becomes a personal archive, and when inspiration runs low, that archive often points you back toward what genuinely energizes you.

If You're Hungry to Slow Down

A small shift like taking a walk without headphones can create surprising space for observation. Without constant audio input, your attention naturally shifts to the environment around you: textures on buildings, unexpected color combinations, signage, materials, and movement within a space.

Slowing down can also mean stepping away from screens entirely. Picking up a hobby that isn't tied to productivity or professional output can help reconnect creativity with play and experimentation. I have taken up knitting and sourdough bread making because I have a goal of being the sickest grandma.

Maybe you get on that DAMN climbing wall. Maybe you get them bones moving at a run club (actually… let's not get carried away). Or you start pickling carrots, or building tiny model houses that no one asked for. The specifics don't matter. Sometimes the value is simply in the act of doing, slowly and imperfectly.

Scroll less. Notice more.

Scrolling isn't a moral failing. These platforms are engineered to hold attention, and stepping away from them takes real intention. But creative clarity rarely comes from constant consumption. It tends to appear in the margins: on a quiet walk, a napkin sketch, or while writing a silly thought in your notes app that will never see the light of day. The algorithm will always have more to show you.

The more interesting question is what you have to say once you finally put it down.

(And remember, the sweetest things take time. Like a good ole’ slow-cooked pot roast or maybe I’m just hungry for lunch).

⠀⠀