The Guardian of the Drones
- Daniel Weiss
- Nov 12
- 4 min read
Updated: Nov 16
When the sky begins to speak
The rain hadn't stopped all night. As the mist lifted from the slopes of Nagano, humid air hung over the forest, heavy, with the scent of resin and earth. An elderly man crouched among ferns and moss-covered stones on the edge of a stream, a jug in his hands, his gaze fixed intently on the water. He tipped it slowly into the flow, as if each movement were part of a choreography only he understood. Then a humming sound arose, barely audible at first, a delicate tone that broke in the undergrowth and made the air tremble. Something detached itself from the ground: a woven web of bamboo and hemp, so finely woven that it seemed almost alive. Slowly it rose, twisted in the breeze, and finally came to rest suspended in the humid air.
The man's name is Hideo Mori. He was once one of Tokyo's most celebrated designers, known for his straight lines and understated forms. His furniture graced Milan, his studios Paris, and his designs were considered a bridge between Japanese precision and European elegance. When he sold his studio and disappeared years ago, the design world spoke of a loss. But Mori hadn't vanished, he had simply changed location. After the 2011 tsunami, he retreated to the mountains, to a disused onsen, which he converted into a studio. There, where mineral water once steamed and conversations echoed off the stone, he now works alone, amidst bamboo racks, tools, ropes, and light filtering through the steam as if through paper.
The retreat
Mori says he sought silence. In Tokyo, everything had become too loud—trade fairs, brands, meetings. “I was building things nobody needed,” he says quietly. “Beauty without meaning is noise.” The onsen gave him back his silence. Here, where water drips and wood expands and contracts, he began to think about a different kind of design—one that no longer responds to attention, but to nature.
The nature drones
The objects he builds today he calls nature drones. They are delicate constructions made of bamboo, hemp rope, resins, and fine minerals, woven according to ancient patterns reminiscent of Japanese basketry. No screws, no electronics, no metal. The principle is simple yet quietly elegant: when the moss inside absorbs moisture, when smoke particles float in the air, or when the earth trembles, the material expands, setting in motion a chain of movements until the drone lifts off the ground. It hovers for thirty minutes—then it sinks back down, slowly decomposes, and nothing remains but a hint of bamboo scent in the rain.
The sound of the warning
For every type of threat, Mori designed specific drones: water-sensitive forms with broad wings, lightweight smoke detectors made of thin bamboo, heavy ground drones with more robust joints. One alone would be barely noticeable. But when hundreds take to the air simultaneously, the sky fills with movement. The hum of their propellers—little more than the wind rustling through bamboo leaves—multiplies into a deep rumble that fills valleys. Visible like a swarm, audible like a heartbeat. Not high-tech, not a control system, but an acoustic signal: Nature speaks, and design translates.
The listening design
“I never wanted to build machines,” says Mori. “I wanted to build signs – signs that listen to us.” He calls his work listening design : an approach that doesn’t explain, but responds. Design as a language of empathy. The woven guardians are not meant to monitor, but to protect – a silent alliance between craftsmanship, science, and poetry. For Mori, each woven guardian being is a small contract with the earth: precise, ephemeral, necessary.
transience
At dusk, Mori often sits on the edge of the pool, watching the steam refract the light. Tools, bamboo rings, hemp ropes, and dried mosses lie beside him. He speaks little, but when he does, his eyes light up. "Bamboo grows because wind and sun speak," he says. "Hemp supports the hand. Resin protects the skin. And moss... moss remembers every drop of water."
For a moment, there is silence. Then you hear that humming again, somewhere above the trees‘ crowns and the mist. It sounds as if the forest is breathing.
DWHH.art is the personal art project of Daniel Weiss – a collaboration between humans and AI. All stories and images are fictional – created with artificial intelligence, told with human imagination. For all those who believe that beauty is allowed to think.
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