Pullin’s argument challenges the lazy division between design as aesthetic indulgence and disability as pure function. He dismantles the notion that assistive devices must be invisible or “normalized,” suggesting instead that disability could (and should) be a space for expressive, creative design. That was a refreshing perspective. The hearing aid, the wheelchair, the prosthetic are cultural objects that communicate identity (not just medical equipment).
Yet, what I appreciate most in Pullin’s framing is how he exposes the moral vanity of “inclusive design.” The impulse to hide difference in the name of inclusion often erases individuality altogether. Still, I wonder whether his optimism about designers embracing disability aesthetics underestimates the market’s conservatism; we live in a world where even fashion struggles to tolerate imperfection. The essay makes me question whether good design serves comfort or visibility, and whether true accessibility might require celebrating discomfort, making difference not something to be hidden, but worn, literally, in style.