We talk a lot about authenticity. Perhaps too much. Too much for it to make any real sense beyond a commercial label, an emblem designed to ensure success—or at least to cast that spell. In today's digital world, where perfection and flawless precision have become the norm, more and more creators and designers are turning to dirt and imperfection as a form of rebellion. And when I see how brutalism in digital design is gaining traction—as a response to the corporate, uniform aesthetic—I get the feeling that this deliberately sown chaos is becoming a fascinating act of resistance. Perhaps it is a veto, disrupting the discourse on the role of the creator.

I believe that the glitch effect, raw forms, and visible editing tools are a conscious reaction to digital perfection. It can be compared to lo-fi in music—deliberately lowering recording quality to give it soul. This kind of authenticity, impossible to replicate, distinguishes a living work from empty replication. Authenticity is the currency of the digital age—what is imperfect and unique holds more value than an impeccable copy generated by AI. But not the kind of authenticity that has already been fully absorbed by machines capitalizing on ever-new spaces of our reality. I mean something more straightforward and uncompromising, something that cannot fully succeed in the 2020s. Whether we like it or not, technology, through ricochet, is redefining authenticity—digital reproduction increases access to art while simultaneously raising questions about the authenticity and quality of the original.

Rejecting perfection in digital design, whether intentional or not, can evoke aesthetic pleasure from the dynamic tension between chaos and order. Pixels, trapped within a strict mathematical digital structure, function within the program’s boundaries. However, they can also be seen as a tool of expression, as long as they are not merely reduced to a technical function. The aesthetic of imperfection in the digital world may stem from an attempt to break free from the rigid structure of pixels and their "imprisonment" in algorithmic order.

Instead of striving for full automation, we could focus on collaboration between humans and technology. Technology does not have to eliminate human input; rather, it can support and expand the perception of both the creator and the audience, fostering connections between them. This humanistic approach to technology is what we should cultivate—filling the void between diverging extremes and rigid definitions.

We can intervene and respond to the unexpected effects of digital processes. A high risk of error can force greater attentiveness, which, sometimes unintentionally, leads to a more conscious creative process and unique aesthetic outcomes. Surrendering some control over the digital process and allowing room for unpredictability and errors fosters deeper creative engagement. I also believe that, with the right shift in perspective, this can lead to a surprisingly stronger sense of ownership over the project.

Instead of pursuing sterile aesthetics, we should incorporate the object's history into its appearance—for instance, by embracing traces of wear and tear. Aesthetic rawness as a conscious decision.

Web designers embracing brutalism employ what is known as disfluency theory—the deliberate introduction of elements that hinder user experience to force active engagement with content. In practice, this means purposefully adding features that require users to reflect, focus, and actively explore the interface. Paradoxically, this approach can result in a deeper retention of the message. Brutalism acts as an "alarm clock" for the UX/UI industry, which has fallen into formulaic thinking and prioritization of efficiency over creativity. This serves as a reminder that design is not just about functionality but also about creativity, character, and artistic expression. Its aesthetic rawness and unconventional approach to usability function as an "aesthetic shock," compelling designers to rethink their assumptions.

In "The Open Work", Umberto Eco speaks of the pleasure of discovery—of how fully naming and explaining something strips an artwork of its power. Brutalism in applied art follows the same principle—it rejects predictability and established patterns, deliberately creating designs that are not immediately comprehensible. It forces the audience to "guess," to explore, and to gradually uncover the logic hidden beneath the apparent chaos.

The magic of misunderstanding lies in its ability to stimulate imagination—our minds start forming their own meanings and connections, attempting to fill in the gaps we do not understand. This creates an experience that is more organic, deeper, almost uncanny. What appears to be chaos is, in fact, an invitation to search—to immerse ourselves in something greater than the present moment, something that feels like it could be ours, if only we have the courage to get lost in it. Lost in defiance of the relentless pace we are expected to keep up with, to ask ourselves: what would happen if we started creating differently?

Dirt and the rejection of perfection in digital design are not merely acts of superficial rebellion against digital sterility; they are also a means of reclaiming authenticity and creativity. By embracing errors and unpredictability, we can create more engaging (and, crucially, engaged) and meaningful experiences for users—restoring design’s original power to reveal, connect with reality, express, and evoke emotions. In doing so, we attempt to reclaim something that has been subtly taken from us.

Shouldn’t we strive for our creations to not only fulfill their function but also evoke emotions, challenge thought, and leave a lasting impression on their audience? Instead of fleeing from imperfection, we should embrace it with open arms as a source of creative ferment. In a world increasingly obsessed with perfection, yet longing for authenticity and realness—not just as a buzzword—this very imperfection might become our greatest asset.