
Our Mission
LightBox Project creates interactive light installations and ambient lighting that make human sensory experience visible through craft, technology, and design informed by neurodivergent ways of knowing.
Our Vision
Spaces where every human can see how their senses, emotions, and attention actually work — not how they're told they should work — creating belonging through understanding rather than conformity.
We make light interactive. Not just pretty — responsive, truthful, embodied.
Origin
From Chaos to Craft
Kaizen Kintsugi got kicked out of a dance studio and needed somewhere else to put the energy. So — hands. Wood. A laser cutter borrowed from a makerspace. Etching patterns into oak and watching what happened when light passed through.
The patterns moved. Not like animation — like parallax. The image shifted depending on where you stood. Light came through the cuts differently at every angle. And people stopped. Not because it was pretty (it was pretty) but because something was happening that they couldn't quite name. The light was showing them their own movement.
That was the thing. That was the whole thing, actually. And it kept going.
The experiments got bigger. The questions got weirder: What if the light responded to sound? To proximity? To the way a crowd moves through a festival at 2am? What if you could see how your own senses work — not the textbook version, but the real version, the version that's different for every nervous system in the room?
On April 10, 2017, the experiments became LightBox Project.
Working with Paul Magnussen at Big Art changed the scale of what felt possible. Kaizen helped build tunnels, collaborated on interactive installations, and learned every part of the lifecycle — planning, building, programming, shipping, setup, teardown, caring for the work over a weekend. The full scope of what it takes to put large-scale art in public space.
That apprenticeship led to a question: festivals need ambient light installations that are easy to deploy — plug in, light up, ship back. Most big art requires flying crews out, housing them, managing teardown. What if the installations were modular enough that anyone could set them up?
Paul asked: “Why don't you just make a great big light box?”
That became the Wayfinder Landmark.
David came in and brought the technical side — programming, microcontrollers, figuring out how to make the hardware do what the art needs it to do. We build this together. That's the foundation of everything here.
It's a small operation. Calgary-based. Still building everything by hand — just faster, and with fewer laser burns.
The Three Lighthouse Campfires
Every LightBox Project piece is a lighthouse campfire — a light that does two jobs at once. A lighthouse points the way to safety. A campfire draws people in to gather. Our pieces do both: they show you where to go, and give you a reason to stay.
Wayfinder Landmarks — the public lighthouse campfire. A beacon you can see from across a festival field at 3am, and a corner where strangers land together. Marking the in-between spaces where you can breathe, find your footing, find each other.
LightBoxes — the domestic lighthouse campfire. The glow that calls you in from wherever you've been, and the warmth that makes the space feel worth staying in. A light that guides you home to a room worth coming home to.
Amulights — the personal lighthouse campfire. The signal you carry on your body, and the gathering it draws around you. A symbol lit from within, recognizable to the ones who would know it — directing your people toward you, inviting them close.
Same idea, three scales. Same pair of questions at every scale: what do we help people navigate toward, and what do we help them gather around?
Designing for the Full Spectrum
Most spaces are designed for a narrow band of human experience. We design for all of it.
Neurodivergent design isn't accommodation — it's better design. When you build for the full range of how humans process sensation, emotion, and attention, you create experiences that work for everyone. Not just the people the default was built for.
Every LightBox installation is informed by this principle. The interactivity isn't decoration. It's making visible what most spaces ignore — that every person in the room is having a different sensory experience, and all of them are real.
Our Team

Brandon “Kaizen” Tyson
Founder & Lead Artist
Two-Spirit, Anishinaabe artist working at the intersection of light, matter, and maker technologies. Creates the installations, designs the products, dreams up what comes next.
AUArts BFA
Kaizen — Object Design major, Media Arts concentration, 4.0 GPA

David
Accessibility & Community
Second in command. Bridges the gap between the art and the people it serves. Ensures every installation and experience is accessible and community-centered.
AUArts BFA
David — Object Design major, Media Arts concentration, 4.0 GPA
Artist Statement
I build things that make the invisible visible.
Light moves through a room and nobody notices. Attention shifts and nobody tracks it. Sensation floods in and we call it "just a feeling." I've spent my whole life noticing what most people filter out — not because I chose to, but because my brain doesn't come with that filter.
That's not a deficit. That's data.
I work with light because light is honest. It doesn't perform. It reveals. A laser etches exactly what you tell it to. An LED responds to exactly the input it receives. There's no spin. When I put these tools in the hands of craft — wood, metal, intention — the result shows people something true about how they experience the space they're standing in.
LightBox Project exists because I needed to prove that the way I see the world isn't broken. It's detailed. Every installation is that proof — a physical, walk-through-it argument that sensory experience is richer than the default settings suggest.
I'm Anishinaabe. Two-Spirit. Neurodivergent. I make work from where I stand — not where the art world expects, not where the market wants me. The work is better for it. Every time.
This is a project. It doesn't finish.
— Brandon “Kaizen” Tyson
Kaizen
Kaizen is a Japanese philosophy of continuous, incremental improvement — born in post-war manufacturing, refined over decades. Kai means change. Zen means good. Change for the better, one small step at a time.
It's the discipline of the workshop. We don't try to ship perfect. We try to ship better than yesterday. Every batch teaches the next batch something. Every laser pass refines the one after it. Every install — the wiring trick, the mounting fix, the way the light caught a wall we didn't expect — feeds back into how we build.
Small refinements compound. That's the whole bet. Show up, pay attention, get one degree better. Repeat for years.
Kintsugi
Kintsugi is the 15th-century Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer. The break isn't hidden. It's illuminated. The crack becomes part of the object's history — a feature, not a flaw — traced in something more precious than the original.
People come to us carrying things. Losses. Transitions. Milestones. Anniversaries of moments they're still piecing back together. The light passes through wood that bears its own marks — knots, grain, places the laser caught differently than the next pass would have.
We don't smooth over the cracks. We let them glow. The repair is the point. What you've been through is part of what you carry — and the work honors that, instead of pretending otherwise.
How they live together
Kaizen tells us how to make. Kintsugi tells us why it matters.
Kaizen is the workshop discipline — the daily refinement, the iteration, the stubborn practice of getting incrementally better. It's what the hands do. Kintsugi is the brand purpose — honoring what people are carrying when they come to us, letting the breakage be visible, treating the repair as sacred. It's why the hands bother.
Together they make one stance: we make better objects every day, so the people who receive them feel held in whatever they're going through. The craft and the meaning share one roof. We're not trying to be the best. We're trying to show up honestly and get slightly better — for the people still finding their way home.
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