For her graduation project, student Lutsia Kors set out to explore innovative ways to bridge the gap between children and the elderly in Hillesluis, a neighborhood in the south of Rotterdam. But instead of hitting the streets with surveys and consent forms, she did something different: she spent months immersed in the local playground association as a volunteer. What lessons can be learned from her ‘sensitive’ approach to community research?

Parks, squares, waterfronts, playgrounds—for Lutsia Kors, a well-designed public space isn’t just about beautiful architecture. It’s about creating places that invite interaction with the surroundings.

“I’ve always loved being outdoors—doing sports in nature, walking through the city,” she says. During her Industrial Design studies at Delft University of Technology, she became fascinated by a question: how can designers encourage people to spend more time outside? “And more importantly: how do you get people to enjoy outdoor spaces together, even if they don’t speak the same language or belong to the same age group?”

Playground Association Hillesluis

We meet Lutsia on a sunny spring day at the Hillesluis playground in South Rotterdam, where she’s been volunteering while also conducting her master’s research. It’s a green oasis in the neighborhood, with winding paths for pedal go-karts, towering trees, creative playground furniture, and a community center where kids do crafts, residents attend workshops, and various activities take place.

Our conversation is occasionally interrupted: an eight-year-old girl runs up to Lutsia (“Wanna play tag?”), the playground manager stops by for a chat (“How’s it going, Luuts?”), and a fellow volunteer excitedly points to a play structure Lutsia designed (“The kids can’t stop spinning that thing!”).

The thing he’s talking about is a wooden play rack with colorful rotating blocks. For the elderly residents living around the playground, Lutsia created a matching flower vase to place in their windows, filled with artificial flowers in the same colors as the play blocks. “Each color represents a movement, like jumping or clapping,” she explains. “Kids can mix and match the blocks outside, and older adults can arrange their flowers inside. It becomes a kind of coded language.”

“If kids see a vase in the window with a blue, red, and orange flower, they can do the matching movements on the play structure. They turn it into a little dance—it’s wonderful to watch.”

The design

Lutsia’s design is the result of months of intensive fieldwork.
“I wanted to understand how young and old experience public space in the neighborhood—what they value, what their ideal outdoor environment looks like, and what gets in the way of connecting with others. Then I looked for common ground between these groups and used that as the basis for my design.”

Lutsia’s project, titled Bloom, was thoughtfully crafted with both age groups in mind. The playground encourages kids to move together, explore, and be creative, while older residents don’t need to participate actively—they can still engage from the comfort of their homes and feel part of the life unfolding outside their windows. “It doesn’t matter what language you speak—everyone can join in. That was really important to me, especially in Hillesluis, where so many different languages are spoken.”

Even the smallest design details—like the flower choices—were based on workshops she held with neighborhood residents. “That’s how I found out which flowers residents liked, but also practical things, like the fact that not everyone has a windowsill. So I designed the vase to also be attachable to the window using a special adhesive strip.”

Becoming part of the community

Instead of conducting traditional neighborhood research, Lutsia volunteered at the playground association.
“For designers and researchers, the knowledge residents hold is incredibly valuable. Usually, they try to extract that knowledge with surveys and consent forms. But it can work the other way around: you can join the community, instead of asking the community to join you.”

The playground was the perfect place for this. “It’s really the heart of the neighborhood,” Lutsia says. “Of course, there are a lot of kids, and they bring their parents and grandparents. But there are also events for other residents, like a weekly morning walk for older adults through South Rotterdam, organized from the playground.”

She spoke to many children and elderly residents. “I didn’t want to just ask thema set of questions—I wanted to really hear their stories. Build relationships. Find a shared language. And most of all, I wanted to give something back to the community, not just swoop in to collect data and leave.” Instead of using the formal consent form provided by her university, Lutsia created illustrated cards to explain her research: what she was asking for—permission to take photos, ask questions, use information—and what the local residents she spoke with could expect from her.

Lessons for researchers

Lutsia recently graduated with her project on ‘sensitive’ research in Hillesluis, and soon after, traveled to Lisbon to present her findings at an international conference. But what exactly is sensitive research, and what can scientists and designers learn from this approach?

“To me, sensitive research means truly listening, making connections, and giving back,” she says. “As a researcher, you can spend hours reading papers, writing reports, and scheduling interviews—or you can spend that time volunteering.”

Another crucial takeaway: language matters. “At university, we’re taught a specific academic vocabulary. But I found that this institutional language doesn’t always translate to real-life conversations in neighborhoods like Hillesluis.”
She created a glossary for fellow researchers, offering alternatives to common academic terms. “I don’t use words like ‘impoverished neighborhood,’ ‘data collection,’ or ‘participants.’ I prefer to say ‘neighborhood,’ ‘story gathering,’ and ‘local experts.’ That way, language becomes a bridge, not a barrier.”