Hello
My name is Gustas Gudzevicius and I am a New York City based Designer.
I hold a Bachelor of Science from the University of Illinois Chicago. Born in Kaunas, Lithuania and raised in the United States, I hold a background where my life has been split between two cultures.
My background helps me understand not only the market and culture, but the diverse perspectives of the people who navigate them. I tend to look at the world through a lens of cultural translation: constantly searching for the intersections where analytical strategy, human behavior, and creative expression meet.
To me, storytelling bridges the gap between cold data and human experience. Whether I am dissecting a business model, writing an essay, or analyzing a trend, I look for the narrative. It is the thread that makes complex ideas click.
Design is the best way to deliver that narrative. My style is bold, direct, and in-your-face. It matches my work style: cut the unnecessary, get to the point, and let’s do it.
I love heavy typography, striking colors, and solid blocks because they command attention. But I should clarify that these choices aren't just aesthetic, but for function. Elements like typography, weight, and animation are tools to guide the reader, provoking an immediate feeling and telling a story before they even read a single word. Heavy fonts establish instant authority, stark blocks frame the narrative, and purposeful motion controls the pacing of how information is digested. Design for me, is always intentional.
How did you get into design?
Survival, mostly. As a first-gen kid, I was constantly translating tax forms, navigating the IRS website, hunting down bank statements, and helping my parents survive a complicated digital world. It felt deliberately hostile. I spent half my childhood wondering why everyday tools had to be so painful to use.
At the same time, I was obsessed with Apple and Helvetica. I used to literally trace their logo and fonts on scrap paper and drag my dad to the Apple store just to look at the hardware and soak in the quiet confidence of an interface that actually got out of your way. I loved how good design made me feel—little did I know that creating that feeling was an actual job. Good design isn’t decoration; it’s clarity, relief, and making complex things feel human. Once I realized you could build things that way, I never looked back.
At the same time, I was obsessed with Apple and Helvetica. I used to literally trace their logo and fonts on scrap paper and drag my dad to the Apple store just to look at the hardware and soak in the quiet confidence of an interface that actually got out of your way. I loved how good design made me feel—little did I know that creating that feeling was an actual job. Good design isn’t decoration; it’s clarity, relief, and making complex things feel human. Once I realized you could build things that way, I never looked back.
Did you always know you wanted to study marketing and strategy?
Definitely not. Being first-gen meant I was completely flying blind at the end of high school. Everyone else seemed to have this grand master plan for college applications, and I was just looking around like, wait, we were supposed to know how to do all of this?
I originally studied urban planning at UIC. I loved the urban design aspect of it, but looking down the barrel of that specific career path, my gut told me it wasn't the right fit. I pivoted to marketing, and looking back, it made perfect sense. I was that weirdly observant 12-year-old who treated Starbucks tweaking their cup logo like a major pop culture event, and I used to obsess over H&M ad campaigns.
I originally studied urban planning at UIC. I loved the urban design aspect of it, but looking down the barrel of that specific career path, my gut told me it wasn't the right fit. I pivoted to marketing, and looking back, it made perfect sense. I was that weirdly observant 12-year-old who treated Starbucks tweaking their cup logo like a major pop culture event, and I used to obsess over H&M ad campaigns.
How does that business background change your creative work?
It grounds it. To get a business degree, you have to take courses across every single sector. I quickly figured out which parts of the corporate world were absolutely not for me, but more importantly, I saw how interconnected the whole machine is.
After graduating, I spent time working in sales development. Being on the front lines of sales taught me something crucial: the small stuff heavily dictates the bottom line. You can have a great product, but if the presentation is off, if the design feels cold, or if the branding is disjointed, it simply will not sell. Every little design choice evokes an emotion. That’s the space I want to live in—where bold creative direction actually drives the business forward.
After graduating, I spent time working in sales development. Being on the front lines of sales taught me something crucial: the small stuff heavily dictates the bottom line. You can have a great product, but if the presentation is off, if the design feels cold, or if the branding is disjointed, it simply will not sell. Every little design choice evokes an emotion. That’s the space I want to live in—where bold creative direction actually drives the business forward.
You mention storytelling a lot. Where does that come from?
I’ve always known how to hold an audience. Back on the playground, I was known as the "drama king"—not because I started fights, but because I was obsessed with human interaction. I loved spinning up a narrative and watching people react to it.
By my teenage years, that evolved into a massive obsession with YouTube "story times"—that specific era of the internet where creators would sit in their bedrooms and turn a mundane trip to the grocery store into a gripping, 20-minute saga. I was glued to the screen, but honestly, I was mostly jealous. I knew I had that exact same instinct. I understood how to build a hook, pace a narrative, and make people care. But try looking your first-gen immigrant parents in the eye and telling them your career plan is "YouTuber."
I had to figure out how to translate that instinct. Today, I use the exact same muscles I used on the playground. A beautiful interface or a clever product is completely useless if there isn't a compelling narrative driving it. If you want people to buy into a brand, you have to guide their perception and make them feel something.
By my teenage years, that evolved into a massive obsession with YouTube "story times"—that specific era of the internet where creators would sit in their bedrooms and turn a mundane trip to the grocery store into a gripping, 20-minute saga. I was glued to the screen, but honestly, I was mostly jealous. I knew I had that exact same instinct. I understood how to build a hook, pace a narrative, and make people care. But try looking your first-gen immigrant parents in the eye and telling them your career plan is "YouTuber."
I had to figure out how to translate that instinct. Today, I use the exact same muscles I used on the playground. A beautiful interface or a clever product is completely useless if there isn't a compelling narrative driving it. If you want people to buy into a brand, you have to guide their perception and make them feel something.
Why does design matter if most people don't even notice it?
Because the people who don't actively look at design are the ones most affected by it.
When I was 18, I had to pick my own health insurance. It was a harsh reminder that cold, corporate design makes already intimidating things completely unapproachable. Then I stumbled across Oscar Health. They used informal, slightly overexposed photography and spoke in a friendly, conversational tone. For the first time on a healthcare site, I actually felt safe and understood. It proved to me that good design is basically good hospitality.
A well-designed product just functions better. For me, that need for universal understanding is ingrained. I grew up between two worlds—Lithuania and the US—and now I live in NYC, where all the worlds gather. When you build something, you have to understand that anyone might interact with it. It is your responsibility to make sure it translates.
When I was 18, I had to pick my own health insurance. It was a harsh reminder that cold, corporate design makes already intimidating things completely unapproachable. Then I stumbled across Oscar Health. They used informal, slightly overexposed photography and spoke in a friendly, conversational tone. For the first time on a healthcare site, I actually felt safe and understood. It proved to me that good design is basically good hospitality.
A well-designed product just functions better. For me, that need for universal understanding is ingrained. I grew up between two worlds—Lithuania and the US—and now I live in NYC, where all the worlds gather. When you build something, you have to understand that anyone might interact with it. It is your responsibility to make sure it translates.
What is your natural instinct when something doesn't work?
To figure out how to bypass the roadblock. I actually got in trouble in middle school for this. Our public school got a technology grant and handed out MacBooks, but they disabled iMessage. For my teenage self, this was unacceptable. I dug around and figured out that if you grabbed the application files, dropped them in a new folder, changed the name, and tacked
.app onto the end, macOS would compile an identical, fully functioning application that completely bypassed the school's admin restrictions. It was my first real lesson in user experience: if the system is blocking you, rebuild it so it works.
Does that DIY mindset carry over into the professional world?
Absolutely. On the very first day of my first office job, my Microsoft account bugged out, locking me out of the apps I needed to actually do my job. I flagged it to my boss, but I hate sitting around waiting for things to be fixed. I noticed a string of text buried at the bottom of the error message, pulled the exact error code, tracked it down in Microsoft’s IT documentation, and went into my own account settings to manually resolve the issue.
By the time my boss messaged me back saying she had just submitted an IT ticket, I told her she could cancel it because I was already in. She replied, "omg whatttt," and ended up bragging about it to her boss. If a system is broken, I naturally want to figure out how to fix it myself.
By the time my boss messaged me back saying she had just submitted an IT ticket, I told her she could cancel it because I was already in. She replied, "omg whatttt," and ended up bragging about it to her boss. If a system is broken, I naturally want to figure out how to fix it myself.
How do you know what tone a project needs?
I treat design exactly how I treat conversation: it’s all about reading the room. I remember talking to executives at a career fair and realizing my biggest strength is sensing the vibe and adapting my communication. If someone is strictly business and wants to be efficient, you don't give them a ten-minute preamble—you match their energy and get straight to the point.
Design works the exact same way. There’s a time and a place for everything. A government tax document shouldn’t be "aesthetic" with playful doodles on it; it needs to be serious and trustworthy. But "corporate" doesn’t have to mean painful. You can take a strictly professional, traditional project and still apply all the core principles of great design—clarity, hierarchy, usability—just in a different tone. It’s about being a chameleon and adapting to what the user actually needs in that moment.
Design works the exact same way. There’s a time and a place for everything. A government tax document shouldn’t be "aesthetic" with playful doodles on it; it needs to be serious and trustworthy. But "corporate" doesn’t have to mean painful. You can take a strictly professional, traditional project and still apply all the core principles of great design—clarity, hierarchy, usability—just in a different tone. It’s about being a chameleon and adapting to what the user actually needs in that moment.