Greenlight Concepts turns old traffic lights into retro-cool lamps. By Lorraine Sanders

FOR SOMEONE WHO'D just labored for months on a collapsible desk designed to fold, like origami, into a fraction of its size, making lamps from discarded streetlight lenses seemed about as difficult as changing a lightbulb.

The idea came to architectural designer Daniel Krivens in June 2002 as he crossed the intersection of Grant and Sutter, where workmen were replacing walk-don't walk signals. Those could make something interesting, he thought. Upon investigation, Krivens learned that, in addition to crosswalk signals, cities across the country were discarding glass stoplight lenses as they replaced traditional traffic lightbulbs for less expensive, energy-efficient LED lights. Krivens wondered why no one had tried recycling the hundreds of thousands of traffic-light lenses being thrown out around the country.

He soon discovered that the glass traditionally used to make traffic-light lenses is unlike regular glass and cannot be recycled easily. Almost immediately, Krivens thought about turning the lenses into lamps. "It was so profoundly interesting to me that people were tossing out this thing that was fundamentally beautiful. I thought my challenge was to find a way to bring its beauty back and have a purpose as strong as its first one," he says. The challenge would eventually grow into a business venture, Greenlight Concepts (415-702-5655, www.greenlightconcepts.com, email).

With help from his business partner and fellow designer Nicholas Lee, Krivens pursued the project outside of his full-time job. Both hoped that the product would have special appeal for city dwellers. Not only was Krivens recycling material that would otherwise have cluttered warehouses and landfills, he was playing with an artifact of urban life, a mundane fixture whose impending extinction lends it a touch of retro cool.

Due to their pendant design, the transformed city remnants, which emit soft red, green, or amber hues, are particularly well suited to hang above bar or restaurant counters. The ambient glow produced by their 35-watt halogen bulbs casts a strictly atmospheric light. Reading near one might lead to eye strain, but sipping cocktails? Perfect.

Now on the market, lamps ($240-275) are available in 8- or 12-inch disks and come with ceiling mounting kits. When customers call to order (soon they'll be able to make purchases online), Krivens and Lee can assemble one in about half an hour and ship it the next day.

The process is a cinch now, but it took three years and 40 prototypes to get there. Finding and buying abandoned traffic-light lenses meant navigating convoluted city bureaucracies and cluttered warehouses. As it turned out, San Francisco actually continues to use the glass lenses. Krivens had to look elsewhere and located his first batch in Seattle. More recent searches have landed him in bizarre situations. Last spring, for example, Krivens found himself in a remote, industrial part of Los Angeles carrying $1,000 in cash to buy piles of dusty lenses from a hulking supplier who pulled up to the lot in an ominous-looking black Escalade.

Getting the lenses was only the beginning. Finding a lightbulb that would not reproduce the characteristic glare of a stoplight was another challenge. After trying numerous options, they settled on a small halogen bulb that created the diffuse glow they wanted. But the bulb brought more problems. Halogen bulbs are highly flammable, so the lamps required extensive testing before they could be sold. "Everything about it had to be fire tested, like a kid can hang from it for two days," Krivens says jokingly.

After three years of hunting for parts, and prototype trial and error, the lamps were finally ready for sale. What had been a multiyear creative effort on the part of two architects turned into a full-fledged business when they hired David King to handle their online and business operations this past spring.

Ever the creative sort, Krivens would rather leave what he calls "the brains" to King while he deals with the aesthetics. "I just want to make stuff and make it look good," he says.

In that department, it seems there's little Krivens can't do. Except one thing: satisfy requests for colors other than red, yellow, and green.

One customer's request for clear lenses still amuses him. "Clear?" he asks, his eyes growing big as traffic lights.