Week one
A little about me
I thought everyone grew up in a home like I did. My mother was a painter and sculptor. My father had a hobby of making ceramics and built-in furniture. My sister did weaving and mandalas, and my brother made ceramic bowls. I contributed paintings, ceramics, and built-in furniture. Our house was filled with the things we made or the things friends of the family had made. Wasn’t everybody's? Our home buzzed and resonated, and we all took it for granted.
When I became a designer, I had already been immersed in arts and crafts. I had a degree in Fine Arts and had completed an apprenticeship in carpentry and joinery. I worked as a carpenter in historical restoration in Sussex, England, and for an interior designer on a custom Malibu home, designing custom furniture and fixtures. Once I started my own design business, I began to see a paradox. My clients wanted my help, but they didn't honestly know what they wanted, and they were in design kindergarten. Over the years, I discovered I was not foremost a designer, I was a listener, a teacher, a mentor, a collaborator, and a co-creator. The more I let go of being a designer, the more I had to offer.
Initially, I had to be a disruptor. My client had expectations that I had to challenge. Why have something if it doesn’t nourish you? Why furnish your home with trends? Why copy your best friend or what some social media influencer promises will bring you contentment? Why support mass production in Asia? Don’t be a clone, a copycat. Don’t worry about what others may think. Why not find something that resonates, tells a story, generates a quality memory, and supports a craftsperson? Live with belongings that nourish every day. If they don’t nourish, then ask yourself why they are in your life.
The fantastic thing is that people fundamentally get it. Most of my clients are adept at identifying their favorite foods, the music that excites them, or their top ten movies, but ask them about their favorite design vernacular and they freeze. They know what they don’t know, that there isn’t a map but a journey. My role as a guide is to embark on a journey of exploration, widening the collective mind to new perceptions and meaningful possibilities.
Week Two
Opening Glimpse
Nourishing Home: The Personal Language of Our Spaces is a departure from a traditional how-to design guide. It's a collection of conversational essays that function as a philosophical and practical guide to creating a home that is deeply personal, meaningful, and nourishing.
Foundational Philosophy
The book begins with my personal story—a childhood immersed in arts and crafts—which sets the stage for a design philosophy rooted in creativity, intention, and a rejection of conformity. I challenge the reader to question trends and the mass-produced, arguing instead for a home filled with objects that resonate, tell a story, and support the artist-craftsperson. I position myself not as a designer who dictates style but as a guide, mentor, and collaborator, helping clients embark on a journey of self-discovery. I want to inspire the reader to fashion their own design vernacular, uncovering and bringing to life hidden and inherent patterns rather than imposing a style.
Core Principles
Embracing Imperfection and Impermanence: Drawing from Japanese aesthetics like wabi-sabi and Kintsugi, I celebrate the beauty of wear, age, and a handcrafted "signature," which contrasts with the sterile, unattainable perfection often promoted by modern media. I search for ways to support local artisans and craftspeople, drawing inspiration from crafts from around the world. In particular, the British Pre-Raphaelites consciously opposed the mass production of the Industrial Revolution, which eroded the dignity of the craftsperson.
The Value of Time: I advocate for "lingering" and being present in the design process. This suggests prioritizing the emerging vision and trusting that thoughtful, unhurried decisions lead to more satisfying and meaningful outcomes.
Week Three
Practical Application
While not a strict how-to guide, the book provides concrete examples and actionable advice that illustrate my philosophy:
The Kitchen Deep Dive: I use the kitchen as a case study, walking the reader through intentional choices for cabinets, countertops, lighting, and hardware. Each section, titled with "Tales, Tips, and Tidbits," blends practical advice with inspiring anecdotes, such as finding salvaged wood or commissioning a custom tile backsplash.
Connecting with Objects: I encourage readers to become "the expert inside" by listening to what their belongings—from a collection of tea bowls to a beloved quilt—have to say. I provide exercises like the "Haiku Challenge" and the "Evolving Canvas" to help readers uncover their own personal vision.
Sourcing and Community: I make a strong case for supporting local craftspeople and avoiding big-box stores, arguing that buying locally nourishes both your home and your community. The "Etruscan" hardware story is a perfect example of how deep knowledge leads to unique discoveries.
In essence, this book is about moving beyond decorating to a form of living art, where every choice, from the wall finish to a single flower arrangement, contributes to a home that is an authentic and ever-evolving reflection of the life lived within it.
Week Four
Naming the Book
I had two title choices for this book: “Nourishing Home” and “A Language of Patterns”.
Nourishing Home implies something of the heart, relatable, empathetic, benefit-driven, and an approach that reciprocates. Some readers may prefer the notion of a Nourishing Home, emphasizing the well-being benefits of a home that is restorative and supports their lives.
A Language of Patterns implies a more philosophical perspective that provides a framework for personal connection and meaning, suggesting a journey of discovery and learning. Some readers may find value in a Language of Patterns, seeking a deeper dive into the benefits of living with intention.
Both title options emphasize the significance of meaning that moves beyond superficial trends. Both speak to a desire for a home that truly matters.
Eventually, I chose "Nourishing Home / The Personal Language of Our Spaces" because it conveys the heart of the book, and it sets a clear expectation of warmth, comfort, and personal connection.
Week Five
The Dunce’s Hat: A Story of a Small Boy
I was in first grade in a Northern English town, Durham. The teacher gave us a modeling clay assignment. Even though I was fully absorbed and enjoying my experimenting, apparently I didn't follow the instructions. She was upset with me. My punishment was to stand in the corner of the room, facing the wall, with a dunce hat, a witch's hat with the letter D on it. The teacher wasn't inquisitive about what I was doing. The lesson for me then was that I was okay, and the teacher was wrong. The lesson for me now is not to be like that teacher. The big picture lesson is that we're unable to see what's in front of us if we're looking for something else. That thing in front of us could be an idea waiting to be welcomed in.
Week Six
Embracing Imperfection
My first paid carpenter's work was in the beautiful West Sussex village of Amberley. Canvas tool bag in hand, the 17th-century East Street farmhouse was a five-minute walk past thatched homes with flintstone garden walls. There isn't a straight line in a 17th-century farmhouse building. The ceiling rafters were large oak tree branches, split and adzed. "Crooked" would be an understated description for these rafters. In our restoration work, we had to adapt to the situation and work with the imperfections. The nature of the work required it. The only power tool I used was a drill; none of the stationary power tools would have been of use on such a restoration. This work gives respect to the original builders who used local resources and basic hand tools.
One resource worth mentioning is thatch. Even though E. Street Farm has red clay tile roofs, most of the dwellings in the village have thatch roofs. The thatch grows as reeds in the wetlands around the village. It grows to about six feet tall and is harvested in the dead of winter when the oils in the thatch are at their thickest. A thatched roof typically lasts for approximately 80 years before needing to be replaced. The work on E. Street Farm felt like a privilege; the love and care of the restoration mixed with admiration for the old craftspeople—their toughness, resilience, resourcefulness, and ingenuity.
Week Seven
At the beginning
When I meet with a potential client, I let them know we are in a two-way interview process. Will we be able to work together? I tell them something that might at first glance sound abrupt, but it is invariably true. I tell them that they are in a design school (maybe even kindergarten), starting at the beginning, unless they know otherwise. My role is to help them graduate on their terms so that they can tell the whole story: the background, the obstacles, the inspirations, and the outcomes. I help them learn the language of their process. I am a combination of a “design as a second language” teacher and an outdoor guide, facilitating storytelling and highlighting the things to be seen along the way. A story of seeing, sensing, and feeling. Does this feel right?
One of the first challenges is crafting a common language for our journey together. Sometimes, I gift them a book or two that may open doors. My current favorites are Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren and The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer. They are both short reads, delightful and insightful, generous and purposeful.
People from economically wealthy countries, in general, are familiar with international food. A ten-year-old or their parents can describe the differences between the cuisines of numerous countries. The same familiarity might apply to popular music or movies; yet, when inquiring into their familiarity with design vernaculars, architectural periods, interior design influences, or art movements, they may draw a blank. The goal is not to become a scholar. It aims to develop an awareness of nuances and differences, as well as their impact on the whole. It’s the Pizza language metaphor. Pizza is a simple food that can be topped with a wide variety of ingredients. Do you want a simple pizza, like cheese and tomatoes that expresses subtleties, or a complex, layered variety that may require experimentation and resourcefulness? Apply this thought process to your home. Think of everything in the house as toppings. Conversely, the toppings can come first, like building a house around an art collection. Metaphors are patterns. Metaphors open doors.
If you had never listened to rock and roll before, and I played you a Rolling Stones song, would you consider it good rock and roll? Likewise with an Indian curry. Without context and experience, we have no reference points to guide us. I like food and music metaphors because most people can access the pattern.
Week Eight
You are not wasting time
Learn to Linger, Something's Gonna Come Your Way.
Recently, a client, whose project was completed a few years ago, told me something I hadn't known. She shared that her new house project took priority over her work when decisions had to be made. That meant she could be present in the emerging process, alive to what was happening. Looking back, she was incredibly present, which made my role more alive. This illustrates something very important: it's about taking the time to linger. It's like sitting on a bench in a market town in Italy, smelling the roses, playing skip pebble and watching the ripples, like being a child again—experimenting, experiencing, and learning.
Time has become the enemy. "I don't have enough time." "It's a waste of time." We are under self-inflicted pressure from a boss that no one wants to have.
Otis Redding wrote a song called "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay," in which he talks about wasting time. He said “nothing was gonna to come his way.” I don't think he was wasting his time; I think he was gathering his thoughts on the waves, getting in touch with his feelings, and making sense of things.
If you meet a "friend" in the local grocery store who says, "I can't chat now, I have something else going on," what that often means is that they have something more important than talking to you. That may be true or not, but it doesn't feel good. I have a rule in my office: if a friend drops in unannounced, unless I'm on a short deadline, I will give that friend priority. After all, what is a friend for?
Taking time to linger is an integral part of my design process. I ruminate with an idea, I visualize, I make changes in my mind, and watch things sort themselves out and come alive. Sometimes things appear to come in a flash, but that flash may be something that was waiting to happen. It's a messy process. Cooking is a messy process. We don't judge a pie before it goes into the oven. When it comes out of the oven, we first assess it by its appearance, but the real test is in the taste.