I am very new to AI. I would call myself a dinosaur in this world, and I imagine this is what it must have felt like for our grandparents when the personal computer arrived. That said, I fully acknowledge and recognise the importance of AI. The world is changing, and we need to keep up and learn it, otherwise, we fall behind. I came to it late. At first I found it unreliable and inconsistent. In the time I spent trying to get the right image out of it, I could have drawn it myself. That changed recently, on a project where it proved useful.

We were working on a kitchen design, and in the presentation the client asked to see colour on the family room media wall and a more intense marble. I didn't think it was the right direction, and I didn't like it. Even so, you have to test these things and show them to the client. Either they stay set in their ways and like what they like, or it becomes part of a conversation, and you can clearly show why you don't think it works. Both outcomes are useful. What doesn't help is a client left wondering about the option they never saw.

Modelling takes time. Every change to a 3dsMax scene means adjusting materials and rendering again, which can be hours of work for something the client may look at for a few seconds – for them to understand it wasn't the right call. That one meeting produced several requests for small tweaks. It was my first real use of AI. We took the one image we had modelled in 3dsMax and worked on parts of the room design. For example, changing the media wall from wood to paint, dropping in an image of an alternative marble to see how it looked. Here it was incredibly helpful and saved us a lot of time. We ended up showing six more options, all variations of the palette. We could show the client exactly what they had asked for, and it opened a conversation about what was working and what wasn't. In the end, it let them make an informed decision. As creatives, we can picture how something will look in our heads. That isn't always the case for a client. Many need to see the image in front of them before they understand it, and there is nothing wrong with that. It is our job to close that gap. In this instance, AI was a quick way to do it. But when does it become information overload?

Recently, a client told me he didn't want to see lots of options because he trusted my judgment. He called it decision fatigue. He wanted us to work through the design decisions ourselves and put forward what we believe is our best design. That is how I have always worked. We workshop in the background, designing, developing, and testing, and then present our best design to the client. That doesn't mean it's the final design. It's very rare to hit the nail on the head the first time. There are rounds of revisions. Ideas come from the architect or the client. We get a better understanding of how they will use the space, and they often only see how they will live in a room once they see the visual. Things change, and ideas develop. That is a normal part of how we work. The difference is that each of those revisions had a reason behind it. It answered something we had learned about the client, the architecture, or the way the home will be lived in. Is it now becoming normal to present several versions simply because AI makes it easy?

I am always conscious of giving clients too many options and confusing them. There is also the question of cohesion. A home isn't a set of separate rooms. It should read as one story from the front door onwards. Say you start with one design style for the entrance hall, then present the primary bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room with three different styles for each. How do we keep things consistent as we move through the house? Who's to say the options work together? Three options for each of four rooms isn't twelve choices. It's eighty-one possible houses, and most of them we would never design. Don't get me wrong, I find AI incredibly helpful. Is it perfect? No. Is there room for it to improve? Yes. Maybe part of the problem is how I'm using it. But I still worry about consistency and reliability. The same request doesn't always give the same result, and small details can change when you didn't ask for them. I love to draw in 2D first to understand proportion and layout, working through the plan alongside each elevation of the room. Drawing is how I think. The plan tells me whether there is room to move around an island. The elevation tells me whether the joinery lines up with the window head, and whether a door clears the cabinetry beside it. AI can and does create beautiful images, but my worry is this – where do we draw the line for checking proportions and making sure a design can actually be built? An image can show stone spanning a distance no slab could, or joinery that ignores the wall behind it. A client can fall in love with a picture that can't be made, and then the conversation is about disappointment rather than design.

So how do we know when to stop? This is my initial blueprint:

1. Design first, generate second. The plan and elevations come first. AI comes after them and never replaces them.
2. Use it to answer a question. It earns its place when a client asks 'what if?' and needs to see the answer. It shouldn't be used to fill a presentation.
3. Edit before you present. We still workshop in the background. Options made with AI go through the same filter as everything else, and only the ones we would stand behind reach the client.
4. Keep the whole house in view. Any change to one room is checked against the rooms around it before anyone sees it.
5. Check it against the drawings. Once an image is approved, it goes back into the drawings and the model so we can prove it can be built.
6. Know your client. Some need to see every alternative. Others would rather trust us. Part of our job is telling the two apart.

AI hasn't changed what clients come to us for, which is judgment. It has made options cheap, and that makes editing more valuable. For me, the time to stop is when one more option would no longer help the client decide and would only delay the decision.

Interior designer Katie Harbison is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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I’m perfectly happy to make a room smaller when it means the home will work better. A spacious bedroom is lovely, but when there’s nowhere to put your clothes, I’m going to look at whether some of that space could become a closet. The same goes for a large living area in a house where guests have to use someone’s private bathroom.

I also flip homes and buy and sell properties, so I look at floor plans with both everyday living and resale in mind. Sometimes an additional bedroom is worth more to the home than an oversized den. Other times, the best change is simply giving the laundry, groceries, or coats somewhere to go. Here are six changes I’d look at before assuming you need an addition.

1. Carve Out a Powder Room

A powder room is one of the first things I’d look for an opportunity to add, especially in a home where the only bathrooms are attached to bedrooms. There may be space in an oversized laundry room, a storage area, or a portion of a larger room. You don’t need a huge footprint to make it useful. For me, the entrance is just as important as finding the space. I don’t want the door opening directly toward the dining table or putting the toilet in view from the living room. I’d work through the plumbing and layout early, then find a location that guests can easily access while still having some privacy.

2. Add a Closet Where There Wasn’t One

A bedroom can have plenty of floor space and still be frustrating to live in when the bedroom storage is inadequate. Adding a closet means taking some space from the room, but it can also free you from needing several dressers or an oversized wardrobe. I’d look at an unused corner, a blank wall, or space that could be borrowed from an adjoining area. Before deciding on the size, I’d plan what actually needs to fit inside. Hanging clothes, shoes, and folded items all need different amounts of space. Then I’d lay out the bedroom with the new closet in place. I still want room to move comfortably around the bed and open every drawer and door.

3. Turn an Underused Space Into a Bedroom

Because I also flip homes, I’m always looking at whether the existing layout is making the best use of the property. Sometimes a den or oversized bonus room could become an additional bedroom, and that can make a meaningful difference to resale value. It may also make the house more useful for a growing family or someone who regularly hosts guests. But I wouldn’t add a bedroom just to increase the count. I’d want it to have privacy, a practical entrance, enough room for furniture, and to meet the requirements for a legal bedroom. I’d also look at what we’re giving up. A home still needs comfortable shared spaces, and the conversion should make the overall layout better.

4. Give the Primary Bedroom a Better Bathroom or Closet

Some primary bedrooms have a lot of empty space, while the bathroom and closet feel squeezed in. In that situation, I’d happily make the bedroom a little smaller. Once there’s enough room for the bed, nightstands, and any seating you’ll actually use, I start asking whether the remaining space would be more useful elsewhere. I’d look at the whole suite together. Could shifting a wall give the bathroom a better layout? Could the closet become easier to access and organize? I want those changes to improve your daily routine while leaving the bedroom comfortable. A larger bathroom isn’t automatically better either, so I’d work out the furniture, fixtures, and storage before moving any walls.

5. Create a Small Entrance Vestibule

I love a little separation at an entrance. At the front door, a vestibule can give you a place for coats, shoes, and keys before you step into the main living space. At a bedroom entrance, it can provide privacy so opening the door doesn’t immediately reveal the bed. This doesn’t have to become a long hallway that takes up valuable space. Sometimes a short entry with room for a console or built-in storage is enough. I’d pay close attention to the door swing and the view into the room. That small adjustment can make entering the space feel much more comfortable.

6. Make Room for a Pantry or Utility Cupboard

Storage for everyday necessities is easy to overlook when you’re focused on the more exciting parts of a renovation. But groceries, cleaning supplies, the vacuum, and spare linens all need somewhere to live. I’d look at whether a little space from a generous kitchen, laundry room, or adjoining area could become a pantry or utility cupboard. I always want to know what’s going inside before designing it. Deep shelves can be awkward for groceries, and a cupboard won’t help much if the vacuum doesn’t fit. The location matters too. Keep pantry storage near the kitchen and everyday cleaning supplies somewhere easy to reach. Done well, a relatively small cupboard can solve a problem that affects several rooms. Before you plan an addition, take a fresh look at the space you already have. Is there a room you barely use? A bedroom with plenty of floor space but very little storage? These are the opportunities I look for when I’m reviewing a floor plan.

Designing homes and flipping properties has taught me to question how that space is being used. Sometimes I’ll see an opportunity to add a bedroom that could improve resale value. Other times, I’ll see a chance to finally give guests their own bathroom. I’m happy to make a room smaller when the change makes everyday life in the home better.

Interior designer Nina Takesh is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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Every designer gets better with experience. Over the years, you build up a collection of hard-earned lessons and little tricks that make each new project stronger. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is how much the right antique can elevate a room. It brings centuries of craftsmanship and design knowledge into a scheme, and is one of the quickest ways to stop a space from feeling predictable.

Mix an antique with contemporary furnishings and a room can suddenly feel layered and collected. That contrast creates a little tension and an unexpected twist – the difference between a room that feels forgettable and one that feels timeless and full of character.

You don’t need a lot of antiques to make an impact. Even a beautiful antique Montparnasse frame around a modern abstract painting can add depth to an otherwise contemporary interior. I like to include at least two antiques in every room I design, where the client is happy to do so. In my own new home, where I have more freedom, I’m taking that balance further: I’m planning anything from four to 12 antiques per room.

Why Antiques Make a Room Feel More Timeless

The most timeless interiors rarely belong to just one style or era. Layering pieces of different ages and styles makes a scheme feel more sophisticated and personal. It also means the room is harder to place in a particular year – it hasn’t simply followed the trends of the moment, so it is less likely to date with them.

Antiques add character and patina that new pieces can’t replicate. They can also be a surprisingly good use of budget when you know where to look. The quality you can find for the price can be exceptional: solid wood, intricate carving, beautifully cast ironmongery, or a marble top worn soft with age. Reproducing that level of craftsmanship today can be difficult without a very generous budget.

What I Look for When Sourcing Antiques

I source many of my antiques online, through sites such as Selling Antiques, Etsy, eBay, and 1stDibs. I’m also in regular contact with dealers I’ve built relationships with over the years, and I love visiting fairs and antique shops in person. The Decorative Antiques & Textiles Fair and Petworth are favorites. Wherever I travel, I’ll usually try to pop into an antique shop – even if I tell myself I’m only going in for five minutes.

I tend to look for case goods rather than upholstered furniture. They are often more practical, while antique sofas and chairs can be expensive to restore and may need new springs or supports before they’re comfortable. I usually prefer to reupholster a piece of seating in a fabric that works with the scheme. Scale can be another challenge: some older furniture is simply too small for the way we live now. With desks and dressing tables in particular, I always check there is enough room for a modern chair and comfortable legroom.

My favorite pieces to buy are commodes and chests of drawers, especially those with marble tops. I’ve bought nine for our new house so far, which may be becoming a problem. When I’m choosing a piece, I look closely at the depth and beauty of the wood. It might be bleached antique oak, with its soft, brushed texture and medullary rays, or gently faded burr walnut. I’m drawn to surfaces with a natural patina that would be difficult to recreate with modern stains or veneers. I pay attention to the legs, too. For most pieces, I prefer a tapered leg or a simple plinth with bun feet to very elaborate carving. In general, I like a clean silhouette, and I have a particular fondness for George II furniture – a high point in British furniture making.

Should You Refinish an Antique?

I usually prefer to see a piece in its original wood finish rather than painted. I love bleached finishes, too, which can make an antique feel more contemporary. I’ve bought pieces that had already been refinished, and I’ve had others refinished by my French polisher. Antiques are there to be used and enjoyed, and a new finish can givean overlooked piece a fresh lease of life.

Of course, I wouldn’t alter a rare or important antique. But there are plenty of unloved pieces in antique markets and online that can be transformed. If you’re considering refinishing one, take advice on its age and value first, and make sure the finish suits the piece.

How to Mix Antiques with the Rest of Your Furniture

Start with the shape of the piece and how it will sit alongside what you already own. If the rest of your furniture is modern or mid-century, an ornate, gilt Louis XIV piece mightfeel out of place. Different eras can work beautifully together, but there should be some connecting thread – perhaps the shape, finish, material or tone.

I often use the wood tones to bring pieces together. In general, I prefer to keep warmer woods with other warm woods, and cooler woods with cooler ones. For example, I wouldn’t usually mix mahogany with bleached oak in the same room, although I might use both elsewhere in the house. It’s a useful starting point, rather than a strict rule: what matters is that the overall combination feels considered.

Buy What You Love, and Take Your Time

When you’re considering an antique, I think you should feel an immediate emotional response. Buy what you love, and you’re more likely to treasure it for years. Try not to treat antiquing as a shopping list of things you need to find under pressure. It should be a joyful process, and it’s best done over time. I’d rather leave a space empty until I find the right piece than rush into buying a placeholder I’ll want to replace.

And don’t feel intimidated. Buying antiques isn’t so different from buying new furniture: know the dimensions you need, take fabric and finish samples with you, and decide on your maximum budget before you start. Talk to dealers, visit museums, and give yourself time to train your eye. Before long, you’ll start to recognise the shapes, periods and finishes you’re drawn to.

Antiques bring craftsmanship, character and a sense of history to a home. Get out there and go antiquing: your rooms – and your design portfolio – will thank you for it.

Interior designer Sophie Paterson is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here. Explore the Sophie Paterson Academy to learn her complete design process, or join The Mood Board Community for ongoing inspiration, expert advice, and access to Sophie and the SPI team.

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For years, when people asked me to describe my design style, I would say 'warm modern.' It was accurate, but eventually I realized it wasn't really saying enough. It told you what my rooms looked like. It didn't tell you how I wanted you to feel when you walked into one.

And feeling is a very big part of how I design. I love minimalism.

I love clean lines, breathing room, thoughtful proportions, and the confidence of not putting something on a wall simply because there is a wall. But I don't want to live in a home where you're afraid to put down your coffee cup. And I certainly don't want my clients to. Somewhere between those two ideas, 'Soulful Minimalism' was born.

The 'minimalism' is really about intention. I want everything in a room to have a reason for being there. Furniture should be properly scaled so the room can breathe. Art should have enough space around it to be appreciated. Materials, lighting, furniture, and accessories should complement one another rather than all shouting, 'Look at me!' at the same time. My rooms are layered, but they're edited. There are places for your eye to stop and places for it to rest.

Then comes the 'soulful' part – and that's the person who lives there. A beautifully designed home should tell me something about you. I want to know what you collect, where you've traveled, how you entertain, what you do on Sunday mornings, and where your children actually drop their backpacks. And if you have a dog, let's be realistic: the dog is probably going to have some opinions about the furniture too.

I've always believed a home should look thoughtfully designed, not like someone simply went shopping. That distinction is important. You can fill a room with expensive things and still have it feel completely impersonal. Soul doesn't come with a price tag. It comes from making choices that reflect the people living there.

Over time, I realized this was the common thread running through all of my work. The homes themselves can look quite different because the people living in them are different. But they're all comfortable, warm, layered, intentional, and meant to be lived in. I think we need that feeling from our homes more than ever. Life outside is busy and noisy enough. Home should be the place where you can exhale.

So Soulful Minimalism was never about having less for the sake of having less. It's about removing what doesn't matter so there's more room for what does. Preferably with somewhere very comfortable to sit.

Interior designer Tina Ramchandani is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on design.

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I am passionate about creating homes that reflect the people who live in them and the places they inhabit. When I think about this, I often find myself returning to the homes created and curated by Marella Agnelli.

My delight in researching the life and incredible homes of Marella Agnelli goes back some 25 years, when I was a student studying in Rome. However, it was a recent opportunity to spend an afternoon with her absolutely gracious niece, Marella Caracciolo Chia (who co-authored Agnelli’s memoir, Marella Agnelli: The Last Swan, available on Amazon), and tour Caracciolo Chia’s apartment that cemented my lifelong fondness for Agnelli and her extraordinary approach to design.

Born to an American mother and Italian father, Marella married Fiat heir Gianni Agnelli at age 26. She was quite candid about not having a clue how to decorate or run the homes she inherited at an early age, but over the course of her life she threw herself passionately into the role of decorator, gardener, and patron of the arts.

Of course, most of us are not collecting grand estates or building extraordinary art collections on the scale of the Agnellis. But there are so many wonderful lessons from Marella about how to create a home that feels personal, layered and alive.

First and foremost, a home should feel collected. Agnelli was an absolute genius at the 'mix'. What is boring is when everything in a room feels predictable or too perfectly coordinated. Experiment with what speaks to you. You might have a room of contemporary pieces and try an accent of an antique that has meaning to you, reminds you of a trip, or was passed down in your family. Conversely, a more traditional room might come alive with an unexpected contemporary piece, such as a modern side table. The goal isn't to match everything. It is to create a dialogue between things you love.

Don't be afraid to have a point of view. It took time but Marella studied homes and gardens and was not afraid to take her homes into their next chapter. She honored the past but wasn’t afraid to strip away certain details so the rooms and gardens could evolve with her family’s needs and what felt al corrente.

Rooms should be about creating an atmosphere, a beautiful background for life to take place in. Admittedly, there are beautiful rooms that photograph exquisitely but are highly unlivable or feel lifeless when you experience them. What I, as a designer, am interested in is helping people to live well. Beautiful spaces that are the stage for life. One of Marella’s tricks was to add bits to rooms that reminded her guests and her family to feel comfortable. She loved to use wicker throughout her homes – even in her formal city apartments! I think this was partially a nod to her love of gardens, but also really spoke to her not wanting to take things too seriously and be too stodgy.

Life is not stagnant, nor should homes be. The Agnellis bought different historic and contemporary properties throughout their lives. They wanted to be at the center of the bustle in Turin, then sought privacy outside the city as their profile grew. They wanted to remain connected to Rome, and later became increasingly interested in the creative energy of the United States, taking an apartment in New York.

Their homes evolved with them. They experimented with different architectural styles, championed young artists, and stayed engaged with the creative conversations of their time. The black leather coverlet in the bedroom of their Roman apartment must have been a shock when it was proposed, and admittedly, it’s not my favorite element of the space, but it shows that she was always experimenting. They understood that different chapters of life – and different architectural settings – call for different things. They were open to what artists were expressing as the world changed through the 1950s, '60s and '70s, and they allowed their collections and interiors to evolve alongside them.

We can all take a lesson from that. Take something out of a room. Rearrange your furniture. Move a piece of art. Try something unexpected. You may be surprised by the fresh energy it brings. I often came home from school as a girl, and my mom had rearranged a room. I grew to understand that it helped her clear her mind and not get too stuck in the past or a certain idea.

Humans have an innate desire to connect with nature. Biophilic design is an architectural and interior design approach that integrates nature into built spaces to improve human health and well-being. Thankfully, there is a lot more emphasis on the importance of biophilia in interior design and architecture today. Agnelli, however, was ahead of her time in opening spaces to connect with her gardens, to embrace outdoor living, and to bring all sorts of plants and flowers – humble and grand – into her spaces. She looked for ways to open up her homes to the outside. She felt the garden was the most important room of the house and seemed to understand how gardens renewed and sustained her. She was constantly incorporating indoor plants (again, usually in humble little wicker baskets) into her rooms.

Ok, yes, she had a sensational budget, but she captured so many of my guiding principles of design. Being open to emerging artists, mix humble and ultra-luxe. Chicness is having your own point of view. Less is more. Be unexpected. There is always a bit of wicker. Live with the seasons, live well. The garden is my favorite room. Your room should be an expression of you. She reminds us that everyday small rituals can feel luxurious – don’t forget candlelight, music, and fresh flowers.

As I reflected on Marella's life, I was reminded of another book I read this summer: Arthur Brooks’ Build the Life You Really Want (available on Amazon). I was fascinated by his studies of happiness. He states that two of the macronutrients of happiness are finding enjoyment in life and finding purpose in your life. While Marella was greatly privileged, she had her fair share of adversity, heartbreak, and grief. I do love the idea that art and design can be of great comfort and enjoyment. I know this is true for myself, my mother, and my grandmother. You can see through her memoir that she created enjoyment and found a sense of purpose in her life through the decorative arts. Her purpose in life was to be a steward of great architecture, to foster and promote the work of artists and artisans. This, however, can be expressed through tending to a windowbox-sized garden, going to a museum and experiencing the work of an artist, sewing a pillow from a textile you found on holiday, scouring a flea market for a set of wine glasses you use for book club; the possibilities are endless. In times of uncertainty and even grief, diving into a new project and finding beauty in the world can help keep us putting one foot in front of the other.

Interior designer Lindsay Anyon Brier is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on design.

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After a long, hot summer, autumn brings a welcome return to structure. Diaries fill up, meetings resume, children return to school, and the household shifts into a different rhythm. I have always associated this time of year with a sense of renewal, and I find that the most effective way to prepare is to look at how the home is functioning.

Our homes accommodate an extraordinary number of activities, often simultaneously. They are places for work, study, entertaining, family life and rest. Yet we don't always give the practical requirements of these different activities the same consideration as the more visible aspects of interior design. Autumn is a useful opportunity to reassess this.

I begin with the family diary. At home, we use a large magnetic blackboard to map out everyone's commitments for the coming fortnight. There is a great deal to be said for having the household schedule visible and accessible to everyone, rather than relying entirely on individual digital calendars. It establishes a shared understanding of what is happening and, importantly, who needs to be where.

I also believe in refreshing the basics. New socks, underwear and T-shirts, fresh stationery and a new set of notebooks. These are relatively modest purchases, but there is something quite deliberate about starting the new term with the essentials in order. A fresh notebook is particularly satisfying. It signals the beginning of a new chapter and creates an opportunity to reconsider what deserves our attention.

The next consideration is how things move through the house. Every household has an accumulation of objects that need to be accommodated: school bags, post, paperwork, keys, devices and chargers. Without designated places for these, even the most carefully designed interior can quickly become overwhelmed.

We have a dedicated charging station for phones, tablets, watches and school laptops, where everything is returned overnight. It is a straightforward system, but one that removes unnecessary friction from the morning routine. Everyone knows where their devices belong and where to find them the following day.

The same principle applies to school paperwork. We have a second magnetic board that acts as a landing point for everything that comes home, positioned discreetly so it isn't visible from the main part of the room. Not every functional element of a home needs to be on display. Knowing what to conceal, and how to make it easily accessible when required, is an important part of good design.

I think we should also be giving children's homework spaces the same attention that we give our own home offices. A child needs an appropriate place to concentrate, with a comfortable chair, good lighting and sufficient space for books and materials. This doesn't necessarily require a dedicated room. A desk incorporated into joinery, a carefully planned corner or a table that accommodates different activities throughout the day can be equally effective.

The same considerations apply to working from home. Despite how established it has become, many people are still making do with arrangements that were never intended to be permanent. A laptop on the dining table and an unsuitable chair might suffice for an afternoon, but they are not a sensible long-term solution. Beyond the physical discomfort, there is the practical issue of work encroaching on spaces intended for other aspects of domestic life.

Whether you have a dedicated study or a workspace incorporated into another room, the starting point should be to understand precisely how it will be used. What equipment is required? How much storage is needed? Will the space accommodate meetings? Does it need to serve another purpose outside working hours? These questions should inform the design from the outset, rather than being addressed once the furniture has been selected.

When I’m designing for clients at Elicyon, we pay particular attention to the technical details that allow a workspace to function without compromising the interior. We have integrated plug sockets within desk legs to eliminate visible cables, incorporated charging points into bespoke joinery, and designed tables that can accommodate both individual work and meetings. Acoustics are another important consideration in open-plan homes. Sound-absorbing paint, rugs, upholstery and carefully selected fabrics can help manage noise and create a more comfortable environment for concentration.

These interventions may not be immediately apparent, but their effect on the experience of a room is considerable. The objective is to resolve the practical requirements so thoroughly that they become almost invisible. Once those fundamentals are established, I approach the room with the same attention to atmosphere and character as any other part of the home.

Lighting deserves careful consideration. A desk requires effective task lighting, supported by softer, decorative sources that allow the atmosphere to change throughout the day. Materiality also plays a significant role. Timber, stone, textiles, and tactile finishes introduce warmth and ensure that the room feels connected to the wider interior.

Art, books and collected objects are equally important. A study should reflect the interests and personality of the person using it. In fact, given the amount of time we spend working, I would argue that it deserves as much consideration as any other room in the house.

The study I designed at my rental property, Alton House, reflects this approach. I wanted it to have a distinct identity and personality, rather than simply fulfilling the conventional expectations of an office. It is a room in its own right, with all the functionality required of a workspace.

Storage is essential to achieving this balance. Bespoke joinery allows us to accommodate printers, screens, filing and charging equipment without allowing them to dominate the room. It also enables a workspace to transition between different uses when a study forms part of a bedroom or living space.

I am also conscious of what happens at the end of the working day. When work takes place at home, the physical separation between professional and personal life becomes less distinct. The interior can help establish that boundary.

In a dedicated study, closing the door provides a clear transition. In a shared room, it might mean putting paperwork away, concealing a screen within joinery and changing the lighting. The workspace should be able to recede when it is no longer in use, allowing the room to fulfil its other functions.

For my own autumn reset, I finish by clearing my desk completely. I go through everything that has accumulated, edit what is no longer necessary, and reconsider what I actually need within reach. A new desk mat, a notebook and a few well-designed practical accessories are often sufficient to make the space feel refreshed. At the Elicyon Studio, we use these personalised leather desk mats from Etsy.

I don't believe that the return to routine requires a complete reinvention of the home. It is about identifying the points of friction in everyday life and addressing them with considered, practical solutions. A well-organised household diary, a designated place for devices, a proper homework space and a desk that is genuinely comfortable to work at can have a far greater impact on daily life than a dramatic decorative change.

Good luck with the return to routine. I hope the autumn season brings a productive start to the new term, and that everyone knows where their laptop charger is in the morning.

Interior designer Charu Gandhi is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor.

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In a home designed with wellness at the forefront, the kitchen is an entity all its own. Yes, it's the heart, where we gather and break bread with loved ones, but equally so: it's the stomach that nourishes us, the brain that guides our daily rituals, the immune system that supports our health and keeps us living well.

​Designing a true wellness kitchen means considering how we experience a space holistically, with each detail a vital piece in an equation where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. It's not defined by whether you have a particular set of amenities, but by how your kitchen's design enables you to live better – whatever that means to you.​

When I'm working with clients, I like to compare this approach to their morning coffee or tea. An empty mug is just an object. Coffee beans or tea leaves by themselves are hardly palatable. Hot water alone is largely uninspiring. Together though? Each element combines to create a moment in your day that feels nourishing. You cultivate an experience that leaves you feeling good. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The same is true when designing a kitchen focused on well-being. We cannot leave nourished when the space itself is draining.

Rituals Built Around Ease

A true wellness kitchen makes healthy habits feel effortless. When we design our kitchens to work with us, our well-being goals shift from aspirational to intuitive. This begins with the flow of your space – wider aisles for people to gather and share in meal preparation, hardware that requires little to no effort to use, and amenities positioned within easy reach. It's not about having more, but having exactly what you need.

I love to create daily 'ritual stations' for my clients. Appliance garages that house a coffee bar, a juicing nook, or a boiling water tap with a selection of herbal teas. These small hubs bring daily conveniences together in one neat place, giving them a home that's at your fingertips whenever you need, and just as easily tucked away when you don't.

You can also empower existing routines with better alternatives. You might swap a microwave for a steam oven for better nutrient retention, gentler digestion of certain foods, and uniform heating – plus they ensure leftovers stay plump and keep their crispy edge. It could also mean installing a water filtration system under your sink to help reduce contaminants like hard metals, microplastics, and other microscopic hazards from reaching your glass.

Sensory Calm

Your kitchen is a sensory space for far more than just taste. Have you ever gone to prepare dinner in a kitchen that's overtaken by visual clutter, harsh overhead lighting or loud appliances? It's instantly overstimulating, hardly a space you want to linger in. Designing for wellness takes these considerations into account. Lighting is where I find this has the biggest impact. A circadian lighting system goes beyond simple illumination to support your energy, focus, and emotional balance throughout the day by mirroring the sun's natural progression – brighter, more energizing light in the mornings, and relaxing, warmer-toned light in the evenings as the sun goes down. Ambient toe-kick lighting around cabinetry provides a gentle, ground-level glow. Attached to a motion sensor, this type of lighting is ideal for late-night trips to the kitchen when you don't want to wake your nervous system.

​Natural wood acoustic panelling can help absorb excess noise. And there are many luxury appliance manufacturers, like Sub-Zero and Miele, making low-decibel refrigerators and dishwashers that you'll hardly notice are running. Visual calm is all about creating cohesion. Panel-ready appliances that blend seamlessly with cabinetry, a hidden back kitchen for additional amenities, and a color and material palette that ties it all together.

A Connection To Nature

Introducing organic tones, textures, and materials is the final part of the equation, creating a direct link to the natural world. These biophilic details, like natural stone, wood, brass, or a palette of earthy hues, have been shown to reduce stress, improve mental clarity, and further reduce sensory overload. An indoor herb wall or pass-through window that connects your kitchen to an adjoining outdoor living space takes this impact a step further.

​Choosing non-toxic, sustainable finishes also supports the unseen benefits of improved air quality, a factor that’s often overlooked. For countertops, I gravitate towards sintered stone, like Dekton, which is non‑porous, resin‑ and VOC‑free to help reduce bacteria build-up and avoid chemical off-gassing.

​When these three pillars work in harmony – easy rituals, sensory calm, and a connection to the world around us – the kitchen becomes a true living system, one not running counter to visual beauty, but alongside it, encouraging us to live beautifully too.

Interior designer Stephanie Larsen is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. You can see the rest of her articles here.

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This is the time of year in which many parents are driving home from their college drop-offs to an empty house for the first time. Whether you have looked forward to this day for many years or dreaded it, lots of emotions come along with that day.

I dropped my middle child off to school this year, and my last is a senior in high school, so I can feel that time is rapidly approaching for my family as well. I used to love being alone in my house, a hot cup of tea, a good book, and the fireplace was my version of heaven on a Saturday afternoon if, by some miracle, everyone was out. But now, when I am home in the quiet, it feels very different; it's a foreshadowing of what's to come. The house feels so much bigger and emptier and maybe just a little too quiet.

I would say about 85% of clients who call me for my services have children who are in their 20s, with maybe one left in college, and they have just bought a second home. The kids have girlfriends or just got a dog, and maybe they even have a grandchild on the way. When I speak to them, they have so many hopes and dreams that this house will be the glue to unite their family. That they will have weekends and holidays with their children and significant others, and eventually with their grandchildren for those precious times they will come to visit. No pressure!

I talk to them about all the ways that we understand this time in life and how we have designed for family upon family that has been in this exact situation. That we understand the balance of what they are asking from the home and how it will deliver on this memory-making for them in every way possible. I assure them they have come to the right design firm because we know them maybe even a little better than they know themselves.

I have learned many lessons from working with so many empty nesters. I have learned that there is a delicate balance to be had during this time in life. Not to overreact. Not to make any rash decisions. We help to flesh out what the next 10 to 15 years may look like for their family. We have the harder conversations of ailing parents and what they may need in your home, conversations about aging in a home for themselves and what that may look like. Having a grandchild or a granddog visit and how the home should be designed with that in mind. We talk about designing an apartment within the larger home for them, with a place to sit and have breakfast together, and a separate laundry area near the primary bedroom. Maybe we are adding dishwasher drawers instead of a single-door one. Something that can be used easily when it's the two of them or expand when there’s a large group. When we are done, the house should feel cozy and inviting for the days they are alone in the home, and it should expand out and serve the whole family for holidays and weekends, but still provide respite for the owners to hide away with their book and a comfy chair near the fire.

For materials, we understand more than ever that these clients want a home that can be used by them for a group of friends or by their children with their own friends, using the house while they are not there. That every material will withstand beer bottles and cheeseburgers and chips spilling in the cracks of the sofa, and that when they return, everything will not only be in great shape but look more beautiful over the period of time it's been used. That the materials tell a story about the lives that were there and that they grow in their patina over time and that they have that wonderful lustre of a life lived in a home. Yes, this can be the case! You can sit back and pat yourself on the back for raising your children all those years and working so hard at your career at the same time. You know you can enjoy all the fruits of your labor with this home you are investing in, not just for yourselves but for your whole family. And that you can leave at the end of the weekend, turn the key, and head back home, not worrying about how it will fare over time.

So I leave you with my list I have created over the past 25 years of working with empty nesters, so that you can prepare yourself for what's to come or what may already be here:

1. Don’t automatically downsize – The first instinct is often this. But this may be the moment to just take a breath and ask: what do you really want from your home?
2. Design for the life you have now, but also think about what the next 10 years may look like. It will come in the blink of an eye.
3. Turn spare bedrooms into something meaningful. Don’t be afraid to take out that Queen bed and add a sleeper sofa. Add a sewing room, or the art studio you always wanted.
4. Create a really beautiful guest experience for the friends that will come. Call those old college friends and treat them to a beautiful weekend in your home. You will be drying your eyes very quickly and missing your children a lot less after one of these weekends. 'Oh yeah, we used to have so much fun together!'
5. Create a primary suite that feels like a destination – why? Because you, more than anyone, deserve it.
6. Create spaces for solitude for when you do want to get away on that busy weekend as the friends start to come again or family holidays.
7. And finally, remember, your children leaving your home doesn’t mean that something is ending; it means you get to reinvent, and this time it's all about what you want and what your home will be for in the future.

And if you are still struggling, call me and we can chat.

Interior designer Jess Cooney is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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A finished room photographs in an afternoon. What lands on the page is the result – the proportions resolved, the materials settled, the light doing what you hoped it would. What doesn't land on the page is everything that had to happen first, and how long it actually takes to get there.

People often assume a project comes together in months. In reality, most of our projects run closer to two years, start to finish. We currently have one project that will take five. That number tends to surprise people, and I understand why. A photograph gives no sense of duration. It shows you the arrival, not the years of decisions that led to it.

That time is not spent waiting. It starts long before a single piece of furniture is chosen, in weeks and months of research, testing ideas against the architecture, against the client, against each other. Most of that thinking never survives to the final room. It isn't wasted – it's how we get to the version that does. A layout in particular is never handed down from one discipline to another. It's negotiated, round after round between design and architecture, until it actually works for how a specific client lives, not just how it looks on a drawing. A constraint as simple as a ceiling height can reshape an entire floor plan, and getting it right takes patience neither side can rush. Some of the most important decisions in a project are made at this stage, long before anyone has seen a rendering, let alone a finished room.

Once a layout is fixed, the sourcing begins, and that's its own search. Every project asks us to find someone new – a maker, an artisan, a workshop we haven't used before, because (not always) the last vendor doesn't do what this project needs, but we also don’t want to execute the same thing we did on our last project. Sometimes the right vendor doesn't exist yet for what we need, or when working in a new state – and we keep looking until we find the ‘right fit’. It's a part of the job that rarely gets discussed, but it shapes a project as much as any design decision does, and it can take months on its own before we find someone whose work matches what we've drawn. A strong team makes or breaks a project, and I firmly stand by that.

None of this happens in a straight line. New ideas arrive after the plan is already set, and sometimes that means replanning something mid-build – not because the first idea was wrong, but because a better one showed up, or the space itself told us something we hadn't seen on paper. Good design stays open to that, even when it's inconvenient, even when it means unwinding work that already felt settled.

The materials themselves ask for the same flexibility. The stone or wood you approve in a sample is never quite the piece that arrives, because natural materials vary, and that variation is something we design around, not against. Sourcing something irreplaceable carries the same risk – when a vintage find falls through or arrives damaged, which sadly and frustratingly is more common than I would like. The work becomes finding its equal, not a substitute, but something that earns its place just as well.

Sometimes it's the smallest thing that takes the longest. A window treatment comes back from the workroom not quite right – it’s too short or too long and has to go back again, remade until it's correct. A marble countertop gets cracked in transit. A finish that read beautifully on a sample board reads differently across an entire wall, and gets redone before anyone outside the project ever sees it. No one will ever notice it took two tries, or three. That's rather the point. None of this shows up in a photograph, and none of it is meant to.

Restraint and stillness don't happen by accident. They're the result of all of it – the years, the negotiation, the pivots, the remakes, resolved down to something that looks, in the end, inevitable. It's worth saying plainly, because I think it gets lost – the calm of a finished room is not the absence of difficulty. It's what's left once the difficulty has been fully worked through, on our end, so the client never has to carry it. The quiet in a finished room is earned, not found, and it's built by a great many decisions no one but us will ever see.

Interior designer Katie Harbison is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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Lighting is one of the very first things we think about when designing a home. And I mean very first. Long before the furniture arrives, before the art is hung and, in many cases, before the drywall even goes up, we're already thinking about where the lights need to be.

Because here's the thing: lighting is not an afterthought. It isn't the final layer you add once you've chosen the sofa, ordered the curtains, and realized you have approximately three weeks until the house is finished. Lighting needs to be planned right alongside the architecture and the furniture.

In our projects, the furniture plan happens before the house is even built. Yes, before there is technically a house to put furniture in. We need to know where the sofa is going, where the dining table will sit, which wall will have the bed, where the artwork will hang, and, most importantly, how people are actually going to use the room. Once we know that, we can figure out where the lighting needs to be.

A bedside sconce needs to know where the bed is, how high the headboard is, do you read or is it for ambiance? A chandelier needs to know where the dining table is and how large the table is. A reading lamp needs to know where you're actually going to sit. And a pot light should probably not be positioned directly over the top of your head unless you're particularly interested in looking like you're being interrogated.

It sounds obvious, but you'd be surprised how often lighting gets treated as something to figure out later. And 'later' is usually when someone is standing in a finished room saying, Wait... why is the light there? Or why is it so dark in here? The good news is that getting lighting right doesn't have to be complicated. There are a few simple rules I follow on every project, and the first one is completely non-negotiable.

1. Layer, Layer, Layer

This is where the magic happens. Wall sconces, table lamps, floor lamps, picture lights, pendants, chandeliers these are all your best friends. And you can never really have too many. The trick is to mix them. I love a room where the lighting feels collected rather than perfectly matched. A pair of sconces doesn't necessarily need to match the table lamps. A floor lamp can sit beside a vintage table lamp. A picture light can highlight artwork while a small lamp creates a pool of light on a nearby console.

Think of a layered lighting scheme the way you think about decorating: it should have layers. When everything comes from the same collection and matches perfectly, the room can start to feel a little... showroom-esque. And we are not designing a showroom. Mix it up. Your lighting doesn't need to behave itself. A room should never rely on one lonely ceiling fixture to do all the work. Your home is not a warehouse, and your chandelier does not need to carry the emotional burden of the entire room.

Think of lighting the same way you think about dressing a room: you need layers, different heights, different sources, and a little bit of personality. And, just like a good outfit, the best results usually happen when you stop trying so hard to make everything match.

2. Yes, You Need Pot Lights

I know. We designers love to complain about pot lights. We've spent years trying to convince people that a room shouldn't look like an airport runway, and I'm still firmly in that camp. But here's the thing: pot lights have a purpose. You need them for functional lighting. They're there when you're cleaning, when you're hunting for the dust bunnies hiding under the sofa, when you're trying to find something you've dropped, or when it's the middle of February and it feels like the sun has personally abandoned you. Pot lights are your workhorse lighting. They just shouldn't be the only lighting in the room.

And this is where planning comes in again. Ceiling height matters. The higher the ceiling, the more thought needs to go into where that light is actually landing. Once you start getting above 12 feet, ask yourself: Is that light actually reaching the floor, or are we essentially illuminating the upper half of the room? The height of the ceiling, the beam spread, and the type of fixture all matter. Don't simply assume that because you've put 20 pot lights in a room, you've solved the lighting problem. You may have just created a very well-lit ceiling. (P.S. You don't see pot lights in all the pretty Pinterest photos due to the magic of photo editing – but they do exist!)

3. Don't Be Afraid of Scale

Chandeliers and pendants are where you get to have some fun. And please, put them on dimmers. I consider dimmers one of the greatest inventions in interior design. The same chandelier that provides useful light while you're setting the dinner table can become something completely different once it's turned down in the evening.

And don't automatically assume that bigger rooms require enormous fixtures – or that small rooms require tiny ones. Scale is an opportunity. Over a kitchen island, you might use two substantial pendants. Or you could use three, four, or even five smaller fixtures and create something much more unexpected. In a dining room, one oversized chandelier can be fantastic. Sometimes the slightly-too-big fixture is exactly what makes the room feel interesting.

Lighting is one of the places where I think you should take a risk. If you've been given a beautiful ceiling height, use it. If the room can handle a dramatic fixture, go for it. (Tip: lights get smaller the higher they are hung. If your chandelier box comes and you are questioning all of your math skills, wait until it's up at ceiling height. It will feel much smaller than it does sitting in a box on the ground.) Nobody ever walked into a room and complained that a chandelier had too much personality. Well, someone probably has. But I'm not designing for them.

4. Warm, Always Warm

Let's talk about color temperature. If there is one lighting hill I am willing to die on, it is this: please don't put daylight bulbs throughout your home. Cool, blue-toned light can make even the most beautiful room feel clinical. Your home should feel warm and inviting – not like you're being examined by a dentist.

For residential interiors, I generally prefer warmer light. It makes wood feel richer, fabrics feel softer, and colors feel more natural. The goal is for your home to glow. Not fluoresce. And remember that the color of the light matters just as much at night as the fixture itself. A gorgeous lamp with a harsh, cool bulb is still going to give you harsh, cool light. The fixture can be beautiful, but the bulb is doing the talking.

5. No Outlets? No Problem

Now for one of my favorite recent lighting developments: cordless lamps and battery-powered lighting. Because sometimes you have created the perfect little vignette, the perfect chair, the perfect table – and naturally, the outlet is approximately 14 feet away.

Enter the cordless lamp. They are fantastic for adding another layer of light without ripping open a wall or running an extension cord across your beautiful room. And while we're on the subject of cords: there is actually something deeply satisfying about cutting a lamp cord. I know you're not supposed to say these things as a designer. But if you've ever had a beautiful lamp sitting on a console with a cord dangling behind it, you understand. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for beauty.

And then there are battery-powered sconces, which may be my favorite lighting innovation of all. Want sconces beside a bed but don't want to open the wall?Battery-powered sconces. Want to highlight artwork but there's no electrical box? Battery-powered sconces. Renting? Battery-powered sconces. Have a wall that simply cannot be wired without turning your life into a construction project? Battery-powered sconces.

They're especially brilliant for anyone who loves to change things. You can add beautiful decorative lighting without committing to electrical work, and suddenly the wall you've been staring at, thinking there is absolutely no way I'm putting a light there, becomes fair game. And isn't that the dream?

6. The Bottom Line

Good lighting isn't about filling every inch of your ceiling with fixtures. It's about creating different levels of light that work together.

Start with your functional lighting. Add decorative lighting. Bring light down to eye level with lamps and sconces. Use chandeliers and pendants to create a focal point. Put everything you can on dimmers. Keep the light warm. And don't be afraid to mix things up. Most importantly, plan it early. Your lighting should respond to the way the room is furnished and used – not the other way around. If we're deciding where the furniture goes before the house is built, we should absolutely be deciding where the lighting goes too.

Because the best-lit rooms aren't necessarily the brightest ones. They're the ones where the lighting changes with the way you live in the space. Bright enough to find the dust bunnies when you need to. Soft enough to pretend they're not there when you don't.

Interior designer Ashley Montgomery is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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Lately I have noticed I have become increasingly sentimental. I know where it started. My beloved mom passed almost seven years ago, and it's taken all of that time to start going through her things, and there are many, many things. My sister and I lovingly held onto all of the handmade quilts that she'd made over the years. A second-floor crafts room harbored decades of DIY and sewing projects, all made with loving hands, including several unfinished baby quilts for church members, whose children are likely attending middle school now. They became unable to complete when Caral tunnel reared its evil head. Various restored furniture and antiques are sprinkled about, cared for ever so deeply. Combing through over 80 years of someone's possessions is a real task. Yes, my mom believed in holding onto things. Some rare, some simple, some deteriorated, many just something loved. She loved holding onto people too.

My father preceded her in death over 25 years ago. Just weeks ago, I found an old box of their love letters, including many beautiful, now vintage photos of his short time in the military – what a gift. Unearthing this level of sacred courtship truly hit me. It is certainly missing in our current culture. They are kept safe in Harmony Linen Letter Boxes from The Container Store.

The penmanship alone is frame-worthy. I felt as though I’d fallen into an invisible well, being this close to their private world. It made me feel guilty, as I trod into an unfamiliar loving space created, nurtured, and protected by someone else, two deeply loving people who happened to be my parents. Their own forbidden territory. These letters were the cornerstones of the life they created, which continued to be carried throughout our home. The language and sentiments which become the fabric of our lives. The feelings of comfort that create the desire for comfortable chairs, a welcome mat inviting friends and strangers to become part of your world. Hot cooked meals, lovingly prepared and shared over deep, meaningful conversations at the dining table. And laughter, much laughter.

The unseen words that you feel when you walk into someone's home, that carry throughout generations, begin with a simple act of love, often on paper. Sometimes an embrace, a smile, but always with a feeling. Sentimentality about your environment and things is a special gift. I used to throw things away easily, with a true sense of attachment. I have always been incredibly tidy, to a fault, some might say. Long before I knew ‘minimalism' was a word. Only the essentials need occupy a space. No need to have coffee beans on a counter when I only prepare coffee in the morning. You get the idea. Who is with me on this?

Cleaning out my parents' house changed me. It made me more forgiving of things that occupy space, once belonging to someone else. I see things differently now because I have chosen to hold on to this space, to keep this house, this home for myself. So, I have returned the Chinese bar purchased in the 1970s to its original place in the dining room; my portrait drawn by longtime friend Jose Solis Bentancourt after a water duel occupied wall space in the dining room for 27 years. It was finally given to me after Mom passed but has returned to its original place. The lamp purchased on the North Shore, during one of many of our shopping trips three years before Mom's passing, too, has returned to its original location.

There’s an old line, of unknown origin, 'You can never go home again'. Well, that isn't true at all; you absolutely can. The house sounds different at night. Trees have gotten taller and brush against the windows almost as though they are waving at me. There may very well be a squirrel in the attic, but the smell of food Mom cooked, which I continue to cook, is the same. I can still see Dad tooling about in the yard. Many of his tools remain in the garage. My husband uses them now, which makes me smile and somewhat sad because I wish they’d had the chance to meet. But the house feels the same. My sister asked, 'Does it feel different cooking in the house now?' Strangely, it doesn't because I feel Mom cooking beside me. While making lemonade last week, I distinctly heard her voice clearly say, 'easy on the sugar, strike a balance'. Have you ever left home to return in a different way? Were you sentimental about it? How did it feel?

So back to those letters… I have always loved handwritten letters. Sealed with my favorite Artisaire wax stamps, scented with a mist of my signature perfume, Tom Ford ‘Black Orchid. With computers, they fell out of fashion. Yet, I see an increasing number of people returning to letter writing, Aka ‘Snail mail’. This warms my heart greatly. I certainly hope it is more than a trend. One thing for certain: if you write me, I will write you back! Someday, perhaps someone will find my letters, hold them tightly and with love, and become strangely sentimental. Giving way to something totally new, that hopefully always makes them feel like home.

Interior designer Joy Moyler is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on design. See the rest of her articles here.

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I have spent an unreasonable amount of my adult life in slab yards. Thousands of slabs, easily. Marble, limestone, travertine, soapstone, bluestone, flagstone – I have walked the aisles, run my hands over them, watched them being cut, rejected them, fallen in love with them, and occasionally designed an entire room around one particularly beautiful piece.

When you design homes with three kitchens, 10 bathrooms, a mudroom, a scullery, and fireplaces to consider, you start thinking about stone a lot. And after all those years, all those yards, and all those projects, I have realized something: the materials I trust most are the ones that don't promise to stay perfect.

Real materials change. Marble etches. Limestone wears. Unlacquered brass darkens where you touch it. Wood gets scratched. Linen softens. Plaster develops subtle variations that could never be replicated by something manufactured to look exactly the same forever. I don't see any of that as damage. I see evidence of life.

I think this is part of what I have always loved about old European homes, well, European anything really. You walk into a house that has been standing for hundreds of years and no one is apologizing for the worn stone floor or countertop with a stain. Quite the opposite. That's usually the thing everyone is photographing.

The threshold is slightly uneven from generations of people walking across it. The brass hardware has darkened where countless hands have opened the door. The marble has rings and marks and little imperfections that tell you people actually cooked there. There is a confidence in allowing beautiful materials to age. And increasingly, that is what I want for the homes we design. I'm not interested in creating a house that looks its best on installation day. I want to know what it will look like in 20 years. Fifty years. I want the materials we choose today to become part of the home's history rather than something the next owner immediately wants to replace.

Stone is probably the clearest example. I will almost always choose natural stone with movement, variation, and evidence that it came from the earth. Give me the veining. Give me the fossil. Give me the section that's slightly different from the slab beside it. Those are the things that make a material impossible to reproduce – and, to me, infinitely more beautiful.

The same thinking extends throughout our projects. I love Venetian plaster because it reacts to light differently throughout the day. I love unlacquered brass and polished nickel or bronze because the finish you install isn't the finish you'll have five years later. It's living with you. I love solid wood because a scratch can become part of its story rather than the end of it. I love linen because it is arguably more beautiful rumpled than perfectly pressed. None of these materials are trying particularly hard to be perfect. Maybe that's the point.

Sustainability is a huge pillar of our studio, and I think sometimes we make that conversation more complicated than it needs to be. One of the most sustainable things we can do is choose materials we won't want to tear out in 10 years. Materials that leave a sensible footprint. For me, that means looking backward as much as forward. What has already survived? We have centuries of evidence that marble can age beautifully. That solid wood can be repaired. That stone floors can withstand generations. That brass can be polished – or left completely alone. History has already tested these materials for us...

So when clients ask me whether they should worry about their marble etching or their hardware changing, my answer is usually some version of: let it. Let the kitchen tell me that you cook there. Let the floor tell me where everyone walks. Let the brass show me which cabinet you open every morning. I don't want to design homes people are afraid to live in. I want to create homes that become more beautiful because they were lived in. And after thousands of slabs, countless samples, and more material meetings than I could ever count, that's probably the simplest design advice I can give: Choose the things that are allowed to age. They're always the ones worth keeping.

Interior designer Molly Kidd is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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We all know the feeling of turning (or scrolling) the pages of our favorite shelter publications and stopping at a beautifully curated room. It looks effortless, perfectly lived-in, and serene. But as someone who has spent over two decades navigating the communications and business side of the luxury design world, I can tell you that 'effortless' takes an extraordinary amount of collaboration.

Great design does not happen in a vacuum. Behind every published project, successful book launch, or licensed collection is a rich, layered ecosystem of talent. It is a continuous, quiet dialogue between the interior designer who envisions the space, the photographer who captures its soul, the stylist who layers the final narrative, and the artisans who craft the bespoke pieces.

As a strategic communications partner, my role has always been to act as a connector within this community – bridging the gap between creative vision and tangible business growth. My history includes in-house roles at Kate Spade and Calvin Klein, where I was the PR lead but also the licensed collections contact and led client development too. My agency experience is longer and honestly where I learned the most – eventually running teams that led communications for many home brands like Crate & Barrel and trade brands like Rubelli, Donghia, Waterworks, and many interior designers and architects. I have deep experience and knowledge and, well, opinions! Now, I want to share that vantage point with you. And if I don’t know, I will ask my wide array of industry friends.

Welcome to Behind the Scenes. In this column – and my upcoming podcast of the same name – we are going to pull back the curtain on the business of beautiful. Each month, I will sit down with the industry’s most sought-after photographers, visionary stylists, licensing experts, and editors to explore the strategic decisions and unseen partnerships that turn creative talent into a lasting legacy. We will demystify the process, celebrate the people who rarely step in front of the lens, and explore what it truly takes to bring a design narrative to life. Whether you are a design professional looking to build your brand or an enthusiast curious about how the spaces you love are crafted, I invite you to join me. Let’s explore the real story behind the design.

Understanding the design world requires more than just meeting the people who shape it; it requires keeping a pulse on the community itself. Alongside these interviews, I will be sharing my own dispatch from the field. From analyzing the strategic impact of major events like this falls showhouse season to exploring shifts in the luxury market and celebrating the milestones of our peers, we will look at what is happening in our community right now, what shows you should attend, what are the learnings from a recent Design Leadership Summit – and what it means for all of us in this wonderful industry we call 'home'. I welcome suggestions – who do you want to hear from, any particular topics I can focus on, upcoming events to attend – tell me about it.

Design executive Sarah Boyd is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on the world of design.

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Neutral interiors often get a bad press for being boring or uninspiring, but I think the opposite can be true. Some of the most interesting rooms I have designed have been predominantly neutral. The key is making sure there is enough contrast, texture and variation within the scheme so that it feels layered rather than flat.

If you take color away, every other element in the room has to work that little bit harder. These are the things I always consider when decorating with neutrals.

1. Mix Different Tones

One of the biggest mistakes you can make with a neutral scheme is keeping everything within the same mid-tone palette. You need contrast, from very light off-whites and creams through to taupes and browns, with much darker accents of bronze, graphite or even black.

It is the juxtaposition of light and dark that gives a neutral room depth. For the main pieces of furniture, I might have one lighter sofa alongside another upholstered in a mid-tone fabric, then introduce something darker or more textural on the armchairs.

Neutral schemes tend to fall flat when every item is almost exactly the same color. Don’t be afraid of those darker notes. They are often what make the lighter elements feel more beautiful.

2. Mix Your Textures

Texture becomes even more important when you are working with a limited color palette. I would rarely use the same type of fabric across all the upholstery in a room. If you have linen on one sofa, you could use velvet, mohair or wool on another. The same applies to pillows. If every pillow is the same texture, even if they are slightly different shades, the overall effect can still feel quite flat.

I find that a room can take far more texture and pattern than you might imagine when looking at everything together on a moodboard. Fabrics and finishes are very concentrated when they are sitting next to one another on a small board, whereas once they are dispersed around a room, the effect becomes much more subtle.

Pillows are also a wonderful opportunity to use more luxurious or decorative fabrics. I love introducing a silk velvet or an embroidered fabric that perhaps wouldn’t be practical across an entire sofa or chair. The same principle applies to rugs, lamps and accessories.

3. Be Bolder with Your Accent Pieces

In a neutral room, an interesting object has so much more impact. A beautiful ceramic lamp in an accent color, for example, really stands out against a quieter backdrop.

I wouldn’t use the same material for every lamp or accessory either. If you have several table lamps in a room, which I think you should, mix ceramic with glass, metal or plaster and look for forms that are a little less obvious.

In my own living room I have a heavily textured plaster lamp from Porta Romana. It wasn’t necessarily the most obvious choice, but the texture relates to a bouclé pillow and a hammered frame nearby. Those small connections help make a room feel considered without everything having to match.

4. Mix Different Styles of Furniture

Furniture has to work harder in a neutral scheme because you don’t have color doing the heavy lifting. This is where mixing different periods and styles becomes particularly important.

I love combining antiques with contemporary furniture because it immediately gives a room more character and creates a much more timeless, collected feel. A beautifully carved antique table next to a very sleek contemporary sofa, for example, introduces a tension that you simply don’t get if everything is from the same period or collection.

The same applies to materials. Avoid having every table and cabinet in timber. Bring in stone, metal, glass or plaster so there is enough variation. This is often what takes a neutral room away from that slightly generic, developer look.

5. Pay Particular Attention to Lighting

Lighting is important in every interior, but especially so in a neutral room if you want it to feel warm and inviting.

I always prefer to layer lighting rather than rely on a ceiling full of spotlights. Directional spotlights can be incredibly effective when they are positioned to highlight something specific, perhaps a narrow beam onto a painting or a pool of light falling directly onto a table. I would never position a downlight directly above seating.

Then add an even spread of table lamps around the room. I think every sitting room should have at least two, and usually more.

The color temperature of your bulbs makes an enormous difference too. I generally recommend 2700K, which gives a warm, natural light without becoming overly orange or distorting the colors within the room. I also look for a high color rendering index, ideally a CRI of 90 or above. This allows the colors and textures in your fabrics, artwork, and finishes to appear much closer to how they look in natural light and prevents the lighting from making your scheme look flat.

Changing your bulbs is one of the easiest ways to improve the atmosphere of an existing room without redecorating it. Tala does the best bulbs in my opinion and has a CRI of 95.

6. Let Your Accessories Evolve

One of the things I love most about having a neutral base is how easily you can change the feeling of a room through accessories. You can introduce more color when you want it and adapt the room throughout the year to reflect the changing seasons.

In spring and summer, I bring in lots of green foliage from the garden. In fall and winter, I reuse the same dried branches and twigs, mixing them with fresh flowers and more seasonal arrangements.

In my sitting room, the wallpaper is a very subtle blue-gray silk. I’ve picked up on that hint of blue with a collection of blue and white chinoiserie vases, which I arrange across the fireplace mantel and on tables around the room. Against a neutral background, these small injections of color have far more impact.

7. Don't Forget the Art

Just because your room is neutral doesn’t mean your art needs to be. In fact, a colorful oil painting can look particularly beautiful in an otherwise quiet room because it becomes a real focal point.

Equally, if you prefer tonal artwork, vary the medium instead. Mix oil paintings with pencil drawings, photography, ceramics and other three-dimensional pieces. I would always rather see a collection that has developed over time than a group of pieces chosen simply because they all match.

8. Every Neutral Room Still Needs Some Color

Even the most neutral room benefits from a small amount of color. The important thing is to make sure that color feels balanced around the space rather than concentrated in one area.

If you have a colorful piece of art on one side of the room, for example, pick up one or two of those colors elsewhere, perhaps in a pillow, lampshade, or accessory on the opposite side. It doesn’t need to be an exact match. You are simply creating a visual connection that helps the room feel balanced.

9. Warm Up Cooler Neutrals

If you’re starting a scheme from scratch, I think warmer neutrals such as cream, taupe, tan and brown feel both more current and more enduring than cooler gray tones.

But if you already have a very gray interior, don’t feel that you need to start again. Introducing warmer tones through a few carefully chosen pieces can completely change how it feels. Tan, burgundy, and warm brown all work particularly well with gray and can make an existing scheme feel softer and more updated.

10. Don’t Try to Match Everything Perfectly and Experiment!

My final piece of advice is not to become too preoccupied with making every neutral or accent color match exactly. In fact, I think a room is more interesting when they don’t.

Different tones of the same color will give you far more depth than repeating one precise shade throughout. Move things around, borrow pieces from other rooms and experiment with combinations you might not initially have considered.

Some of the best rooms aren’t perfectly planned from the outset. They evolve over time as you add things you love, and I think neutral interiors particularly benefit from that approach. A neutral room should never feel empty or bland. Done well, it should feel layered, warm and full of character, with enough restraint to allow every beautiful detail to be noticed.

Interior designer Sophie Paterson is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here. Explore the Sophie Paterson Academy to learn her complete design process, or join The Mood Board Community for ongoing inspiration, expert advice, and access to Sophie and the SPI team.

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The room is finished. Everything is in place. The palette works, the furniture fits, the objects are arranged on the shelves. And something is still wrong. It feels correct and somehow inert. Like a hotel room that someone put a lot of thought into.

The problem, almost always, is that everything in it is new.

Not new as in recently installed. New as in purchased from the same moment in time, from the same aesthetic register, with the same lack of history. Nothing in the room has been anywhere before. Nothing has been used by anyone. Nothing carries evidence of a life that preceded the one currently being lived in it.

It was designed to feel inhabited. It doesn't. And that's exactly what people eliminate when they furnish a home all at once.

In my own work, the piece I fight hardest to keep is usually the old one. A worn leather chair that the client wants to replace. A ceramic that came from somewhere else. A piece of furniture that is clearly from a different decade than everything we're putting around it. I almost never let them go, because I know that thing will be the reason the room works.

The old thing is usually the thing you remember when you leave the room. It's the thing that makes everything around it feel more real rather than less.

I've thought about why this works, and I think it comes down to evidence. A room full of new things has no evidence of time passing. The objects in it haven't been touched enough to show it. They haven't been moved around or reconsidered or kept because someone loved them specifically. They were selected and installed, and they sit there being correct.

One old thing changes this entirely. It has been somewhere before it was here. Someone else made a decision about it. It has a surface that shows use. It asks a question about how it got into the room, and that question makes the room feel like it has a story.

The fix is not complicated. It is not a whole room of vintage pieces or a commitment to any particular aesthetic. It is one thing. One wooden object that has been oiled and used. One ceramic that is clearly handmade and old. One piece of furniture that was not designed in the last five years. One light fixture from a different era than the rest of the room.

That one thing will do more for the room than almost any other single decision. Not because old things are inherently better than new things. Because a room that contains only one moment in time reads as incomplete, even when it's finished.

The rooms I love most feel like they've been gathered rather than purchased. That's not an accident. It's a decision that someone made early, usually by keeping one thing that didn't match and letting the rest of the room answer to it.

Interior designer Nina Takesh is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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There was a period where everyone seemed terrified of pattern. Homes became a sea of oatmeal boucle, beige linen, and enough solid cream upholstery to make you question whether color had been outlawed. Don't get me wrong, I love a quiet palette as much as the next designer. But somewhere along the way, 'timeless' became confused with 'safe.'

They're not the same thing. The most memorable rooms aren't memorable because they're loud. They're memorable because they're layered. They have rhythm. They make your eye travel. Pattern, when it's done well, is what gives a room personality without having to rely on trendy furniture or an endless parade of decorative objects.

The secret? Stop thinking about matching and start thinking about balance.

The biggest mistake people make is choosing patterns that all compete at the same volume. Imagine a room filled with medium-scale prints. Nothing stands out because everything is shouting at once. It's like trying to have dinner with six people who all insist on telling different stories simultaneously.

Instead, think of patterns the way you think of music. You need highs, lows, and moments of quiet.

A large-scale floral on a drapery panel suddenly feels elegant beside a fine ticking stripe on an armchair. A bold plaid throw becomes far more interesting when it's layered over a simple textured linen. Tiny block prints, oversized botanicals and classic stripes each play a different role, but together they create harmony rather than chaos.

Scale is everything.

One of my favorite combinations is an oversized floral mixed with a narrow stripe. It shouldn't work, but it absolutely does. The floral brings softness and movement while the stripe provides order and structure. It's a little bit like wearing a tailored blazer over a flowing dress. One grounds the other.

Plaids deserve a comeback, too.

People often associate plaid with cottages or holiday decorating, but a beautiful plaid can be incredibly sophisticated. When paired with delicate florals or relaxed linens, it feels collected instead of country. The trick is avoiding theme decorating. You don't need to tartan everything. One beautifully woven plaid pillow or upholstered ottoman can be enough to anchor an entire room.

Which brings us to solids.

Ironically, the most important pattern in a room might be no pattern at all.

Every layered room needs somewhere for your eye to rest. Solids create breathing room between prints and prevent a space from feeling visually overwhelming. A sofa in a beautiful textured linen gives patterned cushions permission to shine. Painted walls often provide a calmer backdrop than busy wallpaper. Even natural materials like oak, marble, leather, and woven grasses all act as visual pauses in a room full of patterns.

Without those moments of restraint, even the prettiest prints lose their impact.

If you're wondering whether patterns have longevity, the answer isn't found in the pattern itself. It's found in the way you use it.

Classic motifs have survived for centuries for a reason. Florals aren't trendy. Stripes aren't trendy. Plaids aren't trendy. What dates a room is using every pattern in the exact color palette that's having a moment on social media.

I've seen countless homes where every cushion, fabric, and wallpaper screams the same trend. They look current for about twelve months and then suddenly feel frozen in time. The homes that age beautifully mix old with new. They borrow from different eras. They embrace imperfections. Most importantly, they don't try so hard.

That's why I rarely buy all my fabrics from one collection. Real homes shouldn't look as though they arrived in one delivery truck.

Some of my favorite rooms include an antique floral that looks as though it's been around for generations, paired with a crisp contemporary stripe and a handwoven textile picked up from a small artisan halfway across the world. None of them were designed to live together, which is exactly why they work. The room feels collected rather than decorated.

And if there is one rule I always return to, it's this: vary the scale, repeat the colors.

When your prints share a similar color story, they instantly begin speaking the same language, even if their personalities couldn't be more different. That's what creates cohesion without sacrificing character.

Because at the end of the day, great design isn't about following formulas. It's about creating spaces that feel lived in, loved, and unmistakably yours.

So the next time you're hesitating between the floral or the stripe, stop trying to decide.

Pick both.

Interior designer Ashley Montgomery is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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For all the talk of 'great rooms' and open-plan living, I’ve become convinced we’ve misunderstood what makes a house feel generous. It isn’t the absence of walls. It’s the presence of purpose. The modern kitchen has become an odd sort of performance space. Every saucepan, cereal box, coffee machine, and charging cable is expected to coexist with the sofa and family photographs. Then we invent appliance garages, as though making toast or brewing coffee is somehow an embarrassment. Cooking is one of the most civilized acts that takes place in a home. Why should it be hidden behind retractable doors?

I don’t want a kitchen masquerading as a sitting room. I want a proper kitchen: somewhere industrious, unapologetic, and deeply inviting. A room where vegetables are chopped, bread is sliced, flowers are gathered from the garden, and friends instinctively pull up a chair because that’s where life is happening. The living room has a different purpose. It should offer calm after the meal, conversation without the soundtrack of the dishwasher, and the pleasure of entering a room that isn’t trying to do everything at once. Not every room needs to multitask. The best ones never have.

Good houses, whether Georgian, Arts and Crafts, or quietly contemporary, understand sequence. One room prepares you for the next. You move from kitchen to dining room to sitting room, and with each threshold, your mood shifts ever so slightly. That progression is part of the architecture’s magic. Luxury has never been about seeing everything at once. It is about arriving somewhere that knows exactly what it is. A kitchen should be a kitchen. A dining room should celebrate the meal. A sitting room should reward the lingering conversation afterwards. The more purpose we give our rooms, the more generous they become.

Interior designer Bryan Graybill is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing his thoughts on decor.

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​I've always believed that the most beautiful interiors are the ones that place being experienced over the immediate need of being seen. They're the homes filled with small but mighty details that directly impact our moods, the ways we connect, and how we live our lives day to day; the spaces that look good but feel ever better.

Throughout history, people have been drawn to natural materials because they evoke a sense of awe and a connection to the earth. The closer we feel to nature, the more centered we feel, and that has a spillover effect into our productivity, creativity, and overall well-being.

​We live in a world that seems to only get busier, and more and more, our homes are becoming a place to rebel against that constant motion, leaning on the elements that help us switch off, slow down, and reconnect with ourselves more deeply. Natural details engage the senses; a trickling water feature captures our focus and brings our attention to the present moment; a wool blanket feels familiar and warm.

​Crystals came into my life, and subsequently my design philosophy, somewhat unexpectedly. After moving to Sedona, I was introduced through Kundalini yoga, and a friend of mine in the class who ran a crystal store. Curious, I placed a few within my own home and couldn't help but notice a familiar shift in how the space felt – calmer, lighter, more grounded. It wasn't unlike the elements that drew me to Sedona in the first place: the time-worn red rocks, ample sunshine, and towering saguaro cacti have a sense of quietude that reminds me the best things in life (and design) are often found when we stop to look at the world around us.

​I think there's a big misconception that crystals are purely for the spiritual, but I see them the same way I see any other natural detail; they're a tool we can use to influence how our spaces feel.

​It doesn't matter whether someone believes in their energetic properties or simply appreciates them for their beauty, because it's their organic connection and sense of permanence that gives them their anchoring effect. Their presence alone offers a natural, restorative calm that pushes us to feel more rooted and encourages us to relax, take a deep breath, and allow our minds to wander for a moment.

​When it comes to placing crystals in a home, the first factor I consider is scale. While I personally love a big statement piece, the ultimate goal is seamless integration. Bigger isn't always better, and neither is quantity. Wellness-centered design isn't a specific aesthetic, nor a checklist – how you bring these elements into your space is a choice that's uniquely your own. Often a single, thoughtfully placed stone can have a greater impact alone than when positioned around others.

​A sculptural geode quickly becomes a focal point on a fireplace hearth, a framed slab can stand in for an eye-catching painting, and clear quartz stones fixed within lighting can instantly elevate a fixture from functional to soft fascination, refracting light in a way that captures our attention; you can't help but pause and watch the dancing light as it moves across the room.

My simplest advice? Approach crystals as objects of art, rather than accessories of the home. The same way a sculpture might tell a story through its form, natural stones carry a narrative of time, told through each imperfection, vein, and inclusion.

And also, like art, they're uniquely personal. I always tell clients that selecting the right one for your space is a gut feeling: go with what you're drawn to and what makes you feel good, and from there, they can be placed intentionally, considering their position within the overall design so that whatever room they're in feels harmonious – an intentional choice, not an afterthought.

On an experiential level, crystals can also help signal other wellness rituals that find their way into our daily routines. A meaningful stone in the bedroom can be beautiful on its own, but it may also remind you to put away your device and open a book before bed. A geode thoughtfully integrated into your landscaping near an outdoor living space may double as a visual cue to meditate or take a moment of reflection.

At its core, wellness design isn't about the latest gadgets and trends – the new language of modern wellness is nature, and it's spoken through the ways we invite the outside world into our homes. Crystals are just one piece of the conversation, but they're one I find myself returning to time and again – quiet reminders that intentional details, even when small, have the power to center our homes and gently shape the way we feel as we move through life's noise.

Interior designer Stephanie Larsen is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor.

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One of the biggest misconceptions about interior design is that the project ends the moment the builders leave, the decorators pack up, and the furniture is delivered. In truth, some of the most important decisions are made right at the very end.

This week I am on site for one of those final installation days – always one of my favorite parts of a project, and always, if I'm honest, one of the most anxious. This is the point where things go wrong: something that worked on the plan doesn't actually work in the space, a piece arrives damaged, a problem surfaces that nobody could have pre-empted. After years of planning, drawing, sourcing and problem-solving, this is meant to be the moment it all comes together. Or at least, that's the hope.

Installation days are rarely as tidy as people imagine. There are boxes everywhere, artwork waiting to be hung, furniture that needs shifting by a few inches, accessories to style, and countless decisions that simply can't be made until you're standing in the room itself. No matter how much planning goes into a project, there are always surprises. Yesterday gave me one of those moments.

We had a beautiful Japanese vintage screen, originally chosen for our client's bedroom. As we began placing everything, my first concern wasn't how it looked but whether it was practical. The family has a young toddler, and I was concerned about how easily it would be for her to bump into it and for it to fall on her. My instinct was to move it to the living room instead; rather than standing free, we'd open it flat and mount it on the wall as a piece of art. Practically, it made sense. Aesthetically, its scale meant it could finally do what it was always meant to do – fill a wall and hold the room.

I suggested it. My client hesitated; she loved the screen, and she loved the idea of it in her bedroom. I was in Ibiza; she was in London. We FaceTimed, and I sent photos of both rooms. The moment she saw the screen held up against the living room wall, she said, 'There's nowhere else for it. It belongs here.' So instead of insisting, we talked it through together.

Once we stepped back and looked at the room as a whole, it was obvious she was right. The screen didn't just fit the living room – it completed it, adding height, softness, and a sense of balance the room would have lost had we moved it anywhere else. It was a good reminder that great design isn't about always being right. It's about staying open.

People often imagine designers arrive with a fully formed vision that never changes – that every item has its place long before installation day, and all that's left is to unpack the lorry and set things down according to plan. If only it were that simple. Interior design is constantly evolving. Drawings become reality. Colors behave differently in daylight. A piece that looked perfect on paper suddenly feels too dominant, or surprisingly restrained. Artwork shifts depending on what surrounds it. A chair meant for one corner somehow finds its true home somewhere else entirely.

Sometimes the room tells you something you couldn't have predicted – and that's fine, once you're willing to pivot rather than force something to fit where it shouldn't. In fact, I'd go further: that willingness is often exactly where the magic happens.

As designers, we're trained to plan meticulously. Every detail considered, every finish selected, every dimension checked and rechecked. Preparation is essential. But there's a point where planning must give way to instinct. A successful installation isn't about rigidly following a floor plan – it's about responding to the space in front of you. That takes confidence, but it also takes humility, knowing when to stand by a decision, and knowing when someone else – a client, a craftsman, or the room itself – is showing you a better one.

I've learned that the best projects are never the ones where every decision goes exactly to plan. They're the ones where everyone involved stays curious – where the client trusts the designer enough to explore other possibilities, the designer listens closely enough to recognize a good instinct when they hear one, and the trades bring ideas shaped by years of hands-on experience. Together, those conversations produce results none of us could have reached alone. Good design has far more in common with collaboration than control.

That's part of why installation days remain some of the most rewarding of my job. There's the satisfaction of watching years of work finally take shape, and the strange thrill of seeing, in real life for the first time, pieces you'd only known from a screen – often better in person than in any photo. But just as much, it's the team, people all pulling toward the same goal, problem-solving together rather than pointing fingers. That collaborative energy, when it's there, is its own kind of happiness.

To an outsider, it can look like we're simply arranging pillows and moving furniture. In reality, every object is being weighed against everything else. We shift a lamp because the evening light falls differently. We move a chair a few inches because the conversation area suddenly feels more natural. We take accessories away because the room doesn't need them, or add something unexpected because it does. Rarely does everything stay exactly as planned – and for me, that's not a sign the design has failed. It's proof the process is still alive.

Homes aren't static. They're lived in, shaped by the people who inhabit them, refined over time. The most memorable interiors never feel overly controlled or self-conscious – they feel effortless.

As I left site yesterday, I couldn't help smiling at that screen. Had we moved it as planned, the room would still have been beautiful. But by pausing to listen and reconsider, it became something better. Sometimes the best design decision isn't the one you made six months ago on paper. It's the one you're brave enough to make in the room.

However carefully we plan, there should always be room for a little flexibility, a little curiosity, and the occasional happy accident. More often than not, that's exactly where the magic lives.

Interior designer Katie Harbison is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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When people think about being an interior designer, they often imagine beautiful homes, exciting client meetings, and creative freedom. What they don’t always see is that it can also be an incredibly lonely profession.

For the first five years of my career after I set up my studio, I worked by myself in isolation. Every difficult decision rested on my shoulders. If a project wasn’t going to plan, there wasn’t anyone who truly understood the pressures I was facing. When I doubted myself, I didn’t have a trusted group of peers to sense-check my thinking or remind me that everyone experiences challenging moments.

Looking back, I wish I had realised much earlier just how valuable a strong network of fellow designers could be.

I wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of having employees, but that didn’t mean that I needed to face the decisions and pressure alone. Having friends or a network of designers who share the same passion for design as well as the same challenges can be invaluable when it comes to creating an enduring career in interior design without creative or entrepreneurial burnout.

Building that network didn’t come naturally to me. I’m naturally quite shy and, particularly in the early years of my career, I often felt like I didn’t belong in the rooms I was walking into. Like so many people, I experienced imposter syndrome and found networking events daunting. It would have been much easier to stay at home.

Instead, I made a conscious decision to keep putting myself outside my comfort zone. I attended industry events, introduced myself to people, followed designers whose work I admired, and slowly began building genuine relationships online. None of it happened overnight, but little by little my confidence grew, and those connections grew into genuine friendships.

Ten years ago, I decided to create a small collective of 10 interior designers. I sent a DM to every designer with whom I felt that I’d connected online, or was interested by, and who I felt I could build a friendship with and offer mutual support. I wasn’t sure if they would think I was weird wanting to invite them for dinner at my home when many of them I’d never met in real life, but each of them instantly recognised how valuable it would be to have a group of fellow designers that we could all lean on. We each took it in turns hosting dinner at our homes and stayed connected through a WhatsApp group. It became an invaluable part of my professional life, and for the other designers, too.

At those dinner parties and via message, we would have the conversations that you can’t have online on social media. We shared our pricing strategy, contracts, staffing issues, supplier concerns, as well as the occasional emotional toll of running a creative business in today’s fast-paced world. Since setting up that group from the original 10, I now count four as not just industry friends but very close friends. We’ve celebrated one another’s successes, visited international trade fairs together, shared recommendations, solved problems together, and supported each other through some incredibly difficult personal and professional moments. Having people who genuinely understand the unique challenges of running a design business is something I never take for granted.

One of the biggest misconceptions is that other designers are your competition. Of course, we all work within the same industry, but there is more than enough opportunity for everyone. Every designer has their own interior design style, their own clients, and their own perspective.

I’ve always believed that a rising tide lifts all ships.

Whether at dinner with my friends or with our online community across our social platforms, I’ve tried to be open in sharing my own experiences whenever I can. Collaboration has brought me far more opportunities than competition ever has.

A supportive network can help in countless ways. Sometimes it’s practical advice about suppliers, staffing, or running a business. Sometimes it’s simply someone saying, ‘I’ve experienced exactly the same thing,’ which can make an overwhelming situation suddenly feel manageable.

If you’re just starting, building that community can feel intimidating, particularly if you’re naturally introverted. So here are some tips on how to get started:

Start online. Follow designers whose work genuinely inspires you. Leave thoughtful comments rather than simply liking their posts. Congratulate people on their achievements. Share your own journey consistently, even if it feels like nobody is paying attention at first. Send the DM or email. I find most people are craving connection and genuine relationships, so even if someone doesn’t reply, it doesn’t matter – the right people will gradually find you.

Attend events if you have the opportunity. You don’t need to know anyone in the room. You only need one good conversation. Be curious and open, and over time, those conversations become relationships.

Don't hide behind perfection. We all have moments where we question ourselves, regardless of how long we’ve been in business. Being authentic creates much stronger connections than trying to appear as though everything is always effortless.

People often ask whether sharing knowledge means giving away your competitive advantage.

For me, the answer is no.

There is a difference between generosity and giving away your entire business model. I don’t believe in gatekeeping knowledge that could genuinely help someone else grow. Sharing lessons you’ve learnt, encouraging others and pointing people in the right direction strengthens the industry as a whole.

At the same time, if it's outside of a trusted circle of friends and someone asks you online, it’s perfectly reasonable to protect the parts of your business that are unique to you. Your intellectual property, your creative process, your commercial strategy and the finer details that have taken years to develop deserve protecting. You can be generous while still maintaining healthy boundaries.

Perhaps the greatest lesson I’ve learnt is that success becomes far more enjoyable when you have people to share it with. Equally, the difficult days become much easier when you’re surrounded by people who understand.

That belief is one of the reasons I recently created Moodboard. I wanted to build the kind of supportive community I wish had existed when I first started my career. With a forum for members to share their projects and ask for advice, a masterclass series featuring leading designers sharing their insights, it’s a place where aspiring and established designers can ask questions, share experiences, learn from one another and realise they don’t have to build a business entirely on their own. Knowing that I’ve helped even just one other designer avoid making an expensive mistake or supported them through a stressful situation is so rewarding. In today’s increasingly online and occasionally superficial world, genuine connection is more important than ever.

Interior design may often be a solo profession, but it doesn’t have to be a lonely one.

Interior designer Sophie Paterson is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on design.

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For years I decorated in a very narrow register. Stone, linen, plaster, wood. Warm whites and warm neutrals and the occasional black. I told myself it was about longevity. About letting the architecture speak. About not chasing trends.

Some of that was true. But some of it was fear.

The fear is specific. It's the fear of being wrong. Color commits you to something. A sage green kitchen is a decision you will live with for a decade. An ochre wall in a dining room announces a point of view. Beige doesn't do that. Beige is safe in exactly the way that makes a room forgettable.

Growing up between Tehran and Beverly Hills, then spending years in France, I moved through places that each had a distinct and confident visual language.

Persian interiors don't treat colour as decoration. They treat it as structure. The tile, the carpet, the wall all participate in the same argument. Color isn't an accent. It's the logic of the room.

Then I entered the world of interiors as a profession, where the dominant aesthetic for most of my career has been a studied neutrality. White walls. Objects placed with intention. The assumption that the quieter a room, the more sophisticated the eye behind it.

I absorbed all of it. For a long time, I reproduced it faithfully.

The shift happened slowly. I started noticing that the rooms I found most interesting, the ones I kept coming back to in my own references, were not the quiet ones. They were the rooms that had made a decision and committed to it. A deep terracotta that ran from floor to ceiling. A library lacquered in forest green. A bedroom where the entire scheme came from a single textile that someone had loved enough to build a room around. Those rooms had something the beige rooms didn't. They had a position.

I also started noticing it in my own decisions. Every time there were two directions, I chose the quieter one, not because it was better, but because it was safer.

The honest version of that is: I was protecting myself. A room that commits to nothing can't be wrong. A room with a strong point of view can be disagreed with. I was choosing rooms that couldn't be argued with over rooms that said something.

That's not design. That's hedging.

What changed practically was that I started treating colour the way I treat proportion. As a structural decision, not a decorative one. Color doesn't sit on top of a room. It determines how the room reads, how large or intimate it feels, what time of day it belongs to, what it asks of the furniture placed inside it. Restraint where restraint is correct. Commitment where commitment is required.

Where decorating is heading, I think, is back toward that. The appetite for beige and linen and quiet luxury has been enormous for the last decade. It's not over. But I'm seeing a tiredness with it in the projects coming to me now. Clients who come in saying they want something calm and end up choosing the boldest direction we put in front of them, because calm and interesting are not the same thing and they know it.

Colour is the braver choice. Not because it's difficult to execute, but because it requires you to have a position and defend it. You have to know what you want the room to feel like and commit to producing that feeling even when the safer version is right there.

I still use restraint. I still believe most rooms benefit from discipline and that the quieter something is, the more carefully it needs to be considered. But I no longer confuse discipline with avoidance.

The projects I'm most proud of are the ones where the safer direction was available, and we didn't take it.

Interior designer Nina Takesh is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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Italy is one of my greatest sources of design inspiration. I return often, and every visit offers something new: an unexpected color combination, a beautifully shaped door handle, a softened edge of hand-carved stone, or the way afternoon light moves across a centuries-old facade.

What I love most about Italian decor is that the design is not treated as decoration. It is woven into everyday life. Beauty is found in the smallest, most functional details: the shutter that softens the sun, the marble threshold worn down by generations of footsteps, the café chair pulled into the exact patch of shade. Nothing feels overly precious, yet everything feels intentional.

When I travel, I try not to rush. The biggest design lessons are rarely found through a car window. They reveal themselves while walking, sitting, lingering, looking up, stopping for a gelato or espresso, and allowing yourself to observe. Italy teaches through patience, through patina, and through the relationship between architecture, light, material, and place.

For anyone traveling to Italy this summer, these are the three design lessons I would pay closest attention to.

1. Study the Color Palette, Especially Outdoors

When I am in Italy, I always remind myself to look up. Notice the shutters, trim, doors, awnings, painted plaster, the way ivy changes the tone of a wall, and how time softens every surface. Patina is never something to erase. It is celebrated because it gives a building warmth, history, and emotional depth.

For interiors, this is an important lesson. A home feels more enduring when its palette is connected to its architecture and surrounding landscape. Color should never feel like the final layer. It should feel as though it has always belonged there.

2. Notice the Stone, and the Scale of Every Detail

The second lesson is to pay close attention to the way Italy uses stone. Marble, limestone, travertine, and other natural materials appear everywhere: floors, thresholds, countertops, window casings, stair treads, fireplace surrounds, bath walls, and fountains. They are never treated as decorative afterthoughts. Instead, they become an integral part of the architecture itself.

What always moves me is not just the material, but the care behind every decision. A countertop edge is never simply an edge. A window casing is more than a frame. The proportion, veining, finish, and placement all contribute to how a space feels. Even the smallest details are executed with intention, creating interiors that feel timeless rather than trend-driven.

Some of the most exceptional bathrooms I have seen in Italy are enveloped entirely in a single stone. The effect is immersive and architectural rather than flashy. Veining flows seamlessly from wall to wall, floors meet surfaces with quiet precision, and the material itself becomes the atmosphere. It is a reminder that luxury often comes from restraint, from committing fully to one honest, beautiful material instead of layering on more.

I also pay close attention to stone flooring. Inlaid patterns, tile scale, borders, thresholds, and transitions all offer valuable lessons. The best floors are perfectly proportioned to the rooms they inhabit. They ground the architecture, create rhythm, and give a space a lasting sense of permanence.

For my own work, this reinforces something I believe deeply: natural materials carry memory. Stone has weight, texture, movement, and permanence. When detailed thoughtfully, it gives a home a richness and longevity that cannot be manufactured.

3. Look Closely at the Hardware

The third detail I always study is the hardware. Italy understands that the pieces we touch every day deserve just as much attention as the architecture itself. Door handles, cabinet pulls, hinges, locks, and latches may seem like small details, but they shape the experience of moving through a space.

I am always drawn to hand-forged forms, aged brass, dark bronze, iron, and hardware that feels unique to a particular building or region. A handle may be slightly irregular. A pull may have a beautifully proportioned backplate. A latch may feel heavier than expected. These details introduce warmth and individuality in ways that are often subtle but incredibly impactful.

Hardware is often where a project finds its personality. It is one of the clearest distinctions between something generic and something truly bespoke. Scale matters. Finish matters. The weight of a knob in your hand matters. Even the relationship between a cabinet pull and the wood grain behind it can make a room feel more complete.

When I travel, I photograph these details constantly because they become part of my own design library. A single handle, hinge, or iron pull can inspire an entire project years later.

Italy reminds me that the smallest details are often the ones that stay with you the longest.

Interior designer Sarah Solis is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor.

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There is no better way to personalize our homes than with the artifacts of our lives: photographs, objects acquired on our travels, inherited furniture, and art.

The most powerful of these artifacts, and the ones we cherish most, are the ones that conjure a place and time to which we are connected in some meaningful way.

The only rule for displaying these items in our homes is to give them positions of distinction befitting their significance to us, regardless of their sophistication or monetary worth.

In my home, the antique maps of Cheshire, England that my husband collected prior to our marriage are displayed in the same space as the rocks I have picked up from the streets, beaches, and grasslands I have visited. And this is the theme for the most effective design schemes I have seen for collected objects, whose function is to remind as much as to decorate.

Fine art and children’s drawings, antique wooden furniture and sleek modern upholstery; precious metals and primitive stone sculptures, modern fixtures and leather-bound books all work together to tell our stories when rooted in our histories and passions.

Find and display those things you connect with, and you have a home.

My artifacts, and the travels that allow me to assemble them, play a pivotal role in my work, and my recent collection, Mementos, is a tribute to the creative power they hold.

One of its most evocative textiles, Noble, was inspired by a pair of crystal earrings I acquired from a street vendor after attending the Baccarat exhibit at its new Paris showroom, which displayed a fiery, intricately designed chandelier. I couldn’t take the chandelier home, but I could carry a bit of its beauty with me in miniature form.

Montage is a handwoven wallcovering that captures the slubs and texture of an antique kimono I acquired outside of Kyoto, which bore the marks of the fine craftsmanship exhibited in handmade Japanese textiles.

Expedition, the most passionate and heartfelt of the designs in the collection, is based on the memories and photos of the majestic animals I encountered in Botswana. No souvenir could capture the impact of their presence; the emotional memory and photographs were my collectibles, my muse.

A recent collection, entitled Alhambra, features a similarly inspired design called Medina: a mylar wallcovering that captures the patterning of one single ceramic floor tile spotted during my tour of the majestic palace.

In my Chelsea design studio, we have lucite trays positioned on our worktables that display whatever is inspiring me and my team at the moment. Some of these items are from exotic locations, some are very local, and some are in between. The qualifications for what makes it into the trays, my textile collections, and my home are all the same: a connection to the beauty they hold and the story they tell.

Interior designer Lori Weitzner is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor.

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There are very few things we consider entirely non-negotiable. Fresh flowers? Lovely, and a big yes every day. An antique over something new? Usually. One hundred per cent cotton sheets? Always.

People are forever asking us where they should invest in their homes. Marble. Lighting. A beautiful vintage chair. Our answer is almost never what they're expecting: your bed. Not because it's the most expensive thing you'll buy, but because it's the one you'll experience every single day.

Getting ready for bed is one of our favorite most sacred rituals. We look forward to it in much the same way other people look forward to dinner at their favorite restaurant in Positano.

It's the moment the day begins to soften. The lamps are dimmed, skincare is lined up on the vanity, and a few spritzes of Osea pillow mist land on freshly laundered bed sheets. The bedroom quietly announces that the day is over. We spend so much time talking about designing beautiful bedrooms, but what we're really designing is this feeling.

If you've followed us for a while, you already know where we stand on sheets. They must be 100 per cent cotton. When it comes to the best luxury bed sheets, we're simply not entertaining alternatives.

There is no greater luxury than slipping into freshly laundered cotton sheets at the end of the day. We plan our week around fresh linen day, and yes, they are washed every single week. Without discussion and preferably with a beautiful laundry scent. If your bed doesn't feel better than the one at your favorite hotel on vacation, we think there's room for improvement!

Summer, however, belongs to linen. There isn't another fabric we'd rather sleep in once the weather turns warm. Linen naturally regulates temperature, allowing heat to escape instead of trapping it, which means it stays beautifully cool through the night.

We also happen to love its personality. It wrinkles. It relaxes. It softens with every season. Like the most stylish people we know, linen understands that perfection is terribly overrated!

A beautifully dressed bed is all about proportion. Generous pillows, a perfectly tailored bolster, and a quilt folded, not arranged, at the foot of the bed.

Then comes the finishing touch: a throw in a color that wakes the entire room up depending on the season. Olive. Cinnamon. Aubergine. Perhaps an extravagant print. The bedroom doesn't need another beige blanket! It needs one thing that's just a little unexpected. Fashion has always understood this. Interiors should too. The best rooms are beautifully edited, never overworked, and the same goes for a bed.

A silk pillowcase has earned permanent residence in our bedrooms. Better hair, fewer sleep creases, more radiant skin, end of discussion! And then there's the Sleep Crown. Calling it an eye mask feels like calling Champagne sparkling wine. Technically true. Entirely missing the point. It settles gently over your eyes and somehow convinces your brain that tomorrow can wait until tomorrow. Look it up; it's handmade in Austin, Texas.

Every evening ends the same way: a few sprays of Osea pillow mist, the Sleep Crown, and the lamps turned low. There's a comfort in repetition. Rituals have a wonderful way of teaching the body that it's finally time to rest.

Nightstands say a surprising amount about a person. Ours are beautifully edited: a hand cream we never want to run out of, a lip mask, a box of tissues, because sometimes we have the sniffles. A favorite book, Osea pillow mist, and a beautiful carafe of water to keep us hydrated. Nothing unnecessary. Everything beautiful to make us feel like Joan Crawford.

Which brings us to the overhead bedroom light. We've never quite understood it. It's terribly useful if you've dropped an earring or you're packing for an early flight. Otherwise, we'd rather pretend it doesn't exist. Bedrooms deserve lamplight. Always. Warm, soft light that flatters both the room and the people in it, you of course.

We often talk about the idea of being beautifully selfish. Not selfish in the way the word usually suggests, but beautifully selfish.

Buying the beautiful sheets because you'll enjoy them every single evening. Choosing the silk pillowcase because you'll wake up happier and looking more beautiful tomorrow morning. Lighting the lamp instead of reaching for the switch overhead. Spraying the pillow mist. Taking the extra five minutes to meditate, not because anyone else will notice, but because you will trust.

We've always believed the greatest luxury isn't something reserved for special occasions or exorbitant amounts of money; it's something waiting quietly for you at the end of an ordinary Tuesday.

Perhaps that's why we invest in beds before almost anything else. Because a beautifully dressed bed doesn't simply change the way a bedroom looks. It changes the way we feel about turning in for the night.

LA LA Reimagined are some of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where they share their thoughts on decor. See the rest of their articles here.

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There was a time when finding one-of-a-kind pieces meant wandering through a tiny village in Tuscany, getting hopelessly lost in a Moroccan market, or convincing your spouse that you absolutely needed to detour three hours because someone mentioned a pottery studio hidden in the mountains.

Now? You can do it in your pajamas with a cup of coffee. Don't get me wrong, I will never discourage travel in the name of design. Some of my favorite pieces have been discovered while wandering down streets I couldn't pronounce. But the reality is that most of us don't have the luxury of hopping on a plane every time we need a beautiful vase or a statement light fixture.

Thankfully, the internet has done something wonderful for the design world. It has connected us directly with the artisans.

As an interior designer, I'm always looking for pieces that stop people in their tracks. Not because they're expensive. Because they're interesting. The kind of piece that makes someone ask, 'Where on earth did you find that?'

That's where platforms like Etsy and Faire have become absolute goldmines. Instead of buying the same accessories that appear in every big box retailer, you suddenly have access to ceramic artists in Portugal, textile weavers in India, painters in France, brass workers in Turkey, basket makers in Ghana, and furniture builders tucked away in small workshops across the globe.

You're not buying inventory. You're buying someone's craft.

One of my favorite discoveries recently was a maker creating hand-thrown pottery where no two pieces were exactly alike. Tiny imperfections? Absolutely. Perfectly symmetrical? Not even close. And that's precisely why they were beautiful. They had soul.

The same goes for handwoven textiles from India. The subtle variations in color, the texture, the evidence that actual hands, not a machine, created every thread. They instantly make a room feel layered and collected instead of looking like it arrived in one very large cardboard shipment.

And let's talk about lighting for a minute...

Lighting is one of the fastest ways to elevate a space, yet it's often where people play it safest. Scroll through Turkish artisans creating hand-forged brass pendants or mouth-blown glass fixtures, and suddenly you're wondering why we've all settled for the same three oversized linen pendants.

A handmade light fixture doesn't just light a room; it becomes the conversation. The beauty of these platforms is that they make exceptional craftsmanship accessible. Years ago, sourcing these pieces often meant trade connections, expensive buying trips, minimum order quantities, or simply knowing where to look.

Today? The world has essentially opened its workshop doors. That's not to say everything on these platforms is automatically a hidden treasure. Like anything, you have to dig a little. Think of it as thrifting without needing to leave the couch. Gems are hiding among thousands of listings, and sometimes the search is half the fun.

What I love most is the character these pieces bring to a home. A room filled entirely with catalogue furniture can feel... well... like a catalogue. Beautiful? Sure. Memorable? Maybe not. But introduce a hand-painted piece of artwork from a small studio in Europe, a woven basket from Kenya, vintage-inspired linens from Lithuania, or sculptural pottery made by an independent ceramicist, and suddenly the room tells a story.

The best interiors are never about spending the most money. They're about making thoughtful choices. In fact, many of these handmade pieces are surprisingly affordable. Because you're often purchasing directly from the maker, you're investing in craftsmanship rather than layers of retail markup. That doesn't mean everything is inexpensive, but it does mean your budget often stretches further toward something genuinely special.

There's also something incredibly satisfying about knowing exactly who made the object sitting on your coffee table. You can read their story, see their workshop, learn about their process, and understand why they create what they do.

That connection adds value that no price tag can measure. As designers, we spend a lot of time trying to create homes that feel personal rather than predictable. The magic usually isn't found in the sofa or the paint color. It's found in the unexpected moments – the handmade bowl on the kitchen island, the embroidered pillow no one else owns, the sculptural lamp that makes guests pause for a second look. Those are the pieces people remember.

So before filling your shopping cart with 20 things you've already seen in five of your friends' homes, spend an evening exploring the incredible makers scattered across the globe. Support the family weaving textiles in India. Discover the ceramic artist firing clay in Portugal. Find the painter creating original works from a small European studio. Commission the Turkish metalworker crafting light fixtures by hand.

Your home doesn't need to look like everyone else's. In fact, it shouldn't. The most beautiful spaces aren't assembled from one retailer. They're collected over time from people, places, and makers with stories to tell.

The best part? You don't even need a passport.

Interior designer Ashley Montgomery is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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The Eureka Moment is what I call it to myself. That Moment when, usually after a long and exhausting struggle, the idea emerges.

It’s that Moment, when, after pursuing a fleeting thought, a promising thought, it finally evolves beyond a rough sketch – or dozens of rough sketches – and false starts.

Before the form takes shape, it sometimes teases, torments – like waking up from a dream and remembering only fragments, but tantalizing ones, of a narrative that can’t quite be pieced together.

The Moment can arrive suddenly, magically and abruptly, almost immediately after beginning an exploration... or more often in my own experience, when hope is on the verge of being lost. And sometimes it is... sometimes the answer remains inchoate, formless, flawed.

When the solution does appear, however, it’s easy to recognize. It’s irresistible... it’s undeniable... it makes your heart beat faster. I like to hope that it’s also universal – of course, my client will see it and recognize that this is the way. Sadly, so sadly, that’s not always the case.

The story has it that the expression comes from the ancient polymath Archimedes, who shouted 'Eureka!', the Greek expression for 'I have found it!' when he solved a previously incomprehensible problem: realizing that the volume of an irregular object could be measured by the amount of water displaced.

Vitruvius tells this discovery in De Architectura, describing how Archimedes observed when he sank into his tub that an equal amount of water overflowed. In realizing this, he ran naked and jubilant through the streets of Syracuse, yelling 'Eureka!!! Eureka!!!

Over the past few years, I’ve been working on our inaugural book, On Artistry, which is coming out in September. The focus is on our collaborations with artists and artisans, how we work together to make crafted and deeply personal places.

The cover shot of the book (above) recalls a memorable Eureka Moment. We were designing a home for a wonderful Chicago family – they were dream clients: curious about design, open, literate, civic-minded. They cared deeply about education, reading, history, and family.

They had recently bought a home in a vintage 1920s building for their next chapter, now that their four boys were grown. The apartment plan had diagonal circulation cutting across the space, leading to oddly proportioned rooms. The orientation of the apartment was spectacular, with views of Lake Michigan to the northeast, across three bays of windows, and a magnificent sightline to a private terrace to the southwest. The floorplan is below.

During an early design meeting, we asked the couple about places that were special to them. The wife lit up and began telling us about the home where they raised their four boys.

The scene she set was evocative – four young boys tumbling into the house, covered in snow, shedding boots and snowsuits in the entry, gathering by the foyer fireplace where she would read to them. These memories moved us, and we decided that, of course, we needed to have a fireplace in the entry hall of the new place, recalling the boys’ childhood home. Having an entry that set the tone and immediately, and dramatically, introduced the home beyond was part of the design brief.

The entry sequence story unfolded easily and readily from that moment. Well, of course, the room would have a center table piled high with books. And naturally, there would be stools tucked under the table for those who wanted to stop and pause by the fireplace. And yes, our very talented friend Michele Costello would create the most beautiful moss green leather wall paneling, tooled with gold, that recalled the owners’ book collection and love of libraries.

These ideas were not, however, the Eureka Moment for this project. While we were sailing through defining the project’s design direction, we were struggling with the floor plan. Really struggling.

The project was to be a gut renovation. The spaces were deep with limited access to sunlight. While the views were stunning and the perimeter light generous, there were large areas that were far from the windows. One entry foyer, one kitchen, one living room, one dining room, one powder room, one family room, one office, one library, one bar, one pantry, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, one mudroom, one laundry, one terrace. It seemed that the three of us on the project labored through every possible permutation. And then we hit on it.

From the entry, we would design a library gallery, 14 feet wide by 60 feet long (below), that would connect the family room and terrace beyond to the living room with its water views, from the garden to the lake in one 95 foot vista. That gallery would be lined with bookshelves on one side, housing their collection, and comfortable seating by the windows on the other side.

The pieces fell into place. The kitchen, at the center of the apartment, would borrow light from the gallery and the adjacent dining room, with oeil de boeuf windows looking onto the living room and Lake Michigan beyond.

There is a feeling of anticipation that happens before the Eureka Moment, a recognition that the first piece has fallen into place. It’s what I imagine codebreakers enjoy when they’ve decrypted a cipher, a sort of sensory perception to cracking a lock.

Upon discovering this plan solution, the project sort of unfurled itself like a map. Here were the disparate fragments of our vision working in concert; here was the missing element. Here were the parquet de Soubise panels in oak, and here is where they transition to limestone. Here were the perfect sculptural sconces to light the path...

When I’m in the thick of this process, I try to keep some lessons learned over the years front of mind.

Do not be afraid of the chaos that precedes the Eureka Moment. Do not be alarmed if at some point the project looks strange and unfamiliar to you, if the elements are discordant, misaligned. Consider this as a sign that you’re exploring something new – who wants to design the same thing on repeat? Trust that this is a phase and you’ll work through it. Hone your instincts, practise your craft, record what you see.

You cannot force a Eureka Moment – the mechanisms of sudden strokes of genius are so rare, wild, fleeting, deep, and pretty mysterious, or we’d be replicating them all the time.

In Goethe’s words, it’s a Moment of 'a mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains...'

Interior designer Joan Craig is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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If you've ever sent me a DM asking, 'Okay Molly, but what white paint color is THAT?' this article is for you.

I would venture to say it is the question I am asked more than any other. More than where I source antiques. More than what is my favorite stone. It's always the white. And for years, I've been… vague.

Partly because the answer isn't as simple as naming a paint color. But also because choosing the right white paint is one of the few design decisions that can completely transform a home – and one of the easiest to get wrong. So today, I am giving away the farm.

I've Tested Hundreds of White Paint Colors – These Are the Five Worth Using

If you look through nearly every project we've completed over the last several years, you'll start to notice a pattern. The cattle ranch in South Dakota. The storybook cottage in Maryland. Farmhouses throughout Oregon. Country houses in California… Even many of our new construction projects that were basically built yesterday but feel as though they've stood for generations.

They're white.

Or at least an MKS version of white.

Not builder white. Not stark gallery white. Not the kind of white that feels blue on a cloudy day and yellow by sunset. The whites I love are softer than that. They have dirt under their fingernails. They carry a little cream, a little earth, a little age. They feel more connected to nature than to a paint deck.

And while people often assume I choose white room ideas because they're 'safe,' the truth is almost the opposite. Decorating with white is one of the hardest schemes to get right.

One drop too cool and a room feels sterile. One drop too yellow and it starts feeling dated. One undertone can make beautiful oak floors look orange. Another can make limestone suddenly feel gray.

When I am choosing a white paint, I rarely think about the paint itself.

I'm thinking about the light. I'm thinking about the land. I'm thinking about every material surrounding it.

The same white that looks beautiful on a cloudy Oregon morning will look entirely different beneath the bright sun of Southern California. A white that feels perfect next to antique brick may fall flat against limestone. The white I choose for a heavily wooded property is rarely the same white I would choose for an open coastal site.

Before I ever pull a paint sample, I am studying what already exists. The color of the soil. The surrounding trees. The age of the architecture. The direction the house faces. The stone, plaster, wood, and metals we're using throughout the project.

The best white isn't chosen in isolation. It is chosen in relationship.

That's why I believe the most beautiful white homes feel as though they've always belonged exactly where they stand.

I often reflect on the buildings that have shaped my own understanding of beauty: English farmhouses, French country estates, coastal New England homes, weathered barns throughout the Pacific Northwest. Their power rarely comes from color. It comes from proportion, materiality, and light.

A white exterior captures morning light differently than afternoon light. It changes with the seasons. It highlights the shadow lines beneath a roof. It emphasizes the texture of stone and brick. It allows an old cedar tree or climbing rose to become part of the architecture itself.

White doesn't compete with a landscape. It participates in it. Inside, the same philosophy applies.

1. Benjamin Moore – White Dove

One of my most trusted colors is Benjamin Moore White Dove. If I had to choose only one white for the rest of my career, White Dove would be difficult to beat. It has a softness that feels warm without ever becoming creamy. It works with antiques. It works with contemporary architecture. It works with nearly every natural material I love. It simply behaves.

2. Benjamin Moore – Swiss Coffee

Swiss Coffee is another favorite, though for a different reason. There is something nostalgic about it. It feels familiar in the best possible way. In homes filled with old wood, linen, vintage rugs, and collected pieces, Swiss Coffee creates an immediate sense of comfort. It is the design equivalent of candlelight.

3. Benjamin Moore – Natural Cream

Natural Cream is soulful. Earthy, grounded, and quietly lived-in, it reminds me of old plaster walls in European homes – surfaces that have absorbed decades of light, life, and patina. There is a depth to it that feels impossible to manufacture. Antique woods appear richer against it. Limestone takes on a warmer cast. Linen feels more relaxed and effortless.

4. Farrow & Ball – School House White

Lately, I have found myself reaching for School House White by Farrow & Ball again and again. Of all the whites I use, this may be the one that feels most architectural. It is restrained, understated, and quietly confident. Every time I use it, I find myself appreciating it more six months later than I did on install day – which may be the greatest compliment I can give a paint color.

5. Farrow & Ball – Au Lait

The color I almost hesitate to tell you about because it has become one of my secret weapons. At our Willamette Valley project, we used Au Lait as the tint for Venetian plaster throughout much of the home. The result wasn't a paint color at all. It was atmosphere. The walls absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Morning light felt different than evening light. The surface shifted throughout the day in a way that was almost impossible to photograph.

Those are my favorite whites.

The ones you notice without knowing why. The ones that don't scream for attention. The ones that quietly make everything else in the room more beautiful.

Because ultimately, this is what I have learned after years of obsessing over white paint: the best white is never really about the white.

It is about what the white allows you to see.

The antique wood feels richer. The stone feels more textured. The linen feels softer. The architecture feels more intentional. The light becomes the star.

And perhaps that is why I continue returning to white, project after project. Not because it is safe.

But because 20 years from now, when countless trends have come and gone, I suspect these colors will still feel exactly as beautiful as they do today.

As a reminder:

• White Dove – the forever classic
• Swiss Coffee – the familiar, comforting white
• School House White – the architectural white
• Natural Cream – the soulful white
• Au Lait – the plaster white

Interior designer Molly Kidd is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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There is a curious contradiction at the heart of interior design.

We spend years creating homes that are intended to last for decades, yet we consume design through an endless cycle of interior design trends that refresh every few months. One season we're told that curved furniture is the future; the next it's chrome, then burgundy, then butter yellow. The algorithms move quickly. Homes, thankfully, do not.

As designers, we're often asked whether something is 'on trend.' It's a question I've never been particularly comfortable answering, because the implication is that our homes should somehow keep pace with fashion. But a home isn't a seasonal wardrobe. It should become richer with time, not feel outdated because a color has fallen out of favor on social media.

I often say that I don't design around trends – I design around longevity. That doesn't mean a home should feel traditional or predictable. Quite the opposite. The most memorable interiors often feel incredibly current when they're completed, but years later they remain just as compelling because they were never chasing a particular moment to begin with.

Timelessness is frequently misunderstood. People imagine it means safe. Beige. Minimal. Perhaps even a little boring. Timelessness has very little to do with aesthetic style and everything to do with intention.

A timeless room isn't defined by the color on the walls or whether the sofa has rounded edges. It's created through proportion, quality, materials, craftsmanship and the emotional response a space evokes. Those things don't age because they were never dependent on fashion.

Think about the houses we continue to admire over decades – or even centuries – after they were built. We aren't drawn to them because they reflected the trends of their era. We admire them because they possess qualities that transcend them – beautiful light, generous proportions, natural materials, thoughtful detailing, and an authenticity that can't be manufactured. Those principles haven't changed, even if our Pinterest boards have.

When I begin designing a project, I rarely start by thinking about colors or furniture. I think about architecture first.

How does the light move through the home? How will someone experience the space throughout the day? What should feel calm? Where should there be intimacy? Which materials will improve rather than deteriorate with age?

These questions have far greater influence over the success of a home than whether travertine or walnut happen to be enjoying a resurgence.

Natural materials are perhaps the greatest lesson in timeless design. Stone develops character. Timber acquires patina. Linen softens with use. Brass wears in rather than wearing out. Their imperfections become part of the story of a home rather than flaws to disguise.

Contrast that with materials that rely on perfection. High gloss surfaces show every scratch. Synthetic finishes often look the same on day one as they do on day one thousand – except they're simply more damaged. They rarely become more beautiful.

I've always believed that a well-designed home should age in the same way people do – with character rather than perfection. That's one of the reasons I find trend cycles so fascinating. They encourage us to think that design is disposable, when the reality is that good interiors become more personal over time.

The homes I love most are never completely finished. They accumulate books collected on travels, antique vessels discovered at flea markets, artwork that wasn't purchased all at once, furniture inherited from family, objects with stories attached to them.

None of these acquisitions were made because they were trending. They were chosen because they meant something. Ironically, these are often the homes that end up feeling the most individual.

Of course, that isn't to say trends have no value. Trends can be incredibly useful. They reveal shifts in culture, new technologies, evolving lifestyles, and changing tastes. They introduce us to materials or crafts we may never have considered otherwise. The problem arises when we mistake a trend for an identity.

Instead of asking, 'Is this fashionable?' I think the better question is, 'Will I still love living with this in 10 years?' and this is the question I ask myself repeatedly throughout the design process. If the answer is "yes," then it doesn't matter whether it happens to be fashionable today.

Some of the strongest interiors quietly acknowledge trends without being defined by them. A contemporary silhouette might sit beside a centuries-old dining table. A modern light fitting may hang above reclaimed oak flooring. There is conversation between past and present rather than complete allegiance to one moment in time. That balance creates homes with depth.

Designing for longevity is, in many ways, the most sustainable decision we can make.

If a kitchen remains beautiful 25 years after it was installed, it is infinitely more sustainable than replacing it every seven years because tastes have shifted. If upholstery improves with age instead of requiring replacement, we reduce waste without sacrificing beauty.

Perhaps that's why I've never believed that timelessness means resisting change. Homes should evolve alongside the people who inhabit them. Layers are added, furniture moves, artwork changes, collections grow. Evolution is healthy.

But the foundation should remain strong enough that these changes feel like chapters in a story rather than complete rewrites.

When clients ask me what makes a home timeless, my answer is always surprisingly simple. Choose materials that improve with age. Prioritise proportion over decoration. Buy fewer things but buy them well. Collect rather than consume. And create spaces that reflect your life instead of someone else's algorithm.

Because trends inevitably come full circle. A home designed with authenticity never has to.

Interior designer Katie Harbison is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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One of the questions I am asked most often is, 'What trends are you seeing right now?'.

The truth is that interior design trends are one of the least important considerations in my work. While they often reflect broader shifts in culture, fashion, and the way we live, I have never believed a home should be designed around what happens to be popular at a particular moment. I start with people.

The homes that resonate most deeply are built around personality, lifestyle, memories, collections, and aspirations. They reflect the people who live there, not the moment in which they were designed.

One project that immediately comes to mind belongs to a client with a lifelong fascination with Marilyn Monroe.

Over the years, she has assembled an extraordinary collection of photographs, memorabilia, and artifacts connected to the actress.

Rather than treating the collection as something to display after the design was complete, we made it part of the design conversation from the very beginning.

The home's entryway creates a sense of anticipation before revealing a dining room anchored by a striking portrait of Marilyn and black-and-white photography from the collection.

The raspberry velvet chairs, dramatic lighting, and graphic black-and-white floor treatment were chosen because they reflected the glamor and confidence that drew the homeowner to Marilyn in the first place. The room feels personal because it was inspired by her passions, not a trend report

When a room reflects someone's personality, it naturally becomes more interesting than one assembled from a list of current trends.

This is why I believe we are moving away from the era of perfectly coordinated interiors. For years, many luxury homes followed a formula of coordinated finishes, carefully controlled palettes, and furnishings selected to create a seamless look. While beautiful, those spaces could sometimes feel interchangeable. Today, clients increasingly want homes that tell a more personal story.

One of my favorite recent projects illustrates this perfectly. At first glance, the living room feels calm and sophisticated, with soft neutral upholstery, dark wood beams, and a restrained palette. And then your eye lands on a large-scale artwork featuring vivid pinks and dramatic contrasts. That piece wasn't chosen because it was fashionable. It was chosen because it spoke to the homeowners. It introduces energy, personality, and a sense of individuality that no trend forecast could ever deliver.

One of my favorite details in a recently completed home is hidden in plain sight. An intricately carved antique door functions as both artwork and entrance to a concealed wine room.

Its craftsmanship and history create a sense of discovery that no newly manufactured element could replicate. Moments like these make a home memorable because they reveal something about the people who live there.

Timeless design does not have to be neutral. Some of the most enduring rooms I've created are among the boldest: an oxblood velvet library with a dramatic ceiling treatment, or a room wrapped in dark walls and metallic details that feels cinematic and enveloping.

Neither was designed to fit a trend cycle. Both were designed around the people who use them.

The irony is that when you stop chasing trends, your work often feels relevant for longer. Colors, materials, and aesthetics inevitably cycle in and out of fashion, but homes that genuinely reflect their owners rarely feel dated in the same way.

Whether I am designing for an art collector, a passionate entertainer, or a family creating new memories, the goal is always the same: to create a home that could never belong to anyone else.

That, to me, is the foundation of timeless design.

Interior designer Tineke Triggs is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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There has been a slow, quiet shift in design over the last few decades toward a minimalist approach in high-end residential design.

It was one of the original pioneers of minimalism, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, who coined the term 'less is more.' His designs were about finding beauty in the essential and stripping everything else away.

There is a shift happening in interior design in that having less but having it be exceptional has become the true marker of luxury. A home that functions beautifully without demanding constant attention feels far more luxurious than one overflowing with things that break, age poorly, or require endless upkeep.

In many ways, quiet luxury is really about freedom. Freedom from excess, freedom from maintenance, and freedom to spend your time and energy on living rather than managing your belongings.

The most luxurious spaces in 2026 are often the ones that feel calm, intuitive, and quietly permanent.

Spaces where nothing is fighting for attention and where the homeowner is freed from the exhausting cycle of constantly upgrading, replacing, organizing, and managing more. When they complete their renovation, they have something timeless.

I personally find this to be such a thrilling challenge in our designs. I also love to occasionally indulge in a more maximalist feel in a space, but through wallpaper and paint and layering texture rather than through actual objects, accessories, or collections.

I still feel the energy of a space that is loaded with items to be overwhelming in my own life.

If a client comes to us with collections, we utilize this personal touch but also work to contain those collections to certain areas so that they don’t spill out over the whole house, creating a feeling of clutter or overwhelm.

When thinking of the term 'quiet luxury' in my designs of homes for clients, and for myself, I also understand that the term is not just about owning less for the sake of minimalism.

It’s so much more layered in the approach. It’s more about living with intention. And what comes with that in this day and age means removing the constant low-level noise that comes from managing too much stuff.

So, how do we deal with this in a time when children come home with goodie bags filled with plastic toys, stickers, and candy from a birthday party, or when each time someone comes to visit, they feel the need to bring a 'hostess gift' that lands on the counter or in a drawer?

In my own lake house, I wanted a more extreme restraint in color and pattern, and I wanted the view of the water over the changing seasons to be the true star of the show.

An immediate reminder to me each time I enter the house that this is a place where I can leave my work behind and focus on the deep relaxation I had intended for this home.

For years, wealth was expressed through abundance. More rooms, more furniture, more collections, more storage units filled with things we might need someday.

But the modern luxury client is beginning to recognize that excess often comes with a hidden cost: maintenance, decision fatigue, clutter, repairs, and the constant mental burden of managing objects.

The goal is not simply to create a beautiful home. It is to create a home that asks very little of the people living in it.

Interior designer Jess Cooney is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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I’m always fascinated by the tension between a creator’s vision and the collaborative process. In looking at interiors, we’ll often talk about that authentic voice, that singular point of view. Let’s step back and look at those expressions...

To my eye, I’d say that the most compelling design projects are shaped by the conversation and critiques that challenge the initial idea. What makes a space intriguing is the result of many hands and many minds.

The solitary genius is a myth. Yes, Leonardo was an extraordinary visionary, but his ideas and projects were shaped by a dynamic studio of apprentices and artists, fueled by inventive patrons and mentors. Leadership in creative ventures is, of course, essential. Beyond the initial spark, the most interesting work is done around the table, debating, reiterating, sketching, reiterating, starting again… until resolution is found.

I remember arriving at architecture school and being stunned, absolutely floored, by the process. Prior to this, I’d studied the history of architecture and art in college.

Success was found by coming up with a thesis, doing the research, writing a paper, submitting it for review, reading the comments. It was a largely solitary effort.

The education of an architect or a designer is very different. I’ll never forget my first project in studio. It was unlike anything I'd ever known. The shock was that anyone walking by your studio desk could see what you were making, how you were thinking, whether you were flailing or sailing along.

There was a tremendous sense of exposure and vulnerability.

Unlike my time in college writing alone at my computer, which was a very private experience, in the studio, any passerby could witness – and comment on – a drawing, a model, a struggle, an idea, a victory.

And so they did, and this is where the fundamental learning occurs. A classmate would come by, 'Hey, I see where you’re going with this. Have you ever thought about removing that carbuncle and letting that form read as a pure bar?'

Often, a few others would come over and join in the critique, usually offering conflicting ideas and directions, turning concepts and spaces inside out, regularly leaving me upside down.

And the language… the vocabulary of design school was a language unto itself, one that used familiar words but was foreign and often impenetrable – talk about the envelop, genius loci, truncated, gesture, nodes, pods, palimpsest, morphology, transparency/opacity, simultaneity, parallax…

I remember sitting in on my first jury, as I was visiting Princeton before deciding to attend.

Setting the scene: the young architect was pinning up her drawings and setting down her models. Clearly sleep-deprived with hair uncombed, she stood before four or five critics, a few of whom she knew from the studio and the others brought in from other schools and practices, to present her work.

Clearly a veteran of the process, now in her third year of school, she began: her big idea, questions from jurors, her rationale and response, their debate of her work, a discussion which quickly veered from the specifics of her project to a larger academic discourse.

At the end of the day, the many hours she spent designing a nursery school on the Lower East Side inspired a conversation covering everything from challenges and solutions, incorporating outdoor play into early childhood settings, to sensory play and color theory.

And this is how we learn as designers. We learn through dialogue.

These conversations fuel my work, lift my spirits, and make my heart beat faster. From my years in architecture school decades ago to the present, these design discussions continue and never get old... whether with colleagues, mentors, collaborators, clients, students, interns, friends, my architect husband, my architect daughter, my consultant daughter, my Hollywood son.

Through collaboration, drawing, re-drawing, and beginning again, our projects evolve, becoming richer and more compelling.

In the coming months, I’m going to be writing more about collaboration, a topic that I find endlessly intriguing, in this column. How has partnering with an artist shaped the design of a room? With the explosion of AI, how do we take it on as a powerful collaborator... supporting craft and the hand? What are the key ingredients to success in the dialogue between the design and the maker?

And this September, I’ll be launching a book with Rizzoli called On Artistry, looking into our work with artists, artisans, and craftspeople.

Interior designer Joan Craig is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor.

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These days, almost everyone has access to the same furniture. Whether you're shopping on Wayfair, IKEA, Article, West Elm, Crate & Barrel, Facebook Marketplace, or your local home store, we're all swimming in the same sea of algorithms. We search for a coffee table, and suddenly we're being served the matching rug, lamp, side table, artwork, and accessories to complete the look.

Convenient? Absolutely. Interesting? Not always.

The result is homes that can feel as though they were purchased in a single checkout cart. Everything matches, but nothing feels personal. And that's exactly what you want to avoid.

One of the biggest design secrets that professionals know and that homeowners often overlook, is that budget has very little to do with whether a room feels unique. Some of the most memorable spaces I've seen weren't filled with expensive furnishings. They were filled with character.

A beautiful room doesn't come from buying all the 'right' pieces. It comes from creating tension between them. New and old. Polished and imperfect. High and low. It's the transitional mix that creates interest.

When working with clients on a tighter budget, I encourage them to stop asking, 'Where should I buy everything?' and start asking, 'How can I make this mine? That shift changes everything.

A dining chair doesn't have to stay exactly as it arrived. Recover the seat in a fabric you love. An inexpensive dresser can look completely different with upgraded hardware. A standard lamp can become something special with a custom shade. Even something as simple as changing the finish on a piece of furniture can transform it from generic to intentional.

The goal isn't necessarily to spend more money. It's to spend more thought. Sometimes the most impactful upgrades are surprisingly small.

I often tell clients that if they have a limited budget, they should save some of it for customization.

People tend to allocate every dollar toward purchasing furniture and then wonder why the room feels unfinished. A little money set aside for fabric, paint, framing, or hardware can have a much bigger impact than upgrading from one sofa to another.

Then there's art.

If there's one area where I encourage people to get creative, it's here. Too often, art becomes an afterthought. A room comes together, and then a few generic prints are ordered to fill the empty walls. But artwork is one of the quickest ways to inject personality into a space.

And contrary to popular belief, meaningful art doesn't have to be expensive. Support a local artist. Frame a vintage sketch. Buy photography from an emerging creative. Display something inherited. I've even framed children's artwork in projects before because it told a story about the family living there.

Art should feel personal, not prescribed.

The same goes for accessories. Not every shelf needs to be styled with the exact objects shown in a retailer's catalogue. In fact, I'd argue that's the fastest way to make a room feel staged rather than lived in. The best accessories are often the ones collected over time: a ceramic bowl picked up while travelling, a stack of books you actually read, a small sculpture discovered at a flea market.

Those pieces create a narrative. They give people clues about who you are. Vintage is perhaps the most powerful tool of all.

Not because everything old is inherently better, but because vintage pieces bring something that new furniture often can't: individuality.

A room that is entirely brand new can sometimes feel flat, even when every piece is beautiful. Introduce a vintage chair, an antique mirror, or a weathered side table, and suddenly the space gains depth. The imperfections become part of the charm.

Think of vintage pieces as the punctuation marks in a room. They don't need to dominate the conversation, but they make everything around them more interesting. And no, vintage shopping doesn't require spending every weekend digging through dusty antique stores. Some of the best finds come from estate sales, online marketplaces, auctions, and local consignment shops. You only need one or two great pieces to completely shift the feeling of a room.

Ultimately, the goal isn't to hide the fact that you bought something from a big-box retailer. The goal is to stop letting that retailer dictate the entire story of your home. Your house should not look like Page 47 of anyone's catalogue. Mix high with low. New with old. Expensive with inexpensive.

Recover the chair. Change the hardware. Frame the sketch. Buy the vintage side table nobody else noticed.

Because good design has never been about where you shop. It's about what you do with what you find. And that's what makes a home feel uniquely yours.

Interior designer Ashley Montgomery is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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The parquet floors in most older European apartments are original. They were there before the current tenant, and the one before that, and the one before that. Nobody installed them as a design choice. They are simply what the floor is, and the whole room responds to them: the rugs, the furniture placement, the atmosphere. The room arrived with its character already intact, and the job of everyone who has lived in it since is to respond to that, not override it.

This is the thing I keep coming back to in every home renovation and flip I take on. My instinct, before anything else, is to find what's already there and worth keeping. The original floor, the original molding, the original proportions. The bones of a room that someone built with intention, often a century ago, are almost always better than what we'd put in their place. Preserving them isn't nostalgia. It's good design sense. The room already knows what it is. The work is learning to listen to it.

That logic runs through everything I find myself admiring in European homes. The room sets the terms. The objects answer it. And the spatial decisions, the things that make those interiors feel the way they do, follow directly from that understanding.

The first consequence is doors.

Every room in a traditional European home has a door. You don't drift from the kitchen into the living room. You enter them. Each room you arrive at has to justify itself the moment you cross into it, and it closes behind you. The room is a complete thing.

The open-plan layout eliminated this. What it replaced it with is a single large space, asked to be a kitchen, a living room, a dining room, and somewhere calm, all at once. Most of the time, it fails at all four. The rooms should be closed. Even partially. Even with a pocket door that's almost always open. The threshold matters.

The second consequence is the entrance.

Even in a 45 square meter Paris apartment, the foyer is a room. There's a table, a mirror, a specific place for what your pockets held when you came in. The French have an object for this: the vide-poche, literally 'empty pocket.' A dish where the keys go, where the coins go. The entrance is not a transition. It's the first room, and it's designed to function as one.

In the homes I've worked on that feel most like themselves, the entrance is the room I think about first. Not the kitchen, not the living room. It sets the register for everything that follows.

The third consequence is the kitchen.

This is the one that clients push back on most. The instinct right now is to open everything up, to knock through and make the kitchen part of the living room, to make it visible and social and central. I understand the appeal. I've also spent enough time in European homes to know what gets lost when you do it.

A traditional European kitchen in an apartment is a functional space, not a showpiece. Separate, not hidden. Its own room with its own door. The living space doesn't have to absorb the smell of dinner being made or the visual noise of a counter that hasn't been cleared. The salon gets to be the salon. Each room is asked to do one thing well rather than everything adequately.

When I separate the kitchen in a project, even partially, even with a wide opening rather than a full wall, something shifts in how the rest of the space sits. The living room stops apologising for the kitchen behind it. It becomes the room it was supposed to be.

This is the misread. We've been trying to copy the look while skipping the logic entirely.

The logic is this: the room sets the terms, and everything else responds. Each space deserves a threshold and a single purpose. The entrance tells the home what it is. The kitchen is allowed to be a kitchen. And the original floor, if it's still there, is almost certainly better than whatever you'd replace it with.

Most of the time, what's missing from a home isn't more. It's a door.

Interior designer Nina Takesh is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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When people think about interior design, they often imagine a process of addition. More furniture, more finishes, more decorative layers. Clients frequently come to us believing that creating a beautiful home is about finding the perfect pieces to fill every room.

Yet some of the most important decisions I make on a project involve removing things rather than adding them.

Over the years, I've come to believe that great design is, above all, an exercise in editing. The difference between a good interior design and a truly timeless one is rarely found in what has been included, but in what has been left out.

We live in a world of constant visual stimulation. Social media feeds are filled with perfectly styled interiors, each competing for attention through statement lighting, bold room color ideas, patterned surfaces, and carefully curated accessories. While these spaces can be inspiring, they often leave little room for the qualities that make a home feel enduring: calm, balance, and authenticity.

One of the first things I look for when walking through a property is visual noise. It might be an excess of materials, too many competing focal points, or decorative features that distract from the architecture itself. More often than not, a room feels unsettled not because it lacks something, but because it contains too much.

As designers, we're trained to solve problems. Sometimes, however, the solution is restraint.

A home doesn't need every surface to make a statement. In fact, when everything demands attention, nothing truly stands out. By simplifying a material palette, reducing unnecessary detailing, or allowing a single element to take center stage, a space immediately feels more resolved. The eye knows where to rest, and the architecture is given room to breathe.

This philosophy has been shaped by the spaces that have influenced my own design perspective. I've always been drawn to interiors that prioritise architecture, proportion, and materiality over decoration. Some of the most memorable spaces I've encountered are remarkably simple. They don't rely on trends or excessive ornamentation. Instead, they create atmosphere through natural light, thoughtful craftsmanship, and materials that reveal their beauty over time.

Material selection plays a particularly important role in this approach. I've long believed that fewer, better materials create stronger interiors. Rather than introducing multiple competing finishes, I prefer to allow natural materials to speak for themselves.

Reclaimed timber, natural stone, limewash, and aged metals all possess a richness that doesn't require embellishment. Their beauty lies in their texture, imperfections, and the sense of history they bring to a space.

When materials have integrity, there's less need to decorate around them.

This approach also creates longevity. Trends inevitably come and go, but materials with depth and authenticity tend to age gracefully. They develop character rather than becoming dated. In an industry that often celebrates the new, there's something reassuring about designing homes that become more beautiful with use.

Editing extends beyond aesthetics. It also shapes how a home functions.

One of the most common mistakes I see is the assumption that every corner needs to be filled. Empty space is often mistaken for unfinished space, when in reality it's one of the most valuable design tools we have. Negative space creates balance, improves circulation, enhances natural light, and gives important pieces the presence they deserve.

Perhaps that's why I find myself removing things throughout almost every project. It may be an unnecessary architectural detail, an overly decorative finish, or a layer that no longer serves the overall vision. The goal isn't minimalism for its own sake, nor is it about stripping away personality. It's about refining a space until what remains feels intentional.

In many ways, editing requires confidence. It's often easier to add than it is to take away. Adding can feel productive; editing demands patience and the willingness to trust that simplicity can be enough.

The homes that stay with us are rarely the loudest. They're the spaces that feel grounded, authentic, and quietly assured. Homes where architecture and interiors work together seamlessly, where materials are allowed to age with grace, and where every element has earned its place.

For me, that's the true power of editing. Not creating less for the sake of it, but creating space for the things that matter most.

Interior designer Katie Harbison is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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There’s a moment that happens in almost every project.

The furniture is installed, the styling is layered in, and everything looks exactly as it should. It’s polished, balanced, and ready for the photographs... and then real life walks in the door. Shoes get kicked off, kids sprawl across the sofa, a dog claims its favorite corner, groceries are spilled across the kitchen counter, and suddenly the space begins to shift.

The truth is, the most successful homes aren’t the ones that look perfect for a single moment; they are the ones that continue to feel good long after the photos are taken. After all, the most beautiful home can be the ugliest if it doesn't function for you.

Designing for real life doesn’t mean sacrificing beauty. It means being intentional about how a home will actually be used, and building in the kind of quiet resilience that allows it to evolve with the people living in it.

This is when you have to be honest with yourself – how do you REALLY live? Do your clothes end up on 'that bedroom chair,' or if your closet is color-coded and organized? Do you cook and rest that tomato sauce spoon on the counter, or is delivery more your style?

There is no right or wrong way to live, but let's be honest, you won’t change your habits, so be truthful – design a home that works with how you live, not the idea of how you would like to live.

1. Start with How You Live, Not How It Looks

Before thinking about finishes or furniture, the most important question is: how does this space need to function daily?

Where do bags get dropped? Where does everyone naturally gather at the end of the day? Which surfaces are used constantly, and which are purely visual?

These patterns often reveal themselves quickly, and designing around them creates a home that feels effortless rather than staged. By doing this, you'll find that things have a home and a place. One of those 'if you build it, they will come' scenarios. If you have a bowl to drop keys and mail in, then that's where the keys should effortlessly land.

2. Choose Materials That Get Better with Time

A home that’s meant to be lived in should never feel fragile.

Natural materials like wood, stone, and linen tend to wear in rather than wear out. Or as I like to say, 'create memories'. They develop a patina, soften at the edges, and tell a story over time.

Performance fabrics have also come a long way, offering durability without sacrificing texture or depth. There was a point in time when you could 100% tell the difference between a treated and non-treated fabric, but that's not the case anymore. You aren't limited to solids either; patterns and embroidered fabrics are all coming in indoor/outdoor alternatives that allow you to really use these fabrics in day-to-day life without worry.

The goal isn’t to prevent wear entirely, but to choose finishes that embrace it gracefully.

3. Upholstery Is Where Function Matters Most

Sofas and dining chairs are often the hardest-working pieces in a home, yet they’re frequently chosen based on appearance alone.

Deeper seats, supportive cushions, and fabrics that can withstand daily use make a significant difference. Slipcovers, tightly woven textiles, or treated fabrics can provide peace of mind, especially in homes with children or pets (or a handtalker with a glass of red wine!), without compromising the overall look.

4. Layer for Flexibility, Not Perfection

A home designed for real life should have a sense of ease to it.

This often comes from layering: a mix of textures, movable pieces, and elements that can shift as needed.

A stool that doubles as extra seating, a bench that collects everyday items and houses your collection of vintage design books underneath, or a rug that softens a high-traffic area.

These small decisions allow a space to adapt without losing its intention. This is also an area where you can add things that mean something to YOU! A collection of family photos, a display of rustic bird houses, whatever it is, as long as it has meaning to you, will bring you joy every time you look at it.

Perfection is static. Good design leaves room for movement.

5. Accept That Spaces Will Evolve

No home stays exactly the same.

Children grow, routines change, and what once worked beautifully may need to shift over time. Designing with this in mind and choosing timeless foundations and avoiding overly rigid layouts is what allows you to create longevity.

It also removes the pressure for everything to feel “done” all at once. There's a beauty and great satisfaction in allowing things to grow over time as you find the perfect pieces.

6. Beauty Is in the Balance

Perhaps the biggest misconception is that a livable home can’t also be elevated. In reality, the most inviting spaces are often the ones that feel collected, comfortable, and a little undone. They reflect the people who live there, rather than an idea of how things should look.

A well-designed home should support your life, not compete with it. Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t to create a space that photographs well, it’s to create one that lives well.

Interior designer Ashley Montgomery is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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Every spring, I find myself returning to the same idea: flowers should feel like an extension of a home, not simply decoration placed inside of it.

At Molly Kidd Studio, florals are part of what I think of as a home’s framework philosophy – the layers that quietly shape the atmosphere of a room alongside lighting, textiles, scent, and collected objects.

The best arrangements are never overly styled. They feel natural to the space and to the core, as though they could not exist anywhere else.

Lately, I’ve been especially drawn to a moodier, more restrained approach to decorating with flowers for spring. Less pastel perfection, more texture and atmosphere.

I want arrangements to feel gathered during a walk through an old garden or clipped from a branch just beginning to bloom outside an open kitchen window. There’s something far more luxurious to me about a few sculptural stems placed thoughtfully than an overflowing bouquet trying too hard to announce the season.

I think this is why I’m so inspired by the quiet elegance of European interiors. In many of the homes I return to for inspiration – old Paris apartments, English country houses, Belgian interiors layered with linen and patina – flowers are treated with incredible restraint.

A single architectural branch in an oversized vessel. A loose collection of hellebores on a desk table. Wild asymmetry with a mix of tightly rounded arrangements. The flowers feel like part of the room itself.

This spring, I keep gravitating toward florals with a deeper, more grounded palette. To me, flowers say so much about the personality of a home. I often think that if a house had a signature bloom, it would reveal everything about the way it wants to be lived in.

Chocolate cosmos, with their velvety petals and almost cocoa-like scent, bring richness and softness without feeling overly romantic. Cosmos feel artistic and eclectic, slightly undone in the most beautiful way.

Smoky mauve tulips have a shadowy beauty I love paired against aged wood and stone. A tulip belongs to the quietly traditional interior – timeless, understated, tailored.

Fritillaria, with their delicate drooping heads and subtle movement, feel wonderfully intellectual and slightly untamed.

Quince and dogwood branches have become one of my favorite things to style because they create shape so effortlessly – dramatic, sculptural lines that instantly change the energy of a room. Dogwood belongs in romantic cottage interiors layered with books, gathered fabrics, and antique woods.

Peonies, despite their romantic reputation, can feel surprisingly modern in minimalist European spaces where their fullness softens cleaner architectural lines.

Roses will always remind me of Southern grandeur – gracious homes filled with heirlooms, candlelight, and entertaining.

Iris, perhaps my favorite of all, feels deeply old-world and intellectual, the kind of flower I imagine resting beside stacks of art books in a dim library.

Even the vessels matter just as much as the flowers themselves. I’m always reaching for tobacco-colored pottery, worn terracotta, smoked or Murano glass, rather than bright ceramics.

I want the arrangement to feel earthy and layered, almost as though it has always lived there. Mossy greens, trailing vines, and irregular branches create a softness that feels collected rather than arranged.

I’ve also become increasingly interested in treating florals as temporary architecture within a home. Single-stem arrangements, especially, have such incredible power. It creates movement and silhouette without visual noise. I think there’s something incredibly confident about restraint – allowing negative space to exist and letting one beautiful thing speak for itself.

And perhaps the most overlooked layer of floral design is fragrance.

I’ve noticed more and more that scent is what people remember long after they leave a home. Tomato leaf, especially, seems to have quietly taken over the design world lately, and I completely understand why. It smells green, earthy, nostalgic – like gardens warming in the afternoon sun.

Fresh lilac branches in an entryway, geranium leaves in a kitchen, jasmine drifting through an open window – these details change the emotional experience of a room entirely.

Fragrance affects memory, mood, hospitality, and even our perception of luxury. A home that smells alive feels infinitely more inviting than one that simply looks beautiful. I think people are craving that sensory depth again – spaces that feel layered and lived in rather than perfectly styled for a photograph.

What I love most about early spring flower arranging is its impermanence. Historically, arrangements were often incredibly simple: clipped branches from the garden, a few blooms gathered from outdoors, flowers placed casually into whatever vessel was nearby.

There was beauty in that looseness. In the fleetingness of it.

That philosophy continues to shape the way I approach florals today. I never want arrangements to feel overly perfected or disconnected from the home around them. I want them to soften architecture, create a mood, and bring life into a room in a way that feels effortless.

Interior designer Molly Kidd is one of Homes & Gardens' Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

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We often focus on the pieces we bring into a room, but the surfaces that surround them can be just as transformative. Walls, ceilings, and architectural details are far more than a backdrop; they offer an opportunity to introduce depth, movement, and character in a way furnishings alone cannot. This is where working with an artisan can completely change the experience of a space, creating something that feels deeply personal and impossible to replicate off the shelf, and taps into the quiet luxury trend.

Even a small pantry can become something extraordinary through decorative painting. In my own work, I often look to Decorative Artist Caroline Lizarraga, whose hand-painted finishes have a remarkable softness to them, even in darker palettes. Her work never feels applied on top of a room, but woven into the architecture itself. Here, the walls and ceiling are treated as one continuous canvas, with a delicate motif drifting across the space. The effect is immersive yet gentle, enveloping the room without overwhelming it.

That same sense of artistry can bring quiet drama to larger spaces as well. In this sitting room, a painted ceiling introduces movement and pattern overhead, allowing the rest of the room to remain restrained and calm. It is a reminder that interest does not always need to come from adding more objects or decoration. Sometimes the most impactful gesture is simply rethinking the surfaces already there.

Plaster, too, can become something expressive and atmospheric when approached with intention. In one bathroom, the walls are finished in a richly layered plaster by Charles Leonard, with a flowing, almost sculptural pattern wrapping the back of the water closet. The movement feels organic rather than decorative, as though it emerged naturally from the architecture itself. Even in a small room, that level of craftsmanship creates an unmistakable sense of depth and presence.

Lacquer offers an entirely different experience. In a luxury living room enveloped in deep, saturated color, a lacquered finish captures and reflects light in a way flat paint never could. William Racker’s work has an extraordinary clarity and luminosity to it, giving the walls a richness that shifts throughout the day as the light changes. The palette may be controlled, but the room itself feels alive and constantly evolving.

What unites all of these finishes is the hand behind them. Artisan work brings nuance, individuality, and a sense of permanence that mass-produced treatments rarely achieve. These surfaces are not simply applied; they are layered, shaped, and considered in direct response to the architecture around them. And for homeowners, that does not mean every room needs an elaborate treatment.

Often, a single moment – a lacquered home library, a painted ceiling, a plastered entryway – is enough to transform the feeling of an entire home. When a room feels as though something is missing, it is often this layer: the subtle artistry that may be difficult to define, but is instantly felt when it is present.

Interior designer Tineke Triggs is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor. See the rest of her articles here.

Perfection has long been the benchmark of beautiful interiors. Crisp linens, untouched marble, immaculately styled shelves – these elements have defined what many of us expect from a ‘well-designed’ home. But increasingly, this kind of perfection feels a little distant.

Lovely to look at, yes – but often missing the warmth and individuality that make a house truly feel like home. Spend enough time scrolling through flawlessly finished spaces on Instagram and a pattern emerges: they are visually striking, yet reveal very little about the people who live in them. Complete, but not necessarily personal.

We are far more drawn to the subtle clues of real living – the objects, layers, and imperfections that tell a story. It’s why, when photographing a finished project, we often seek out our clients’ personal belongings to style the space. These details bring life to a room in a way no showroom arrangement can.

A quieter shift is now taking place. The most compelling homes are no longer those that feel untouched, but those that feel lived in – spaces where time, use, and memory are allowed to leave their mark. A gently worn dining table, marble counters etched with faint rings of wine, a favourite armchair reupholstered more than once, a rug softened by years of footsteps or marked by the presence of children or pets – these details bring depth and character in a way pristine perfection never can.

This is the essence of what we call the anti-perfect home: a design approach that prioritises comfort, evolution, and authenticity over rigid or artificial ideals.

For decades, interior design trends have been shaped by the idea of the showroom – a space designed to be admired rather than truly lived in. Everything is carefully placed, every surface maintained, every detail considered. While undeniably beautiful, such spaces can feel more like a snapshot than a setting for everyday life.

In the age of social media, this effect has only intensified. Rooms are often styled for a single image, designed for immediate impact. But a home is not an Instagram post – it is something you move through, grow within, and return to each day.

The anti-perfect home embraces this reality. Rather than striving for a finished, unchanging look, it allows interiors to evolve naturally over time. Scratches, softened edges, and subtle signs of wear are not flaws to be concealed, but markers of a life well lived – something we always remind our clients.

Materials play a central role in this shift. Rather than choosing finishes that remain static, there is a growing appreciation for those that evolve over time. Unlacquered brass – something we intentionally incorporate into our kitchen designs – deepens with use, developing a rich, lived-in glow. Limewashed walls respond softly to the light, revealing texture and nuance as the day unfolds. Natural stone gathers delicate markings that quietly reflect the rhythms of daily life.

What was once considered wear is now understood as character – something that adds rather than detracts.

Furniture, too, benefits from a shift in perspective. Instead of being replaced at the first signs of age, pieces are maintained, adapted, and allowed to continue their story.

A beloved chair might be reupholstered in a fresh designer fabric, while still retaining its familiar shape. A table can take on new meaning as it shifts from formal occasions to everyday use. Nothing should feel too precious.

Over time, this approach creates interiors that feel layered and personal. A contemporary sofa might sit comfortably alongside a vintage side table; a cherished heirloom might find its place beside a recent flea market discovery. The result is a home that feels collected rather than decorated – one that tells your story.

There is also a gentle move away from strict symmetry. While balanced arrangements can be pleasing, they can sometimes feel overly controlled. In contrast, consider hanging artwork slightly off-centre, styling shelves with a lighter touch, or pairing unexpected pieces together.

These subtle shifts lend a room a sense of ease – more relaxed, more welcoming, and far more engaging to the eye. At the heart of the anti-perfect home is a quietly liberating idea: a space is never truly finished. There’s no final state to reach, no pressure for everything to feel resolved. Instead, rooms are free to evolve and adapt, mirroring the lives lived within them.

Embracing this mindset softens a home. It becomes more personal, more expressive, and more honest. Nothing is too precious to be used, and nothing too worn to be valued. The anti-perfect home isn’t about lowering standards – it’s about redefining them. It encourages spaces that feel as good as they look, where beauty is found not in flawlessness, but in subtlety and lived-in depth.

Designing my own home sounds like the ultimate advantage – no client constraints, no approvals, complete creative freedom. In reality, it has turned out to be one of the most challenging projects I’ve ever taken on as an interior designer.

When I work with clients, there’s always a clear framework: a brief to anchor the direction, a defined budget, a timeline, and, perhaps most importantly, a healthy layer of emotional distance. Decisions are considered, but not personal. With my own home, that distance disappears. Everything feels more loaded, more instinctive, and at times unexpectedly difficult. The sheer volume of choice can become overwhelming, and there’s a strange, self-imposed pressure for the space to somehow represent the 'ultimate' version of my design thinking – as if this one project has to summarise everything I’ve ever learned.

As designers, we’re trained to see possibilities everywhere. In client work, that’s a real strength – I can quickly filter options, simplify decisions, and move a project forward with confidence. But applied to my own home, that instinct does the opposite. Instead of narrowing things down, I found myself expanding them. Ten kitchen layouts instead of three. All of them viable, all of them appealing, and suddenly nothing felt straightforward. Decisions I’d usually make in minutes became drawn-out, surprisingly emotional processes.

It’s been a useful reminder that good design isn’t about identifying every possible option – it’s about knowing when to stop exploring and commit.

Clients often feel overwhelmed during renovations, and I used to read that as uncertainty about the design direction or a lack of clarity in my proposals. At times, I even took it personally, as if their hesitation reflected directly on the ideas I was presenting. Going through my own renovation has completely reframed that.

When it’s your own home, decisions stop being purely visual or practical – they’re tied to how you want to live, how you want to feel day to day, and, in a subtle way, how you see yourself. Something as simple as choosing a paint color can start to feel like choosing a version of your future life. Experiencing that firsthand has made me far more empathetic. When a client struggles to decide now, I don’t see doubt or indecision in the same way – I see how much they care about getting it right.

Designing for myself has removed the professional distance that usually makes the work feel more straightforward, but it’s also changed how I approach my clients. I’m much more aware of the need to build structure around decision-making – not just presenting options, but clearly explaining why something works, and helping clients feel anchored in that choice. I’ve always guided clients through decisions, but I now understand the importance of actively easing decision fatigue, not just reacting to it once it appears.

I’m also becoming more aware of just how much reassurance matters. What feels obvious to me as a designer can feel quite high-stakes for a client. Moving forward, I want to build in more intentional moments of validation – not just guiding decisions, but actively reinforcing that they’re on the right track, that their instincts are valid, and that there isn’t a single “perfect” choice they’re somehow at risk of missing.

Another shift is happening in how I think about flexibility. In my own project, I’ve had to accept that not every decision needs to be final from the outset, and that things can – and often should – evolve as you live with them. That’s something I want to carry more consciously into client work as well. My design philosophy has always centred on the idea that a home should grow with the people who live in it, rather than feel fixed or 'finished' on day one (in fact, I wrote my first article for this column about exactly that). I’ve always tried to design with long-term adaptability in mind – layering in flexibility through layout, materials, and the way a space can be reinterpreted as life changes.

What I’m realising now, though, is that while I’ve been intentional about building adaptability into the outcome of a space, I haven’t always extended that same flexibility to the process of getting there. The way I structure decisions, present options, and move towards resolution has often been quite efficiency-led. And in fairness, that’s sometimes necessary – projects need momentum, timelines need to be met, and there has to be a clear sense of direction to keep things moving.

But through my own renovation, I’ve seen how that approach can also leave less room for exploration, or for the slower, more reflective decision-making some people genuinely need to feel confident. It’s made me rethink not just what I design, but how I design alongside clients – and how important it is to allow space within the process itself for pause, revision, and the understanding that early choices don’t have to lock everything in.

Going forward, I want to bring more of the philosophy I use in my spaces into the process itself: less pressure for immediate answers, more room for iteration, and a greater acceptance that clarity doesn’t always arrive in a straight line.

More than anything, this experience has reinforced something I probably knew but hadn’t fully felt in practice – that design is just as emotional as it is aesthetic or functional. I’m walking away with a much deeper respect for the vulnerability that comes with letting someone shape your home. And that perspective, more than any specific layout or material choice, is what I’ll carry into every project from here on.

We look forward to summer as a season of gathering – time with friends and family, a slower pace, and the kind of moments that sustain us through the long school year and the darker months. We romanticize it. We picture sweating glasses of lemonade, lazy card games, stacks of unread books finally opened, and long naps in the hammock we hung years ago. This time will be different, we tell ourselves.

We fill the calendar with visits – children, pets, old friends – and convince ourselves it will be the best summer yet. Then July and August arrive, and reality hits. We’re tired, overwhelmed, stepping over damp towels and sandy bathing suits, restocking for the next BBQ as the weeks slip by. The books remain untouched. The hammock sways empty.

When I onboard a new client, I tell them that the most important part of my interior design process is this: I design for them – not for their guests or their children, but for them. Because everyone else will have a wonderful time in the finished home. But if you can truly relax in your space – really relax – then I’ve done my job.

What does that actually mean? It means thinking through the experience of your home from the moment you arrive. Where do coats and shoes go? How do groceries come in and get put away? By mapping these everyday rhythms and routines, we can build in storage and structure that support them – quietly, seamlessly – so your home works with you, not against you.

Next, we then dive deeper. What exactly will you be doing in this home with your guests or entertainment? Is there a pool or a lake to swim? Will you ski or hike? This next layer of storage supports your guests supporting themselves. Yes, I said, supporting themselves. And what, by chance, would you be doing if your guests could function in your home independently? Well, you might just grab that book and head to your favorite chair down by the waterfront and maybe just maybe put your feet up and read uninterrupted for a good hour or two. Mission accomplished.

Over the years, I have come up with a list of items that I include in the design of a home to support the client I call the 'Forever Host'. The person who loves to entertain but runs themselves down and doesn’t know life could be easier with just planning and implementing some simple design elements.

Here are my six must-haves to support you this summer as you host your guests:

1. Your Entry / Mudroom

Starting off strong with a mudroom that can handle the overflow of guests arriving. If your weekend kicks off with coats, bags, and shoes on your kitchen floor, there is overwhelm in your future. All that gear needs to remain in the mudroom where it belongs. You don’t need a very large space to fit a bench with hooks to make sure this happens, so let's set the tone early for your sanity.

2. Toiletries

Create a designated spot for first aid items, sunscreen, Band-Aids, and extra toilet paper. This can be in the mudroom, your first-floor powder bath, or a cabinet in the hall.

Having all of this in one location stops you from being the one running around grabbing these items all weekend for people. One step closer to that book and that chair for mom.

3. Coffee Bar

I love love love a good coffee bar area in the kitchen - it’s the workhorse of the weekend. Guests come down in the morning, and there are muffins and a coffee maker there, drawers with tea bags, a small fridge with all the dairy and non-dairy creamers that anyone could ever dream up.

This area is also self-serve for Uncle Fred, who comes down at 5 am, or the teenager who comes down at Noon after breakfast has been served. Your attitude: it’s all there for whenever any of you need it, you can find me on my morning walk.

4. Towel Management

Yes, this is a big one. Where are we getting them, and most importantly, where are they going when guests are done with them? We think a lot about towels in our designs and where they are living, towels for bathing and towels for swimming. And how and where will they be dropped, cleaned, and returned back to their spot for the next day with the least amount of carrying and without YOU needing to run around retrieving them.

5. Washer and Dryer

We love to add that extra set on the second floor, where all of your guest will be, for them to throw in a load of wash or even throw their own sheets and towels in the morning they are heading out. A hall closet will suffice for this, and it’s a game-changer to have two sets for those busy weekends.

6. Your Bedroom Suite

This last must-have is probably the most important item I add to a home for my clients, and that is creating a primary suite with a separate sitting room. This room is where YOU go to relax. You may get up early in the morning and have your tea in this room and watch the sunset while Uncle Harold is down reading the paper in the kitchen, or you may sneak up the back stairs in the afternoon and grab that book and maybe just maybe take a nap on that deeply comfortable sofa in front of the fireplace.

This home was built for you, and you deserve a weekend just as much as everyone else. And if you get that nap on the sofa, that morning walk, or sit in that chair down by the lake with the water glistening with your book and a glass of lemonade in your hand, then I will know I have truly done my job.

The entryway is the first thing people see. Get it right, and the rest of the house already feels considered.

The entryway is the most skipped room in any renovation. People run out of budget, run out of time, or assume it's too small to matter. It always matters. It's the room that sets expectations for everything that follows – and when it's done well, it makes the whole house feel more intentional from the moment someone walks in.

These are the five rules I apply to every entryway I design, regardless of size or style.

1. Lead with One Piece of Furniture That Has Real Presence

Not a shelf. Not a slim console you found because it fits the space. A piece that looks like it was chosen – something with weight, material interest, or an unexpected silhouette. This is the anchor of the room.

If the space is narrow, that doesn't mean you default to something generic. A narrow console in a beautiful material does more work than a deeper one in a forgettable finish.

2. Hang the Mirror Before You Do Anything Else

A mirror opposite or adjacent to the front door does two things: it bounces light back into the space, and it gives the room a focal point that isn't just wall. The size matters more than most people think. Too small and it reads as an afterthought. As a general rule, the mirror should fill at least half the width of whatever it's hanging above.

Round mirrors tend to work well in entryways because they soften what is often a corridor of right angles. But the shape matters less than the scale.

3. Get the Lighting Right Before You Pick a Single Decorative Object

Most entryways rely entirely on a single overhead fixture. That's a mistake. Overhead light flattens a space and makes it feel functional rather than considered.

Add a wall sconce at eye level – around 170–175 cm from the floor – and the whole room changes. It adds warmth, draws the eye to the wall, and creates the kind of layered light that makes a space feel designed rather than lit.

If there's only budget for one lighting change in the whole house, I'd put it here.

4. Treat the Floor like a Statement, Not a Transition

The floor in an entryway takes more visual space than any other surface in the room. A checkerboard tile, a patterned stone, a contrasting material to the rest of the house – any of these signals that the space was thought about. Using the same flooring throughout the entry and the adjoining rooms is a missed opportunity.

The floor is also the first surface guests look down at. Make it interesting.

5. Leave Room for One Object That Has No Function at All

A sculptural bowl. A vase. Something that exists purely because it's beautiful. Entryways that feel considered always have at least one object that isn't earning its place through utility – it's there because someone chose it.

This is the detail that separates a finished entryway from a styled one. Everything else can be perfectly specified, but without one object that feels genuinely personal, the room reads as assembled rather than lived in.

The entryway doesn't need to be large to feel luxurious. It needs to feel decided. Every choice visible from the front door should look like it was made on purpose.

There’s a quiet shift happening in how we think about our homes – and it has nothing to do with square footage.

For years, bigger was better. Open-plan living dominated, walls came down, and rooms stretched endlessly into one another in the name of light, flow, and entertaining. But lately, I’ve found myself – and many of my clients – longing for something different altogether. Something softer. More personal. More romantic.

Designing like a romantic isn’t about excess or nostalgia. It’s about intentional intimacy. It’s about asking not, ‘How big can this feel?’ but, ‘How do I want to feel here?’

Our Maryland storybook project marked a real turning point for me. The home itself wasn’t large, but it had something far more valuable: soul. Rather than opening everything up, we worked with its natural rhythm – preserving the charm, keeping the smaller rooms, layering in texture, and allowing each space to hold its own identity. A dining room became more than a pass-through; it became a destination. A quiet office nook, tucked beneath a window, invited pause. Even the hallway started to feel like part of the story.

This approach is really about returning to intimacy, where a home is less about performance and more about presence. Spaces feel collected, emotional, and deeply human. Not everything is revealed at once – and that’s exactly the point.

Romantic design, at its best, thrives in rooms with edges.

There’s something deeply comforting about a space that knows exactly what it’s meant to be. A library that wraps you in quiet. A kitchen that hums with warmth rather than spectacle. A bedroom that feels like a slow exhale at the end of the day. These aren’t just rooms – they’re experiences. And they don’t demand more square footage, just more intention.

Cottages have always understood this instinctively, as has much of European architectural history. In many of our smaller projects, we’ve leaned into that clarity of purpose rather than fighting it. Instead of removing walls, we’ve softened and refined them – introducing arched doorways, layered drapery, and gentle thresholds that signal a change in mood. The result is a home that unfolds slowly, almost like a novel, rather than revealing everything at once.

Mood, after all, is built in layers.

It’s the patina on an antique table, the way late-afternoon light filters through linen curtains at around 5 p.m., the softness of well-worn upholstery, the quiet interplay of shadow and glow. It’s less about statement pieces and more about atmosphere. You don’t just see it – you feel it.

And perhaps most importantly, romantic design leaves room for imperfection. A slightly creaky floorboard, an off-center frame, a chair that’s been lived in for decades – these details add depth and honesty. They remind us that a home isn’t a showroom; it’s a living, evolving reflection of the people inside it.

As we move away from the era of endless open plans, I believe we’re rediscovering something essential: the beauty of boundaries. Not as limitations, but as invitations – to linger, to gather, to retreat.

Because in the end, the most memorable homes aren’t the biggest ones.

They’re the ones that make you feel something.

Wallpaper, thankfully, is no longer the design choice you inherit and immediately start budgeting to remove. It has shaken off its reputation for fussy florals, shiny finishes, and glue-induced regret, and returned as one of the most versatile – and surprisingly sophisticated – tools in a designer’s arsenal.

Let’s be clear: this is not your parents’ wallpaper. There are no borders marching around the ceiling line, no overly symmetrical bouquets, no inexplicable fruit. What we have now is quieter, more textural, and far more self-aware. Wallpaper ideas today don’t beg for attention – it earns it.

What’s changed most isn’t just the patterns, but how and where wallpaper is used. Walls, at this point, are almost the obvious choice. The more interesting approach is to use it in ways that feel unexpected – even a little clever. It’s less about covering a room and more about introducing moments of detail that make a space feel layered and intentional.

Take kitchen cabinetry, for example. It’s not typically where you’d expect wallpaper to appear, which is precisely why it works. Cane inset cabinet doors have become a favorite for adding warmth and texture, breaking up the monotony of flat-front cabinetry. But back that cane with a subtle wallpaper – something tonal and soft, perhaps even a grasscloth – and you introduce a depth that feels entirely bespoke. It draws the eye in without overwhelming the space. Suddenly, the kitchen isn’t just functional; it has nuance. It has personality. It suggests that someone went a step further – and that step mattered.

This idea of subtle layering is where wallpaper really comes into its own, and nowhere is that more evident than with grasscloth. If wallpaper has an introvert, this is it. Grasscloth doesn’t rely on bold pattern or color to make its case. Instead, it offers texture – rich, organic, and quietly luxurious. It catches the light in a way flat paint never can, shifting throughout the day and giving walls a sense of movement without any obvious design.

For those who insist they ‘don’t like wallpaper,’ grasscloth is usually the exception. It brings warmth to a space without adding visual noise. Bedrooms feel softer, hallways feel more intentional, and even the most minimal interiors gain a quiet sense of depth. It’s the design equivalent of a well-tailored neutral – effortless on the surface, but doing a surprising amount of work behind the scenes.

Mural ideas, too, have undergone a much-needed evolution. The word can still prompt a bit of hesitation, conjuring images of oversized, overly literal scenes that dominate a room and leave little to the imagination. But today’s murals are far more restrained. They lean into atmosphere rather than narrative. Think soft landscapes that recede into the background, abstract washes of color, or tonal compositions that read like large-scale artwork. These murals don’t shout; they hum. In a dining room, they create intimacy. In a bedroom, they feel expansive yet calming. The best examples blur the line between wall treatment and art, giving a room presence without tipping into theatrics.

And that’s really the through line with modern wallpaper – it’s about restraint. Even when used boldly, there’s an underlying sense of control. It’s less about covering every surface and more about choosing the right moment. A ceiling, for instance, is often overlooked but can completely transform a room when treated with a subtle paper. The back of a bookshelf, the interior of a closet, the panels of millwork – these are the places where wallpaper feels fresh, considered, and quietly impactful.

There’s also something to be said for the tactile quality wallpaper brings. In an age when so many interiors lean toward sleek minimalism, texture becomes essential. Wallpaper softens hard lines, adds depth to flat planes, and introduces a human element that can sometimes get lost in overly polished spaces. It invites you to look more closely – to notice the details, the subtle shifts, the way light plays across a surface.

Of course, with all this freedom comes a degree of restraint. Not every surface needs wallpaper, and not every wallpaper needs to be the focal point. The most successful applications tend to feel considered rather than impulsive. A good rule of thumb: if it’s the first thing you notice – and the only thing you remember – it may be doing too much.

But when it’s done well, wallpaper has the ability to transform a space in a way that feels both immediate and lasting. It can make a new home feel lived-in or give an older space a renewed sense of relevance without stripping away its character. It bridges the gap between architecture and decoration, sitting comfortably in both worlds.

So no, wallpaper isn’t making a comeback – it has already arrived, quietly, and made itself indispensable. It’s more refined, more adaptable, and far less interested in showing off than it once was. Which is, perhaps, exactly why it works so well.

In the end, wallpaper today is less about trend and more about texture, mood, and thoughtful detail. It’s about knowing where to add interest and where to hold back. And when that balance is right, the result isn’t just a well-decorated room – it’s a space that feels complete.

Lighting is often one of the last decisions people make in a room. By then, the furniture is in place, and the palette is set, so it gets treated as a finishing touch. I tend to approach it the opposite way. Lighting is one of the first things I think about, because it shapes how a room feels more than almost anything else. It is not just about brightness. It is about mood, balance, and where your eye goes.

In a dining room, lighting almost always becomes the focal point. A sculptural fixture over the table does more than provide light. It defines the space and sets the tone. In one project, I used a cluster of glass pendants hung at different heights. The room itself was quite tailored, but that one move added softness and kept it from feeling too rigid.

In a more transitional dining room, I might go the other direction. A linear fixture reinforces the shape of the table and brings a sense of order. Add a pair of sconces, and suddenly the room feels layered and complete instead of one-note. That is where lighting really starts to work quietly in the background, tying everything together.

I usually think about lighting in three layers. Ambient light fills the room. Task lighting supports how you use the space. Accent lighting highlights what matters. When all three are there, a room feels finished in a way that is hard to explain but easy to feel. Take a home office. You need it to function, but you also want it to feel like a place you enjoy spending time. An overhead fixture brings personality, but it is the smaller moments, like a table lamp or directional light, that make it feel warm and personal. Without layered lighting, even a beautiful room can fall flat.

Lighting is also one of the easiest ways to create depth. In a dining room with deep green walls, a sculptural fixture can act almost like jewelry. It draws your eye up, softens the color, and adds movement. The light it casts changes how you see everything else in the room.

The same idea applies in a living room. You might have a strong ceiling fixture to anchor the space, but softer lighting around the edges keeps it comfortable. That balance is what makes a room feel both polished and liveable.

Lighting elevates everything around it. It makes wood feel richer, fabrics feel softer, and colors more nuanced. It is the layer that brings everything to life. When a room feels off, I almost always look at the lighting first. It is rarely about needing more. It is about using what is already there in a more thoughtful way. Get the lighting right, and everything else tends to fall into place.

Whenever I tell people I hang art in my bathrooms, they look at me like I’ve done something slightly reckless. And I get it – after all, bathrooms are practical spaces. They’re not usually the room anyone tries to impress.

But that’s exactly why so many bathrooms are disappointing. It’s not because they lack beautiful materials or careful planning – it’s because they lack a point of view. Everything might be specified perfectly, but if no personal choice shines through, the room ends up finished, not felt.

Over the years, I’ve developed a few rules for how to design a bathroom that feels intentional, personal, and surprisingly inviting. These simple choices are my go-to bathroom ideas that transform a space from merely functional to memorable. Here are the five things I always do to make it happen.

1. Hang Something Above the Tub That Has No Business Being There

The wall behind a freestanding bathtub is one of the heaviest hitters in a home. Usually, it’s dressed in more stone, more tile – more of whatever already fills the room. I like to take a different route. A large framed photograph. A painting someone truly loves. Something that feels like it belongs in a living room but somehow ended up here instead.

It might sound daring, but it rarely feels risky. What it actually does is change everything. The room stops reading as just a bathroom and starts reading as a space someone actually lives in. And that shift? That’s what makes walking in feel unexpectedly personal – and endlessly more interesting.

2. Let Pattern Do the One Thing Neutrals Can’t

A checkerboard bathroom floor is one of the rare pattern choices that truly stands the test of time. Not because it’s safely classic, but because the bold contrast at floor level gives a room a sense of foundation and balance that feels completely resolved. You don’t need to force personality anywhere else – the room already has it, quietly working underfoot, shaping the space so it feels deliberate, thoughtful, and utterly intentional.

3. Build Warmth From the Vanity Out

In bathroom design, stone and marble usually steal the spotlight, while cabinetry is treated like a background player – just something to hold the sink and stay out of the way. I see it differently. A warm-toned bathroom vanity, crafted with the presence of furniture rather than mere millwork, can change the entire feel of a room. It grounds the space, softens whatever is happening on the walls, and makes the bathroom feel furnished, not just fitted.

The difference may seem subtle on paper – but in person, it’s the first thing you notice.

4. Commit to One Material and Don’t Look for an Exit

The urge to mix, to introduce contrast, to give the eye a place to rest – it’s understandable. It’s also exactly what makes most bathrooms feel slightly unsettled. The ones I find truly compelling usually do the opposite. One stone, carried seamlessly from floor to walls to shower, uninterrupted. No relief material, no visual break – just a single decision trusted enough to repeat until it stops being a choice and becomes an atmosphere.

That kind of commitment is deceptively difficult. But the rooms that result have a presence, a calm intensity, that no amount of careful mixing ever quite achieves.

5. Use Brass Because It Connects, Not Because It Reads as Luxury

There’s a version of this conversation where brass is treated as a trend. I’m not interested in that version. What fascinates me is what happens when you place it next to aged oak and veined marble. Suddenly, it anchors everything. It becomes the quietest choice in the room – and somehow the one that holds the whole space together.

The so-called 'unexpected rules' aren’t about shock or novelty. They’re about intention. About treating a bathroom with the same care and thoughtfulness as any other room in the house – and letting that seriousness show up in the details, even the ones nobody asked for.

The days are finally stretching out. The light is softer, the sun has a bit of warmth to it again – and not just for show. If this winter has felt particularly relentless, you’re not alone. At this point, I’d quite like to feel my toes again. The grey skies, the heavy layers, the sheer endurance of it all. It’s been a lot. And honestly, we’ve earned patio season before it’s even properly begun.

Which is exactly why now is the moment to start thinking about outdoor spaces.

It might feel a little premature – after all, winter hasn’t fully let go yet – but this is where the smart planning happens. The people who truly enjoy summer aren’t the ones scrambling to assemble furniture in June, battling flat-pack instructions and an inexplicable surplus of screws. They’re the ones who got ahead of it. Because if you live somewhere with a short warm season, summer isn’t just a season – it’s a window. A fleeting, golden stretch of time that rewards a bit of early preparation.

So let’s start with the most important mindset shift: your outdoor space isn’t separate from your home – it is your home. Just with better ventilation and fewer structural limitations. Whether you have a balcony, a patio, a porch, a backyard, or even a small patch of concrete you optimistically call a terrace, you’ve essentially gained another room. And like any other room, it deserves intention, personality, and a purpose beyond simply holding furniture that can survive the weather.

Designing outdoors follows the same principles as designing inside: layering, functionality, comfort, and a bit of emotional pull. The goal isn’t just to place things outside – it’s to create somewhere you actually want to spend time. Start by thinking about how you’ll really use the space. Morning coffee? Long, slow dinners? Reading in the sun? Hosting friends? Or just lying flat and calling it 'rest'? All of it counts. The key is to design for your real life, not an imagined version of it.

And while we’re here, a quick note on matching outdoor furniture sets – they rarely do you any favors. They’re practical, yes, but often feel a little flat. The most inviting outdoor spaces feel collected rather than coordinated. Mix materials, blend eras, and play with tone. Pair something vintage with something modern, add texture through cushions or throws, and let the space feel like it’s evolved rather than bought in one go.

One of the joys of outdoor living rooms is that they’re far more forgiving than interiors. You can experiment a little more freely here. If a color has tempted you but you aren’t quite ready to commit indoors, try it outside first – soft sage, butter yellow, warm terracotta all work beautifully. But even the most thoughtfully chosen furniture isn’t what makes an outdoor space truly come alive. That role belongs, without question, to decorating with flowers.

Floral room decor for spring might not be groundbreaking, but it’s timeless for a reason. Nothing transforms a space quite like living things. Flowers soften hard edges, add movement, bring in scent, and make even the simplest setup feel considered. They signal life, renewal – everything just feels a little more in motion.

And just like with furniture, perfection isn’t the goal. In fact, the most beautiful outdoor arrangements are rarely neat or symmetrical. They’re layered, a little unruly, and full of personality. This is also your cue to let go of matching planters. Truly – let them go. (There’s a theme here.)

Instead, mix things up. Old crocks, vintage terracotta, metal buckets, weathered urns, even woven baskets lined with moss – if it can hold soil and drain properly, it has potential. A mix of containers adds depth and a sense of history, as though the space has evolved naturally over time rather than appearing all at once. That slightly collected, built-up look is what makes outdoor spaces feel inviting.

The best part is you can keep adding to it year after year. There’s no rush to get it 'perfect.' Give yourself time to build something that feels personal. And when it comes to planting, think beyond color. Consider movement, texture, and how easy everything is to care for. The most compelling gardens often look like they styled themselves – slightly loose, gently overgrown, and effortlessly relaxed.

Personally, I always lean towards herbs and wildflowers. Rosemary adds structure and scent, lavender softens everything as it moves in the breeze, and baby’s breath brings that light, airy feel – nothing too rigid or overly manicured – just planting that feels organic and alive.

And there’s something genuinely satisfying about stepping outside and cutting fresh herbs for cooking. It turns even a simple weeknight dinner into something that feels just a little more special. Highly recommend.

Once your planting is in place, lighting becomes the element that really defines the space. It’s not just decorative – it’s emotional architecture. It shapes how long people stay, how relaxed they feel, and whether an evening gently lingers or ends too soon.

Soft outdoor lighting has a way of transforming everything. String lights are everywhere for a reason – they work. They cast that warm, flattering glow that instantly makes a space feel inviting. I’ve never looked at a softly lit patio and thought it was a mistake. But one layer of light is rarely enough. The most atmospheric outdoor spaces build depth through contrast: a portable lamp here, a lantern there, candles flickering across different surfaces rather than clustered in one spot. That variation creates warmth, movement, and a sense of ease that feels almost effortless.

Picture it: the air softening as the sun dips, light catching on glass, candle flames shifting gently in the breeze, the scent of herbs and flowers drifting through. It’s that layering of sensory details that turns a patio into somewhere people don’t want to leave.

And then there’s the final layer – styling, which is so often overlooked. Outdoor spaces deserve the same finishing touches as any room inside. Cushions that invite you to stay a little longer, throws for when the temperature drops, trays, ceramics, and small pieces of furniture that make the space actually usable. A surface to set a drink, a console table, maybe even a small bar setup if you love to entertain. The goal is to make it feel personal, not just practical.

Ideally, it should feel complete enough that you could spend an entire day out there – morning coffee, a quiet afternoon, an easy evening with friends – without needing to head back inside except for the essentials. Because the real purpose of outdoor design isn’t just how it looks. It’s how it feels. It’s about creating a space where time slows down a little, conversations stretch out, and even ordinary moments feel just slightly elevated.

Spring has a way of arriving slowly, then all at once. And when it does, your outdoor space can either be something you’re still pulling together – or something that’s already waiting, layered and alive, ready to be enjoyed from the very first warm afternoon.

Florals for spring might not be revolutionary. But what they create absolutely is.

One of the questions I’m asked most often is how a project actually begins, and what those early stages of the design process really involve.

While every home – and every client – is different, it’s often these early home ideas that shape the direction from the outset. There are a few key decisions we always come back to at this stage, and they set the tone for everything that follows, guiding both the overall vision and the finer details as the design develops.

1. The Layout Always Comes First

Reviewing the layout – and really understanding how a home will be used – is always one of the first steps in our process. Before we get into materials, finishes, or decorating ideas, we focus on how the space needs to function day to day.

We begin with the practical flow of the home. From the moment someone walks through the door, how does the space support them? Where do shoes come off, where are coats stored, and how naturally does the entrance lead into the rest of the house? These small, often overlooked details make a noticeable difference to how a home feels to live in.

From there, we look at how each room connects and relates to the next. That might mean refining the positioning of doors, improving the sense of symmetry, or adjusting layouts so movement through the space feels intuitive rather than forced. We’re also thinking ahead to how furniture will sit – making sure there’s enough space to move comfortably and that each room works as it should once it’s lived in.

These are the decisions that quietly underpin everything else. We like to resolve them early, so by the time we move into the interior design phase, we’re working from a well-considered plan that supports both the architecture and the way the home will actually be used. It makes the entire process feel more straightforward – and the end result far more considered.

2. The Architectural Language of the Home

This will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with my design approach – the architectural language of a home should always lead. It’s the starting point, and it should inform every decision that follows.

For me, the architecture sets the foundation and establishes the tone. It tells us how the interiors ought to develop – from proportions and spatial rhythm through to materials and the overall atmosphere. When that relationship is clear, the design process becomes far more coherent.

I’ve never been drawn to schemes where the architecture and interiors feel at odds with one another – pulled from different eras or driven by conflicting trends. When those elements compete, the result can feel unsettled rather than resolved. A home should feel considered and cohesive, as though each layer has evolved naturally from the one before it.

Instead, we take cues from the building itself and build a clear design narrative around it – something that feels grounded in the structure rather than imposed onto it. Once that direction is established, we begin refining the details, from materials and joinery through to furniture and decoration.

When architecture and interiors are properly aligned, the result is something that feels calm, balanced, and lasting – which, ultimately, is always the goal.

3. The Material Palette

Although we usually present physical samples later in the process, material thinking starts much earlier than that. From the outset, I’m already considering what each surface, element, and space might be made from – even at a conceptual stage.

As the overall look and feel of the home begins to take shape, the material palette naturally becomes part of the conversation. We’re asking questions early on: should the walls feel soft and textural with a plaster finish, or cleaner and more minimal? Would timber flooring with age and variation suit the space better, or something more consistent and controlled?

These choices do more than define the aesthetic – they influence how the design is handled. Materials often dictate the level of restraint or expression in the detailing. If we’re working with something inherently rich in character, like reclaimed timber or a hand-applied plaster, the approach tends to be quieter, allowing those elements to take the lead.

In other cases, we might do the opposite. A striking stone, for example, can become a focal point – something we intentionally draw attention to, building a more defined moment around it.

The important thing is that materials and design direction are never treated separately. They evolve together, shaping each other as the project develops. That relationship is what gives a scheme its clarity –and ensures the final result feels cohesive, considered, and well resolved.

4. Natural Light and Orientation

Another consideration I always come back to is the orientation of the sun and how natural light moves through a home. It’s something I’ve spoken about in depth before – even dedicating a full column to it –, so I won’t labour the point, but it remains central to how I approach every project.

Natural light has a profound effect on how a space feels. It shapes the atmosphere over the course of the day and changes how materials and colours are read. The same stone, plaster, or timber can take on a completely different quality depending on the direction, strength, and warmth of the light hitting it.

On a more instinctive level, it’s something you feel as much as you see. A room filled with natural light has a very different energy from one that’s darker or more enclosed, and that shift in mood is something I’m always aware of when planning how spaces will be used.

Early on, we study how light moves through the house and use that to guide key decisions around layout and function. It’s about placing the right rooms in the right locations. A media room, for example, benefits from being more enclosed and atmospheric, so positioning it in the brightest part of the house rarely makes sense. Instead, we prioritise natural light for the spaces people use most during the day – living areas, kitchens, anywhere you spend time for longer stretches.

When the orientation is carefully considered, it elevates more than just the look of a home – it changes how it feels to live in, which is ultimately what matters most.

5. Defining the Intended Feeling of the Home

Before we get into the finer layers of a project, I always come back to a simple question: how should this home feel? Beyond the practical requirements and aesthetic direction, there needs to be a clear sense of atmosphere from the outset.

Is it calm and restorative, or more social and energetic? Does it lean towards something quietly elegant, or is it softer and more relaxed? Defining that early on gives the project a sense of direction that goes beyond surface-level decisions.

That emotional brief ends up guiding far more than people expect. It influences the material palette, the tone of the colors, the scale and proportion of the rooms, the level of detailing, and even how light is allowed to move through the space. It becomes a reference point we return to throughout the process.

It’s not always something clients can articulate straight away. More often, it emerges gradually – through conversations about how they live, what they’re drawn to, and how they want their home to function day to day.

Individually, these decisions might seem quite practical. But taken together – the layout, the architectural language, the materials, the way light is handled, and the overall atmosphere – they form the foundation of the entire project. When those fundamentals are resolved early, everything else falls into place more naturally.

The result is a home that feels cohesive and considered from the ground up – not just visually, but in the way it supports everyday living.

Every spring, I notice the same shift: my house starts to feel a little overdressed.

The velvet pillows that felt just right in January begin to look heavy. Wool throws, once essential on cold nights, suddenly seem unnecessary. Even the lamps that carried us through dark afternoons can feel dim once sunlight starts flooding in. Nothing is technically wrong – everything just feels like it’s still in winter mode.

So around this time each year, I do a quiet spring cleaning and interior reset. It’s not a full seasonal overhaul – I’m not someone who redecorates four times a year. But I do think our homes should move with the seasons, the same way we do. In winter, we lean into warmth and layers; in spring, we instinctively reach for lightness, air, and a bit more breathing room. The good news is, it doesn’t take much to get there.

I always start by editing texture. Winter has a way of building up – velvet cushions, chunky wool throws, thick rugs layered over others – and I love that sense of richness when it’s cold outside. But as the light changes, those layers can start to feel visually heavy, even a little overwhelming.

I start by taking a few things away. Maybe two pillows disappear from the sofa, or the heavy throw at the end of the bed gets folded up until next year. Sometimes it’s as simple as swapping a darker textile for linen or cotton. It’s not a full changeover – just enough editing to loosen the room and let it breathe.

The second thing I pay attention to is lighting ideas. In winter, lighting is deliberately cozy – lamps do most of the work because the days are so short. But by March, natural light takes over again.

That’s when I lean into it. Curtains stay open wider during the day, and if a lampshade feels too dark or opaque, I’ll swap it for something lighter – linen or parchment – so the glow feels softer and more diffused. Occasionally, I’ll even move a chair closer to a window. It’s a small adjustment, but it can completely shift how the room is used, suddenly creating the spot everyone drifts toward in the afternoon.

In spring, light should be able to move – bouncing easily around the room.

A few quieter shifts can make a surprising difference. One of my favorites is rethinking what’s happening on surfaces. Winter has a way of accumulating – stacks of books, bowls, candles everywhere – and by spring, those arrangements can start to feel crowded. Editing them back, even slightly, changes the mood immediately. A console that once held five objects might feel fresher with just one sculptural piece and a simple branch in a vase.

I also like to trade darker ceramics and accessories for lighter ones. White stoneware, pale wood, or woven baskets can lift a shelf or tabletop without requiring anything new – just a different mix of what you already have.

Even cabinet hardware can subtly shift the feeling of a room. In a kitchen or pantry, polished nickel or unlacquered brass catches daylight in a way darker finishes don’t. Sometimes it’s as simple as polishing what’s already there to bring back that quiet brightness.

And then there’s the easiest move of all: bringing something living into the room. Nothing elaborate – just small signals that the season has turned. A few branches clipped from the garden, a bowl of lemons on the counter, or tulips just beginning to open.

One of my favorite spring rituals is clearing whatever lived on the dining table all winter and replacing it with flowering branches in a large, slightly imperfect vase. It takes two minutes, but the entire room feels awake.

Spring decorating ideas – if it even deserves a name – is really about loosening the house and clearing a crowded surface, letting daylight take the lead, and shedding a few layers that made perfect sense in colder months.

I often remind clients that a home shouldn’t feel frozen in time. The most comfortable spaces evolve gently throughout the year – not dramatically, but enough to stay in quiet conversation with what’s happening outside.

When the trees begin to bud and the light shifts, your house should register that change too. In my experience, the homes that do this best aren’t filled with anything new. They’re the ones where someone has paid attention to light, to texture, to the small edits that make a room feel fresh again.

A house doesn’t need a full redesign every spring. More often, it just needs a few thoughtful adjustments – and a little more room to breathe.

Do you remember those long car rides when a little voice from the back seat pipes up: ‘Are we there yet?!’ How often have we reassured them with something like, ‘We’re close – we’ll be there soon!’? That response feels comforting, immediate, and reassuring. But depending on where we actually are, it may not be entirely accurate. We could be five minutes, five miles, five hours, or even five months away from our destination.

This kind of flexible sense of time doesn’t just happen on road trips – it appears in many areas of life, including design.

Interior design principles, like a journey, unfold over time, and the path from concept to completion isn’t always a straight line.

So, where and when are we truly at ‘the end’ of an interior design project? At the start, there’s planning, scheduling, and preparation – much like mapping out a road trip. The creative process often requires detours, pauses, or moments to take in the scenery. Sometimes, the original plan evolves, and while some projects allow for a leisurely scenic route, others demand we hit the highway and move toward ‘substantial completion.’

Even with careful planning, there’s built-in wiggle room: we may encounter delays, need to refuel ideas, or adjust to unexpected traffic. That doesn’t change the overall route – it just shifts the timing. There are plane, train, and automobile connections along the way, and they rarely all go perfectly, but the focus remains the same: helping our clients move into a home that feels right for them.

And when we do reach the finish line, it’s not always the literal end of the journey. Sometimes we arrive at the milestone marked ‘completion,’ but the project continues to evolve – fine-tuning, layering in personality, or adjusting details. The address may be the same, but the experience of truly arriving often continues a little beyond the official destination.

All design projects begin on paper, with sketches, images, and physical materials spread across a table to help us communicate ideas with our clients. Sometimes the process feels circular, looping back to previous concepts, and other times it’s a fairly straight path toward the traffic light named ‘design direction’.

That sign marks our destination, and from there we start mapping out our route with intention – noting landmarks we want to visit, rest stops we’ll need along the way to keep energy levels high, and side trips that might enrich the design journey. Inspiration and references come from all directions, and we gather them as carefully as a traveler collecting souvenirs along the way.

Our journey then moves through a series of milestone stops: ‘construction documentation’, ‘bidding and negotiation’, ‘sourcing and procurement’, and ‘construction administration’. Each phase clears the path ahead, and as we navigate these stages, the terrain becomes easier to read – we can finally see that the project’s location is within reach.

This is when site installations are planned and orchestrated with precision. Electricians are scheduled to install decorative lighting before the furniture arrives. Carpenters are still on site, handling finish work and touch-ups, as well as assisting with custom pieces that require careful craftsmanship. Specialty fabricators and installers tend to bespoke finishes, custom window treatments, and any built-in elements that need their expertise.

Furniture arrives in multiple, staggered truckloads. Rugs are laid down before pieces are placed, and movers position the furniture exactly as shown in our drawings. From there, we tweak and zhuzh items by inches, ensuring each space feels just right. Art hangers come in when the site is quieter, and we walk through every room with our clients to finalize placement. Every plan, adjustment, and installation has brought us to this moment – the culmination of a journey that blends careful planning, creativity, and collaboration.

Now we’ve arrived in the scenic town of ‘Littles’. Dozens of cardboard boxes, each brimming with housewares, are unpacked and carefully placed into their assigned cabinets, shelves, and drawers. The kitchen, mudroom, laundry room, and bathrooms are organized and accessorized, with bath towels and robes washed, folded, and tucked into linen closets or hung neatly on hooks. Pillows, comforters, and blankets find their places in the bedrooms, bed linens are freshly laundered, and the beds are made.

Floor and table lamps are dotted around to provide both task and ambient lighting, adding warmth and atmosphere to each room. We walk through the home again, taking notes on what still needs to be done and mapping out how many more ‘miles’ remain on this journey. The neighborhood feels and looks great, but it doesn’t quite feel like our clients are living there yet – it’s functional, but it’s not fully alive.

Days are shrinking into hours as the house slowly becomes a home. Crates that protected delicate items during the move are opened, revealing vintage ceramics, hand-turned wooden bowls, Murano glass vases, and sculptural metal candle holders, all carefully placed on coffee tables and consoles. Empty shelves are filled with books, bins, and board games. Family heirlooms and treasured keepsakes arrive, each finding its place and telling us where it wants to live in this new space.

Layers of throws, decorative pillows, and textiles add warmth and texture, while family photos settle onto tables and hang on walls. Stuffed animals find their cozy spots on the children’s beds. Buckets of fresh flowers and branches are arranged in vases unpacked just the day before, filling the rooms with life. The scent of sage or amber drifts softly through the house.

We wander for hours with our clients, moving from room to room, talking, laughing, and making final decisions. Music plays, a bottle of wine is opened, and there’s a quiet joy in seeing everything come together. The process has been long, fulfilling, and deeply satisfying. We’ve arrived at the destination – it’s called ‘home,’ and it’s wonderful to finally be here. We made it.

And yet, tomorrow brings the punch list. There are still a few more ‘miles’ to travel before the journey is truly complete.

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In every project I take on, there’s a quiet language at work – a rhythm between old and new, a respect for both surface and story, and a subtle choreography between where an object rests and how it makes you feel. That harmony is never accidental. It’s the through line I return to again and again, an ethos I don’t just design by, but live by.

These are the ten intentional elements that quietly shape every Molly Kidd Studio home – interior design principles you can draw on to create your own space with the same sense of balance, warmth, and personality.

1. Floral Framework

In every Molly Kidd Studio home, florals come first. Not as a styling trick. Not as a finishing flourish. But as a compass. At the start of each project, I curate a single floral arrangement that quietly sets the tone for everything that follows. It becomes the emotional anchor – a reference point that shapes palette, texture, rhythm, and mood. The way a stem bends might inspire the curve of a lamp. The fullness of a bouquet can dictate how layered a room feels. A muted petal might spark an entire color story. This is what I call my 'Floral Framework'.

2. 50/50 Vintage

The interplay of new and old is at the heart of every Molly Kidd Studio home. Half the objects in a room might feel freshly made; the other half carry the soft patina of lived experience. In my recent feature on using antiques in design projects, the message was simple: a space made entirely of new pieces can feel staged, while one of only antiques can feel heavy or somber.

The secret – subtle but powerful – is balance. A sleek modern sofa might sit beside a weathered antique table, or a vintage chandelier might hover over a contemporary dining setting. The result is a quiet tension that feels deliberate, curated, and vibrantly alive.

3. A Kitchen That Anchors the Home

If there is a heart in a Molly Kidd Studio home, it is invariably the kitchen. Not the kind that appears in a single glossy photograph and is then forgotten, but the one that truly anchors daily life: warm floors underfoot, layered lighting overhead, vintage stools pulled close to the island, stacks of ceramics waiting to be filled.

Here, meals are more than prepared – they are lived. Every corner holds a whisper of history, every surface brims with possibility, and the room always, unmistakably, welcomes you home.

4. Scandinavian Lighting

Overhead lighting is minimal, and every glow is intentional. Drawing on Scandinavian sensibilities, warmth comes from a careful layering of lamps, soft shades, and vintage pendants that double as art. This is a lighting strategy that favors comfort over spectacle, illuminating the spaces where conversation flows, surfaces gleam softly, and skin glows with a gentle, lived-in warmth.

5. A Storied Wooden Stool

Across every project, a simple wooden stool quietly appears. It might be raw, weathered, or splintered, yet it is always completely honest. This is not decoration – it is utility at its most poetic. It holds a plant here, a book there, or simply stands as an invitation to pause. Its unassuming presence sets the tone: a home is not merely styled, it is lived in.

6. Unexpected Soft Details

Even in the most restrained rooms, there’s always a quiet softness – a ruffle of linen, a patinaed glass, the gentle curve of a lamp base – that prevents the space from feeling austere. It’s never overly sweet, never theatrical; just a subtle, considered touch that balances and completes the room.

7. Natural Stone With Movement

Real marble and stone appear with deliberate veins and natural movement – not simply for show, but to tell a story. Whether on a countertop, hearth, or bathroom floor, each swirl and imperfection is embraced, not erased. The movement of the stone grounds a space, connecting it to both the earth and the hands that shaped it.

8. A Bowl That Holds Nothing (and Everything)

A ceramic or wooden bowl is never purely functional – and it is never without intention. Sometimes it cradles plums, sometimes postcards, and sometimes it simply rests at the center of a table, quietly reminding us that even emptiness carries weight, texture, and presence.

9. A Hint of the Garden

Whether through fresh blooms, clipped branches, or sun-bleached backyard finds, gardens quietly make their way indoors. Not as 'styled florals,' but as extensions of life outside, bringing a breath of green and a subtle reminder of season and place.

Organic materials encourage us to shape spaces as nature does – layered, balanced, slightly imperfect, and alive. Florals soften architecture, temper clean lines, and introduce that essential tension between structure and romance.

10. A Sense of Return

Ultimately, a Molly Kidd Studio home is defined not by a checklist of objects, but by a harmony of feeling: the sensation of coming home. A space that draws you back, again and again, because it feels familiar, held, and complete. In the end, these ten elements do more than decorate – they quietly shape the character and soul of a home.