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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletterand get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love beautiful design ideas, expert advice, and inspiring decor trends? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Love our original design stories? Sign up for our newsletter and get the latest features delivered straight to your inbox.

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.

Travel has long influenced the way I design a home. The colors of a Moroccan market, the quiet simplicity of a Scandinavian café, or the craftsmanship found in a small coastal workshop can inspire interiors in ways that mass-produced decor – or another image saved on Pinterest – rarely can. Shopping for homewares while traveling allows you to create spaces that feel layered, personal, and rooted in real experiences. The key, however, is learning how to shop thoughtfully.

The most meaningful travel and antique finds aren’t chosen because they perfectly match your room color palette, but because they carry a story. A handwoven textile from a local artisan or a ceramic bowl made using traditional regional techniques adds emotional depth to a home in a way few store-bought pieces can. When you choose objects that are tied to a place or a moment, they become lasting conversation pieces. Before you buy something, pause and ask yourself: Will this remind me of where I was and how I felt?

While souvenir shops can be convenient, the most authentic pieces are often found elsewhere. Seek out neighborhood markets, independent boutiques, antique stores, and artisan workshops instead. Local makers frequently sell handmade goods that reflect regional materials, traditions, and techniques – pieces that feel far more connected to the place you’re visiting.

Shopping where locals shop can also lead you to items that naturally fit into everyday life, such as linens, tableware, baskets, or lighting, rather than purely decorative souvenirs.

The most successful travel finds are both beautiful and useful. When an object becomes part of your daily routine, it carries the memory of the place with it. Consider items you’ll reach for often, such as:

• Textiles like throws, pillow covers, or table runners
• Handmade ceramics or glassware
• Wooden serving boards or utensils
• Storage baskets or trays

One of the biggest challenges when shopping abroad is falling for items that are difficult, costly, or risky to bring home.

Before making a purchase, consider:

• Weight and fragility
• Airline baggage restrictions
• Shipping costs compared with carrying the item yourself
• Whether the item can be packed flat or nested safely for travel

This small checklist can save you from regret and ensure your travel finds arrive home intact.

Smaller items can have just as much impact as larger ones. A thoughtfully curated collection of modest pieces often tells a richer story than a single oversized purchase.

That said, don’t let shipping logistics hold you back. Many travelers shy away from larger items – furniture, artwork, or oversized textiles – assuming getting them home will be difficult or expensive. In reality, international shipping is often simpler than expected, and many artisans and boutiques regularly assist with delivery.

Ask vendors whether they offer shipping services or work with trusted freight partners. Shops catering to travelers frequently handle packing, customs paperwork, and insurance, ensuring items arrive safely weeks after your return. For higher-value pieces, professional packing and insured shipping can offer more protection than trying to transport them in luggage.

When considering shipping, focus on the long-term value of the piece rather than the immediate effort. A well-crafted chair, vintage rug, or statement artwork discovered abroad can become a defining element of your home – even a family heirloom – often worth far more than the extra logistics required.

Incorporating global pieces works best when balanced with your existing design. Instead of recreating an entire cultural aesthetic, let individual items stand out against neutral or familiar surroundings. A single embroidered textile can bring warmth to a modern sofa, while handcrafted pottery can soften minimalist shelving. The goal is harmony, not theme decorating.

Travel shopping is also a chance to support local economies and preserve traditional crafts. Whenever possible, take the time to learn how items are made and who made them. Purchasing directly from artisans not only ensures authenticity but also encourages sustainable production practices. Choosing fewer, higher-quality pieces aligns with a more mindful approach to design, valuing longevity over quantity.

Designing with travel finds is ultimately about creating a home that tells your story. Each object becomes a marker of time, place, and personal experience. Over the years, these carefully collected pieces create an interior that feels layered and authentic – a home shaped not just by style, but by the journeys you’ve taken.

When you shop thoughtfully while traveling, you aren’t just decorating; you’re curating memories, transforming your home into a living archive of the world you’ve explored.

At LALA Reimagined, we have always believed that spaces hold emotion. That design is not only what you see, but what you feel – often before you even understand why.

This story began unexpectedly in the summer of 2025, when a chance meeting brought three female entrepreneurs together. There was an immediate sense of recognition: an effortless exchange of ideas, shared values, and an unspoken understanding that something meaningful was beginning to take shape. What started as a brief encounter soon evolved into a collaboration grounded in intention and a shared belief in the transformative power of thoughtful design.

From the very beginning, we found ourselves returning to one central question: How can I use wellness in design to actively support healing?

That question became the foundation of our work with the Child Therapy Center of Los Angeles, an organization redefining mental health care for children and families through award-winning in-person therapy and innovative online programs. Their approach is warm, modern, and deeply human – guided by industry-leading standards and a genuine commitment to meeting families exactly where they are.

When we began designing their therapy centers, we understood that this work called for something beyond aesthetics. These spaces needed to do more than function well; they needed to feel safe, calming, and quietly reassuring. Too often, environments dedicated to mental health lean toward the clinical, unintentionally amplifying anxiety through outdated, impersonal décor rather than easing it. It felt clear that it was time to imagine something different.

Our design process was guided first and foremost by empathy.

Every decision – layout, material, color, and light – was considered through the lens of emotional experience. Circulation paths were softened to remove a sense of rigidity and formality. Gentle curves replaced sharp angles, creating an atmosphere of ease and natural flow. Natural materials were layered throughout to ground the spaces, bringing warmth, texture, and a sense of familiarity.

Room color was chosen with great care – not to stimulate, but to soothe. We moved away from overly literal or juvenile palettes in favor of tones that feel timeless, calming, and emotionally supportive. Light was treated as a design element in its own right: diffused, warm, and intentional, allowing each space to feel enveloping rather than exposed.

Art and objects were curated with restraint and purpose. Rather than overwhelming the senses, they serve as quiet anchors – subtle elements that invite curiosity, imagination, and comfort without distraction. Each room was designed to meet children at their level, while still honoring the sophistication and integrity of thoughtful design.

The result is a series of therapy spaces that feel both modern and nurturing – elevated, yet deeply approachable. Environments that gently support the work unfolding within them, often without a single word being spoken.

What makes this project especially meaningful to us is not only the spaces themselves, but the collaboration behind them.

This was women supporting women in the truest sense: female founders and creatives trusting one another’s expertise, championing one another’s visions, and building something with lasting impact. At a time when women-led businesses are reshaping industries, this partnership stands as a reminder of what becomes possible when collaboration is rooted in shared purpose.

For us, this work reaffirms a belief we carry into every project: that beauty can be a form of self-care, and that design – when approached with intention – has the power to help people feel better. Perhaps it is an approach worth exploring in your own home as well: creating spaces for yourself or your family that nurture, restore, and replenish.

What began as a chance meeting has grown into a shared statement about the power of spaces to heal, and about the extraordinary strength that emerges when women come together to create with empathy and vision.

Because sometimes, healing begins the moment you walk into a room.

There’s a moment in every room – often late in the process – when the temptation is to add just one more thing. Another lamp. Another layer. An object that feels too good to leave out. And yet, more often than not, the most important design decision happens right there: knowing when to stop.

I’ve always believed that timeless interiors are shaped through editing, not accumulation. Coco Chanel captured this perfectly when she advised removing one accessory before leaving the house. The same principle applies to interior design. Restraint isn’t about minimalism or austerity – it’s about clarity: letting the strongest elements speak without competition.

Punch still matters. I love drama, color, texture, and personality. But a room can’t have all main characters. When everything is vying for attention, nothing shines. That’s why I often think in terms of an 80/20 balance: eighty percent of a space acts as the canvas, while twenty percent carries the visual weight. Those star moments – whether a richly saturated wall, a boldly patterned rug, a singular piece of art, or a carefully curated collection – need room to breathe in order to be fully felt.

Before I design a room, I ask one essential question: where do I want the eye to go? That answer sets the hierarchy for the entire space. Maybe it’s an extraordinary painting, held in quiet relief against a tonal backdrop. Maybe it’s the geometry and color of a rug, anchoring the room while everything else steps back. Or perhaps it’s a story told through built-ins, where books, objects, and art come together as a single, cohesive composition. Once the focal point is clear, every other decision becomes easier – and far more disciplined.

This is why developing a color story early is so crucial. At the start of a project, I map out what will be bold and what will recede – deciding which colors do the heavy lifting and which exist to support them. Where pattern leads, where color leads, where objects take center stage. A room doesn’t need every color in the palette to shout. Often, the most successful spaces rely on a restrained range, letting one or two tones take focus while the rest build richness and depth through material, finish, and texture.

I think about push and pull constantly. If a rug is graphic and energetic, the upholstery might be calmer. If the walls are richly colored, the furniture can be sculptural yet neutral. Wood warms a space without adding noise. A hint of metal sharpens a palette without overwhelming it. These elements aren’t meant to compete – they’re there to reinforce the mood and create cohesion.

Restraint doesn’t make rooms boring. Quite the opposite. The most compelling interiors are often the most legible – spaces that feel intentional, digestible, and immersive all at once. They invite you in rather than overwhelm you. They reward attention instead of demanding it.

There’s a delicate balance at play. Rooms should feel full, but not overstuffed. Layered, but not cluttered. Energizing, yet calm enough to actually live in. When there’s too much visual noise, the eye has nowhere to rest – and when the eye can’t rest, the room never truly settles.

Editing is also what allows a space to age gracefully. Trends pass. Objects come and go. But a room designed with restraint has room to evolve. It can absorb new pieces over time without losing its identity. The most timeless interiors don’t exist in a vacuum; they live, leaving space for new colors, objects, and art – whether sourced from travel, gifts, or an irresistible urge for a sudden blast of room color.

Knowing when to stop is one of the hardest – and most important – skills in design. It takes confidence, patience, and the willingness to leave something out, even when you love it, especially when you love it. It’s like owning a beautiful piece of clothing: you don’t need to wear it immediately, or all the time, to know it belongs.

Good design isn’t about fitting everything in. It’s about showcasing the right elements so a room feels memorable rather than overwhelming. The best rooms aren’t the ones that show everything – they’re the ones that show just enough.

I love color. I truly do. But I’ve learned to be wary of how quickly people reach for it. It’s usually the first decision they want to make – the wall color, the cabinet color, the sofa color – as if once that’s settled, the room will somehow figure itself out. It rarely works that way.

Early in my career, I treated room color ideas like the answer to everything. If a room felt flat, I added color. Too quiet? Add color. Lacking personality? Definitely more color. I used it like punctuation – assuming that if I placed it correctly, the sentence would finally make sense.

But color doesn’t clarify. It amplifies. And if the underlying structure of a room isn’t working – the proportions, the layout, the light, the materials – color doesn’t fix it. It just turns up the volume.

What designers eventually learn, usually the hard way, is this: color schemes don’t create interest on their own. It reveals it. That’s why it works best when it arrives late in the process – not at the beginning.

Most rooms already hold more color than people realize.

Wood tones. Subtle shifts in white. The warmth of fabric. Shadow lines. The temperature of light at different times of day. These layers are color – just quieter ones. And when they’re thoughtfully in place, bold color doesn’t have to carry the room. It only has to interrupt it slightly. That interruption is where its power lives.

Large blocks of color demand commitment. They assume certainty. They tend to flatten nuance because they dominate the visual hierarchy. When everything is saturated, nothing stands out.

Smaller doses behave differently. They’re like accents in speech – adjusting the tone without taking over the conversation. A single painted surface. A chair that doesn’t match anything else. A lampshade that feels just slightly unexpected. These moves don’t announce themselves immediately. They unfold. They register slowly.

And that restraint isn’t indecision. It’s confidence.

Designers talk about restraint all the time. But what we really mean is control – knowing exactly where color will have impact, and where it will quietly do damage if it’s overused.

One of the most common mistakes I see is color being asked to compensate for a lack of depth. A flat room doesn’t need more color. It needs more contrast. More weight. More texture. Something that can hold space without demanding attention.

When those elements are missing, color turns into decorative noise.

When they’re present, color can afford to whisper. It can live at the edges – in moments that feel almost accidental. A seam. A lining. The inside of a shelf. The back of a cabinet. The kind of color you discover while living in a room, not just walking through it.

That’s where it lasts. There’s also a practical truth designers don’t always say out loud: people outgrow color faster than they expect. Not because they chose the 'wrong' shade, but because large-scale color locks a room into a specific mood. And moods change.

Smaller applications give a room flexibility. They allow a space to evolve without requiring a full reset. You can remove a chair. Reupholster a cushion. Swap out a lampshade. The architecture of the room remains intact.

That isn’t playing it safe. It’s designing for longevity. The rooms that age best aren’t the ones that avoided color altogether. They’re the ones that used it strategically – where it felt intentional rather than explanatory.

Color doesn’t need to be everywhere to be felt. In fact, it’s often strongest when it feels slightly withheld. As if it could expand, but chose restraint instead. So if you’re unsure, start smaller than you think you should. Let the room earn more color over time. Let it ask for it.

When it finally does, you’ll know exactly where it belongs.

There’s a moment in every home – usually around 4 pm – when real life quietly takes over. Backpacks get dropped in the entryway, junk mail multiplies faster than fruit flies, and toys somehow form a colony in the living room like they’re paying rent. No matter how beautiful a home is, living in it always brings stuff.

That’s exactly why designing for real life is less about chasing perfection and more about thoughtful preparation. A truly well-designed home doesn’t hide the signs of everyday life – it anticipates them, and creates spaces where they can exist gracefully.

The Storage Reality Check

Let’s start with the biggest, most relatable design question: where on earth does all your stuff go?

If you have kids, you already know – the stuff never stops. It arrives from school, birthday parties, sports, craft sessions, and grandparents who insist on gifting sets with 42 pieces. Babies have gear, toddlers have toys, middle-schoolers have hobbies, and teenagers have sports equipment – none of it small, subtle, or particularly cooperative with your carefully curated aesthetic.

Good storage ideas and home organization are not a luxury; it’s the backbone of a home that actually works. And here’s the secret: every home needs more of it than you think, and most of it needs to be hidden. Open shelving can look beautiful, but only if you have the patience of a professional organiser. For the rest of us, closed doors are a blessing.

Some of the most elegant storage is disguised in everyday furniture:

• Media cabinets with deep drawers for remotes, controllers, and the mystery cords no one dares throw away.
• Antique hutches that look like curated treasures but secretly house every board game your children have ever begged to play.
• Sofa tables with hidden compartments to catch the things that would otherwise end up on the floor – or under the sofa, where dust bunnies lie in wait.
• Storage ottomans that double as seating but are really clever toy vaults.
• Entry benches with baskets that swallow shoes, hats, gloves, and any object that defies categorisation.

A home has to do a lot, and your furniture should do the same – beautifully, quietly, and without fuss.

Make It Functional and Beautiful

Here’s a common misconception: functional furniture can’t be beautiful. That’s simply not true. Some of the most striking pieces are the ones quietly doing the heavy lifting – you just need to see them in a different light. Sure, it’s easy to hop online and grab the IKEA square console with eight matching baskets, but we can do better.

A well-crafted media cabinet can set the tone for an entire room. A vintage sideboard can elevate a dining space while secretly stashing a lifetime supply of birthday candles and themed napkins. A tall cabinet can even become a sculptural centerpiece if you style it intentionally – display your glassware, let it shine!

Function and beauty aren’t opposites – they’re roommates who actually get along surprisingly well. When everything has its place, your home feels calmer, cleaner, and yes, a little more grown-up… even if “grown-up” feels like a stretch most days.

Fabric Protection, Always

Once your storage is sorted, it’s time to face another inescapable truth of daily life: spills happen. Toddlers, teenagers, pets, dinner guests – or just your own love of red wine – will find a way to hit the upholstery. I promise it.

Which is why I say, loudly and with love: fabric-guard everything. Yes, everything. Your sofa. Dining chairs. Ottomans. Even that adorable mudroom bench everyone assumes is 'just for looking.' Protect it.

Modern fabric protectants aren’t crunchy, shiny, or tent-like – they’re soft, invisible, and genuinely life-changing. Pair them with performance fabrics, and suddenly a grape squish or a rogue paintbrush no longer sends you into panic mode.

A protected sofa isn’t just furniture – it’s a permission slip to live normally. And honestly? Permission slips are vastly underrated.

Break the Rules – They Weren’t Written for Your Life Anyway

Now here’s my favorite part of designing for real life: you get to break the rules.

Yes, designers talk about space-planning guidelines, ideal walkway clearances, and furniture placement formulas – but those rules don’t know how you live. They don’t know where the morning light hits just right, where your kids naturally drop their stuff, or the corner you gravitate to when you need a pocket of quiet.

And honestly? The rule-breaking homes are almost always the most interesting.

For example: right now, I’m sitting on the floor at my coffee table writing this. Why? Because I like sitting by the fire, and apparently this is where my creativity showed up today. Full transparency: I’m also procrastinating cleaning up the kids’ toy city behind me. Eventually, those toys will migrate back into the cabinet, but for now, they’re serving as inspiration.

Which brings me to that age-old question: ‘How do I make living in my home look good?’

Part of the answer is accepting that a lived-in home comes with signs of life. The other part is designing spaces that evolve, flex, and support whatever chaos the day brings. Everyone lives differently—your home should be allowed to follow your lead.

Homes Designed for Living, Not Just Looking

Designing for real life doesn’t mean lowering your aesthetic standards – it means raising the bar for how your home should feel. The most beautiful homes aren’t the ones where nothing is ever out of place; they’re the ones that support you through the comings and goings of everyday life.

A home where everything has a place to land.

A home where multifunctional furniture does more than just fill a room.

A home where spills aren’t treated like disasters.

A home that breaks a few rules – and looks better for it.

When design quietly works behind the scenes, life becomes the part that truly shines.

Have you ever walked into a home and felt an immediate sense of calm – even if you couldn’t quite explain why? The ceilings aren’t dramatically higher, the furniture isn’t obviously extravagant, and the color palette isn’t shouting for attention. And yet, something shifts. Your shoulders drop. Your breathing steadies. You feel comfortable almost instantly. That’s emotional architecture at work.

At its best, interior design principles go far beyond surface beauty. It quietly shapes how we live, how we unwind, how we connect – and how we recover from the outside world. A well-considered home works subtly in the background, influencing mood and behavior in ways we often register before we consciously understand them.

We respond to a space emotionally first. Clear sightlines instead of visual clutter allow both the eye and the mind to rest. Proportion, light, texture – they all play their part in creating that almost imperceptible sense of ease.

Rooms should move easily from one to the next. When the flow feels intuitive, daily life feels smoother too – there’s less friction, less visual noise. Proportion plays a huge part in that. Furniture that’s properly scaled to a room creates balance; pieces that are too large can overwhelm, while undersized ones leave a space feeling oddly adrift. It’s one of the most common mistakes I see.

I also spend a lot of time teaching clients the value of negative space. Just as silence gives music its rhythm, visual pauses give a home clarity. Not every wall needs styling. Not every corner needs a chair. A well-designed interior doesn’t clamor for attention at every turn; it allows the eye to rest. Those quieter moments – the unfilled surfaces, the considered gaps – are often what make a room feel composed rather than chaotic.

Design, at its most powerful, also acts as a form of emotional regulation. Light, texture, and materiality all influence how we feel, often instantly. Soft, layered lighting ideas can calm the nervous system, while harsh overhead glare has the opposite effect. I instinctively adjust lighting wherever I am – lowering sconces, softening overheads, creating pockets of warmth. The shift is immediate. When I can control the light, the entire room feels gentler, and I feel calmer within it.

Natural materials – linen, wool, reclaimed wood, limewashed plaster – ground a room in something tactile and honest. They offer comfort without excess. What I love most is the way they age. A soft patina develops over time, edges wear in gently, and surfaces gain character. That quiet evolution lends a space grace and depth, allowing you to truly relax into it. Nothing feels too precious; it simply feels lived in.

As designers, we think carefully about transitions within a home. The shift from public rooms to private ones. From energetic, sociable spaces to those intended for rest. Materials help carry that journey – perhaps a change in texture underfoot, softer fabrics in a bedroom, warmer lighting in a sitting room. These choices aren’t merely decorative; they shape how you move, how you feel, how you unwind. They’re emotional decisions as much as aesthetic ones.

Interestingly, homes that are overly designed can feel subtly unsettling. When every corner demands attention, the eye never gets to rest. Too many focal points compete. Trend-heavy selections might look impressive in isolation, but layered together, they can lack cohesion and emotional longevity. I often see this happen when each individual material is chosen to be the “most interesting” piece in the room. The result isn’t harmony – it’s visual noise. Real comfort comes from restraint, from allowing elements to speak softly rather than all at once.

Emotional ease so often comes down to editing. To restraint. Knowing what to leave out matters just as much as what you choose to bring in. When a space isn’t overfilled, it has room to breathe – and so do we. Restraint gives a home the freedom to evolve slowly, to gather meaning over time through pieces that are collected rather than crammed in. It gives the eye a place to pause as it moves around the room, and that visual pause is what creates a genuine sense of calm.

In a world that feels increasingly loud, fast, and visually relentless, the role of the home has shifted. It’s no longer just a backdrop to our lives; it’s a refuge from them. A place to recalibrate.

Emotional architecture understands that shift. It prioritises feeling, longevity, and intention over excess or instant impact. The most beautiful homes aren’t always the ones that dazzle with drama or polish. They’re the ones that invite you to exhale. To put your feet up. To stay awhile. They evolve thoughtfully, shaped by decisions that are as considered in what’s omitted as in what’s included – and that quiet discernment is what makes them truly lasting.

One of the questions I’m asked most often is how to tell when a room is truly finished. And honestly, it’s rarely about adding one more thing. More often, it’s about having the confidence to take something away.

Restraint isn’t the same as minimalism, and it’s certainly not about following rigid rules. It’s about clarity. It’s about recognizing what’s working, what deserves attention, and allowing those key pieces to lead the room. When you edit your home ideas thoughtfully, the space breathes – and that’s usually when it finally feels complete.

I always start with the architecture. In this bedroom, the room’s structure does most of the work – the sweep of the ceiling lines, the symmetry of the windows, the strong, grounded silhouette of the bed. Those elements set the tone before anything decorative is added.

Once those bones are clear, everything else can soften. The layers become intentional rather than busy – tactile fabrics, subtle pattern, a restrained palette. Nothing fights for attention. The space feels calm because it’s anchored. It understands its own proportions and presence, and the design simply supports that.

Restraint doesn’t mean boring. It means being deliberate.

In this living room, the space is anchored by sculptural cream chairs and a green patterned rug. The palette is restrained, but the forms are expressive. The chairs hold their own. The rug brings movement and energy underfoot. Because the surrounding elements are carefully edited, those two moments are allowed to shine. When everything is special, nothing is. But when just a few pieces are given room to stand out, the entire space feels more considered – more intentional.

Symmetry in interior design is another tool I lean on when editing. Here, mirrored seating and balanced artwork create a sense of quiet structure. The eye knows where to land. That order gives you permission to push a little further elsewhere – a brass table with warmth and weight, a saturated green dining room unfolding beyond, a sculptural light fixture overhead.

Restraint sets the foundation. Within it, personality feels purposeful rather than overwhelming.

I also think about restraint in terms of layering – letting the materials carry the weight of the design. Pale woods, soft upholstery, woven textures. There may be very little overt decoration, yet the room never feels bare. The richness comes from what you feel as much as what you see.

Often, the restraint lives in the color story. When the palette is quiet and cohesive, texture and light have space to step forward. Grain, weave, shadow – they become the interest.

This is where it’s easy to tip too far. One more pillow. One more object. One more 'finishing touch.' But more often than not, the room was stronger just before that final addition. The discipline is knowing when to stop – and trusting that it’s enough.

Designing with art is often where I lean most into restraint. One strong piece can carry an entire room. When the furniture is quiet and the palette soft, art becomes the emotional anchor – it brings depth, tension, personality. But it only works if you let it breathe. Surround a powerful piece with too much, and its impact fades. Give it space, and it transforms the room.

And editing isn’t something you do once and declare finished. Rooms shift as you live in them. You notice what draws you in, what feels unnecessary, what quietly doesn’t belong. Sometimes restraint simply means waiting – letting the space settle before deciding what comes next. More often than we think, the answer isn’t adding something new. It’s appreciating what’s already there.

Natural light is something I’m truly passionate about. It’s one of the most essential elements of any room or environment – something I notice instinctively, long before finishes, layouts, or furniture catch my eye. When I’m touring a property for our own home, natural light is always a top priority; for me, it’s non-negotiable.

The way light fills a space profoundly impacts my mood and energy. There’s nothing more uplifting than waking up to sunlight streaming through the windows, instantly setting the tone for the day ahead.

Light is the quiet, transformative force that shapes every interior we inhabit. It not only defines how a room looks, but more importantly, how it feels. As an interior designer, I’ve learned that no amount of beautiful furniture, luxurious finishes, or bespoke joinery can make up for poor lighting ideas. Get the light right, and everything else falls naturally into place.

The right light can transform even the simplest space or small room, making it feel intentional, warm, and full of atmosphere – but the same light, if misused, can undo even the most carefully designed interiors.

My design philosophy has always taught me that light is the one element that can’t be faked. It reveals the authenticity of materials, the integrity of craftsmanship, and the subtle emotional story woven into a home. In every project, I begin with a single guiding principle: light is the design material you cannot touch, yet it is felt in every moment of living.

A well-lit room – whether bathed in soft morning light or softened by a warm, atmospheric glow in the evening – does more than influence how a space looks; it shapes how it feels. Light guides our emotions, affects how we move through a room, and quietly determines how comfortable we feel within it. That emotional impact is often far more powerful than any material choice or decorative detail, making light one of the most important – and frequently underestimated – elements of interior design. This is something I feel very strongly about.

I often say that I always let the architecture lead. My role as an interior designer is to create rooms that complement the architecture and the structure of a space, rather than compete with it. With that approach, natural light becomes a central consideration from the very start of the design process, influencing everything from material selections to the overall room color palette.

I’ve never believed in artificially lighting a space to make it feel brighter than it naturally is. If a room has limited or no natural light, I prefer to lean into that reality rather than fight it. A windowless room, for example, can be incredibly moody and atmospheric, and trying to force it to feel light and airy with pale colors and excessive brightness often feels inauthentic – as if the room is pretending to be something it’s not.

Instead, I embrace the darkness with deeper materials and richer tones, paired with thoughtful, atmospheric lighting. Wall sconces and layered lighting almost always work better than relying solely on overhead downlights, creating a space that feels intentional, balanced, and in harmony with its natural light conditions.

Light never exists in isolation – it interacts with every surface it touches, and it’s within this interplay that interiors truly come alive. Nowhere is this more evident than in the way color behaves on walls. That’s why I always select wall colors toward the end of a project, once I can see paint samples in each room under the exact light conditions they’ll live in.

I often use a single, consistent color across a home’s primary spaces to create a sense of continuity and cohesion. But it’s essential to test that color in rooms flooded with natural light as well as in transitional spaces, like hallways, that receive far less. The same shade can feel completely different from one room to the next – warmer, cooler, softer, or heavier – simply based on how natural light moves through the space.

Understanding and respecting these shifts is key to creating interiors that feel balanced, intentional, and alive.

My work has always been materials first – and light is the ingredient that unlocks their true character. It’s what allows materials to whisper rather than shout. This idea is central to my design ethos and guides the way I approach every space.

Lighting a room is never about achieving uniform brightness. It’s about creating layers of atmosphere. Too often, homes rely on a single overhead light, casting everything in a harsh, flattened glow. I prefer to layer light – combining ambient, task, accent, and decorative sources – so each element serves a distinct purpose. When done well, a home feels rich, considered, and nuanced.

In the evening, a room should glow, not glare. I always think about how I want to feel in a space at the end of the day – calm, at ease, and welcomed home. That feeling comes from low, intimate accent lighting, the soft flicker of candles, and subtle warmth. Bright overhead lighting alone can never achieve the same effect.

Shadow is just as vital as illumination. Nothing excites me more than the interplay of natural light and shadow streaming through a window, how it fills a room, catches the eye, and makes architecture feel sculptural while giving materials depth and dimension. A room without shadow feels flat; a room with shadow feels alive. It’s this natural rhythm of light and shade that brings a calm sophistication to any space.

At the end of the day, lighting is what welcomes us home. The ritual of turning on lamps, lighting candles, or drawing curtains creates an emotional shift – a quiet exhale that grounds us and invites relaxation. Homes aren’t meant to be perfectly lit showpieces; they’re meant to support the movements of real life. Soft morning light for waking, bright task lighting for work, warm low light for evening rest – these shifts are what make a home feel lived in.

For me, light is not just a technical layer – it’s a sensory one. It shapes how we feel, how we live, and how we experience beauty in the everyday.

When someone walks into a home and describes it as calm, elevated, or effortlessly pulled together, it’s rarely because of one dramatic statement piece. More often, it’s the result of a series of quiet, intentional choices working subtly in the background. You may not consciously register these details – but you feel them immediately.

Over time, I’ve realized that thoughtfully designed home ideas aren’t about adding more. It’s about noticing more. It’s about understanding how a space flows, where the eye rests, how light moves, and how the room supports everyday life.

These are the design moves I return to again and again – the subtle shifts that transform a space from decorated to deeply considered.

1. I Design Sightlines Before Anything Else

Before I consider furniture finishes or decorative accents, I start with what someone sees the moment they step into a room. Sightlines in interior design quietly shape a space’s mood – often before you even notice them.

I focus on framing, depth, and the natural paths the eye follows. When a view is gently guided rather than cluttered or blocked, a room feels calmer, more intentional, and effortless. Even highly functional spaces benefit from thoughtful sightlines. Done well, a room immediately feels composed and welcoming – without needing a single extra piece.

2. Alignment Matters More Than You Think

One of the fastest ways a room can feel 'off' is when things don’t quite line up. Lamps at slightly different heights, artwork hung unevenly, furniture floating without regard to the architecture – these may seem like small details, but they make a big impact.

I’m deliberate about aligning furniture with architectural elements, centering pieces thoughtfully, and establishing a sense of rhythm. When alignment is considered, a space feels grounded, intentional, and effortlessly settled – nothing feels accidental.

3. Lighting Temperature Changes the Mood

Lighting ideas shape the mood of a room more than almost anything else. I pay close attention to temperature, intensity, and how natural light shifts throughout the day.

In living rooms and bedrooms, I always opt for warmer, softer tones. Cool lighting can make even the most beautifully designed space feel clinical. Layered lighting – ambient, task, and accent – ideally on dimmers, allows a home to evolve from bright and energizing in the morning to calm and intimate by evening.

4. Transitions Should Feel Natural

The movement from one room to the next should feel seamless. I pay close attention to how materials, colors, and finishes carry through a home so nothing feels jarring or abrupt.

That doesn’t mean everything has to match. It means there’s a quiet thread of continuity guiding you from space to space. When transitions are handled thoughtfully, a home feels cohesive and considered – never repetitive.

5. Curate the Unexpected

I like to leave space for little surprises – a small antique, a one-of-a-kind book, or an object picked up on a trip. These details catch the eye and give a home the feeling of being lived in over time. Often, it’s the subtle, unexpected touches that make a space truly memorable.

For me, these quiet choices define a thoughtful home. They don’t demand attention, but together they shape the way a space feels every day. That, ultimately, is where good design truly lives.

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

I’ve said it before, but children’s rooms remain my favorite spaces to design. They offer a rare kind of creative freedom – a place where the usual rules soften, and playfulness becomes the priority. These are the rooms where bold ideas feel not only allowed but encouraged, where you can take design risks you’d never attempt elsewhere.

At their best, kids’ rooms do more than deliver a fleeting sense of magic. They invite nostalgia and storytelling, allowing themes – outer space, secret gardens, jungle explorers – to be explored without irony. They’re deeply personal spaces, expressive and occasionally a little unexpected. And because they’re often smaller in scale, ambitious ideas feel more achievable: a hand-painted mural, graphic wallpaper, or sculptural bed can take center stage without overwhelming the rest of the home.

The real challenge – and where thoughtful design truly shines – is creating a room that delights now while remaining flexible enough to grow with the child who inhabits it, rather than locking them into a phase they’ll quickly outgrow.

Designing Rooms Kids Can Grow Into

Separate the Permanent From the Personal

Begin with a timeless foundation: neutral flooring, classic furniture silhouettes, and versatile lighting. Antiques and vintage pieces work beautifully for larger elements, adding both character and longevity. Personality can then be layered in through easily updated touches – bedding, artwork, and accessories that evolve as tastes change.

Lean Into Natural Materials

Rather than committing to bold, overtly kids' room color ideas throughout the space, lean on natural materials to anchor the space. Wood, linen, wool, and rattan create a calm backdrop, letting playful touches feel deliberate rather than overwhelming.

Choose Furniture That Evolves

Convertible cribs, extendable beds, adjustable desks, and modular storage are indispensable. The trick is selecting pieces that feel thoughtfully designed – not juvenile – so they remain stylish and functional from early childhood through the teenage years. Flexibility is the quiet hero of a room built to last.

Invite the Child Into the Process

Even small choices – picking artwork, selecting bedding – give children a sense of ownership. When they feel connected to their space, changes happen naturally, evolving with them rather than feeling like a constant redesign.

Prioritize Comfort and Calm

Amid all the play and creativity, rest remains essential. Thoughtful lighting, soft textiles, and careful attention to acoustics help the room function as a true retreat – supporting sleep, quiet moments, and emotional balance at every stage of childhood.

Be Strategic With Placement

If a child is set on a feature that feels tricky to integrate, try suggesting it for a bathroom or playroom instead. These spaces can handle bold, playful ideas for longer, offering room to experiment without committing to a full bedroom redesign too soon.

Designing for Who They’re Becoming

The best children’s rooms never freeze a single moment in time. They celebrate imagination today while quietly supporting independence tomorrow, creating spaces that grow alongside the child. When done well, they don’t just house childhood – they help shape it.

That’s why designing kids’ rooms remains endlessly rewarding. They’re a reminder that great design isn’t just about how a space looks – it’s about how it lives, evolves, and changes with the people who inhabit it.

If there’s one principle that truly separates how designers see a room from how most homeowners experience it, it’s this: designers pay as much attention to what isn’t there as to what is. Negative space – the quiet pockets around furniture, the open stretches of wall, the breathing room between objects – is one of the most overlooked tools in interior design. Yet it’s often the very element that makes a space feel intentional, elegant, and genuinely livable.

Where most people take in a room by clocking its individual pieces – the couch, the artwork, the rug, the room color ideas – designers focus on the relationships between them. They notice the pauses, the tension, the places where the eye can rest. This is what prevents a room from feeling visually crowded or emotionally overwhelming. It’s the difference between a space that simply contains beautiful things and one that actually feels right.

You can see this at work in any well-balanced interior. In a layered living room, the eye needs somewhere to travel, somewhere to pause, and moments of visual clarity. Allowing generous space around a sculptural console, or resisting the impulse to fill every surface, immediately elevates the composition. The room shifts from feeling collected to feeling considered – curated rather than accumulated.

This design principle also has a quiet power to spotlight craftsmanship and detail. An uncluttered archway, for instance, allows architectural lines to take center stage. When a chair sits just far enough from a console, or a piece of art is given room to breathe, you begin to notice the silhouette, the texture, the subtle gestures – the curve of a branch in a vase, the patina on a metal fireplace surround. Space makes objects legible. It slows the eye and draws attention to nuance.

One of the most common design mistakes I see is pushing furniture tight against the walls in an attempt to ‘maximize’ space. Ironically, this often has the opposite effect. Pulling a pair of chairs slightly inward introduces intentional negative space, clearly defining the seating area and making the room feel more grounded and inviting. It’s the difference between a layout that feels scattered and one that feels thoughtfully anchored.

It isn't about emptiness; it’s about contrast. In a bright, crisp room with graphic lines, the margin of the wall around a piece of art becomes a frame. In a richly paneled study, open floor space allows the depth of the millwork to feel atmospheric rather than oppressive. Even display areas benefit from restraint: a single sculptural object, given room to stand alone, becomes a moment of pure focus instead of visual noise.

Light plays an equally important role. This principle gives light somewhere to land. When sunlight moves across an uncluttered wall, floor, or tabletop, it creates shifting shadows that add depth and dimension. In rooms crowded with competing elements, that movement is lost. In spaces with intentional openness, the room feels dynamic, alive, and ever-changing throughout the day.

The truth is, this rule requires discipline. It takes confidence to leave areas unfilled and to resist the instinct to decorate every surface. But the payoff is significant: a calmer home, a more refined aesthetic, and a sense of visual generosity that can’t be achieved any other way.

My advice? Edit more than you accessorize. Build in intentional pauses. Pull back on styling until each piece has room to assert itself. And above all, let your home breathe. The silence between notes is what makes music sing – and in design, it’s the space between objects that makes a room truly work.

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.

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

I’ve always felt that January carries a quiet optimism, and this past month embodied that feeling for me. The rush of the holidays faded, the house exhaled, and suddenly we were offered a rare gift: a clean slate. Not the loud, trend-driven kind – no demolition, dust masks, or emergency takeout – but something more personal and intuitive. It’s been a season for considering how I might refresh my home, and how you might refresh yours, too (I firmly believe design resolutions can begin in February).

For me, a fresh perspective doesn’t require a full renovation or a cart filled with whatever color happens to be crowned of the moment. The most meaningful reset often comes from creating a home that feels calm, layered, and unmistakably your own.

Skip the Trends. Trust Your Instincts

Interior design trends move fast. Your home doesn’t need to keep up – this isn’t a relay race, and to be honest, I’ve never been much of a runner.

Instead of chasing what’s new, I always encourage clients (and myself) to lean into what actually feels good to live with. A fresh start is less about reinvention and more about refinement: editing what no longer serves you and doubling down on the colors, textures, and patterns that bring a sense of ease. If something stresses you out just by looking at it, it’s probably not a keeper.

Think of your home like a well-loved wardrobe. The pieces that last aren’t the flashy ones; they’re the ones that feel comfortable, familiar, and quietly confident. Interiors should be no different. For me, that’s an oversized oatmeal-colored knit sweater – not trying too hard, works with everything, and the moment I put it on, I feel instantly at home. That’s exactly the energy I want in my spaces: supportive, unfussy, and forgiving at the end of a long day.

Layering with Color and Soft Pattern

One of the easiest ways to refresh a space is through thoughtful layering. Soft patterns – subtle stripes, small-scale florals, and gentle geometrics – add interest without overwhelming a room. They’re supporting characters, not scene-stealers. When paired with a calm palette, they create depth rather than noise (an important distinction, especially if your life already has plenty of the latter).

Lately, I’ve been drawn to a softer spectrum: muted yellows, washed blues, gentle greens, and warm taupes. These hues feel optimistic without demanding attention. They invite in light, reference nature, and move effortlessly through the seasons. The key is using them together, allowing the palette to do the work collectively rather than asking one color to carry the entire room.

I love grounding these schemes with old-world pottery – pieces with slightly imperfect forms and richly layered glazes. Whether styled alone on a shelf or holding loose, sculptural stems, they bring an immediate sense of soul. And happily, they don’t mind if you forget to water anything.

Welcoming Spring (Yes, Even Early) with Faux Florals

I’m a firm believer that spring can arrive indoors long before it shows up outside. I also live in Canada, where winter tends to linger – and the fifty shades of grey outdoors can start to feel oddly personal. Faux florals have come a long way, and when chosen thoughtfully, they’re one of the simplest ways to breathe new life into a space. Bonus points: no green thumb required.

Look for stems with variation in color and shape – nothing too perfect. Soft greens, delicate blossoms, and slightly irregular forms feel fresh and organic. Place them in an entryway, on a bedside table, or along the kitchen counter to subtly signal renewal (and gently trick yourself into believing warmer days are imminent).

And this part matters: fluff them. It’s non-negotiable. Bend the stems, adjust the leaves, open the petals. They need to be worked. Perfection isn’t the goal – if anything, the less perfect they look, the more convincing they become.

Edit the Clutter, Invite the Calm

A fresh start also means letting go. Even the most beautiful homes slowly collect visual clutter – it happens to all of us (myself included). One minute it’s a single candle; the next, it’s a full vignette you’re suddenly afraid to touch. The new year is the perfect moment to reassess what you actually need versus what you’ve simply grown accustomed to seeing.

One easy trick? Edit gallery walls or tabletop photo collections by converting images to black and white. The memories remain just as meaningful, while the visual noise softens. A bit of uniformity can feel incredibly calming – and surprisingly chic.

Clearing surfaces, paring back accessories, and creating breathing room allows the pieces that remain to truly shine. Calm doesn’t come from emptiness; it comes from intention (and occasionally from tucking a few things into a drawer).

The Power of New Bedding

If there’s one change that delivers instant impact, it’s bedding. Swapping out sheets, duvets, or pillow covers can completely transform how a bedroom feels – and how you feel in it. It’s the design equivalent of a really good night’s sleep.

Crisp cottons, relaxed linens, or soft patterns in those same soothing hues can instantly make a space feel lighter and more inviting. And here’s a small, unapologetic indulgence: ironed sheets. My mom always did it, and she still does when we visit. There may be no better feeling than slipping into a freshly laundered, perfectly crisp bed. Once you experience it, there’s no going back. And yes, it’s absolutely worth the extra wrinkle-fighting effort.

It’s a simple update with an outsized emotional return. After all, this is where we begin and end each day – why not let it feel like a fresh start?

A Home That Resets with You

A new year doesn’t ask us to start over; it simply invites us to begin again – gently. By layering your home with soft color, thoughtful pattern, and a sense of calm, you create a space that supports you, season after season.

Forget the rules. Tune out the noise. Design a home that feels like a deep breath. That, to me, is the very best kind of fresh start.

Interior designer Zoe Feldman is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens, clever color palettes, and family-friendly materials. See the rest of her articles here.

Romance has always had a place in my work – but never the overly powdered, corseted kind. I’m drawn instead to a quieter, more modern romance, rooted in light, texture, and the simple pleasure of being at home. To me, the most beautiful interiors carry a gentle seduction. They shift with the day, invite you to slow down, and remind you that a home should support how you live – not perform for the outside world.

By daylight, I love rooms that feel open-hearted and unguarded. Natural light reveals a home’s soul: the subtle grain of a floorboard, the warmth of a favorite painting, the lived-in softness of upholstery that has shaped itself to you over time. Daylight tells the truth. It animates every layer you’ve so thoughtfully chosen and connects you to the life unfolding inside your walls.

And nowhere does this matter more than in romantic bedrooms – spaces that should feel restorative by day and deeply enveloping by night. In the morning, I want bedrooms to feel calm, breathable, almost bare in their honesty. In the evening, the house should change its posture. This is where romance quietly steps in.

I want rooms to glow – to soften at the edges, to feel like they’re exhaling with you. Good lighting is emotional architecture; it shapes how a space feels as profoundly as layout or color ever could. A dimmed sconce, a pendant with a silk shade, a table lamp casting a warm pool of light – together they create an atmosphere that encourages lingering. Recessed lighting has its place in kitchens and baths, but everywhere else, diffused, layered light should reign. And yes, I will forever campaign for real candles in kitchens. They bring an old-world intimacy we could all use a little more of.

Room color ideas, too, play an essential role in creating a romantic home. I don’t believe a room needs to be uniformly warm to feel warm – but it does need undertones that hold the space gently. Even cooler palettes benefit from touches of brown, camel, or soft white, notes that keep a room from feeling aloof or chilly.

I’m drawn to red-based neutrals, softened terracottas, and muddy blushes – tones that feel luminous in the morning and quietly seductive at night. These are colors that know how to linger. They shift with the light, deepen at dusk, and never demand attention. Instead, they create a sense of ease.

The most romantic rooms allow color to meet color effortlessly, blending the way paint does on a canvas rather than competing for the eye. When hues relate to one another, a space feels composed, calm, and deeply livable – less designed for display, and more for being in.

Then there is texture in interior design – the most intimate of design tools. When I think of romance, I think of materials that invite touch: mohair, cashmere, velvets with just enough nap to catch the light. These aren’t fabrics that shout; they whisper. A generously scaled mohair rug underfoot, a nubby throw that tempts you to cancel your plans and stay in – these are the pieces that make a home feel lived in, loved, and deeply personal.

For those who delight in the rituals of home – long dinners that stretch late into the night, lively game evenings, quiet moments spent reading by the fire – designing for romance is ultimately about designing for connection. And few elements have more power than a fireplace.

Whether wood-burning or gas, in a living room, dining room, or romantic bedroom, a fire brings both immediacy and a sense of nostalgia. It grounds a space and draws people together instinctively, reminding us why home has always been a place of gathering, warmth, and return.

What I hope people embrace is that romance at home isn’t precious or fussy. It has nothing to do with ornate flourishes or grand gestures. This new romance is soft, imperfect, and wonderfully human. It lives in the glow of a lamp at dusk, the pleasure of a well-loved chair, the feeling of being enveloped rather than impressed. It’s warmth and soul, with just enough daring to make a room feel alive.

In the end, romance is simply the art of making space for feeling. And when you shape your home with light, color, and texture that truly resonate with you, the result is a quiet rebellion: a home that nurtures rather than performs, inspires without insisting, and reflects – honestly – the life you want to live.

Interior designers Azar Fattahi and Lia McNairy, founders of the LA-based studio LALA Reimagined, have joined Homes & Gardens as Editors-at-Large for By Design. They’ll be sharing their insights on creating personality-filled interiors and the art of blending eclectic ideas into richly characterful schemes. See the rest of their articles here.

Every New Year, we set our intentions. We make lists of what we want to invite in, what we’re ready to let go of, and what we hope to create. It brings a sense of renewal – a clean slate, a fresh start – and there’s something deeply comforting about that ritual.

So why not extend the same thinking to your home?

Refreshing your physical space can be just as powerful as resetting your mindset. In fact, the two are closely intertwined. And the best part? It doesn’t have to cost a thing. Sometimes, a ‘new’ space is simply a shifted one.

Start by reimagining your living room – or any room in your home. We often place a key piece of furniture, like a sofa, in the most obvious spot and never question it again. But moving it to a different wall, or rotating the layout entirely, can suddenly unlock a room’s potential. We see it time and again when stepping into a client’s home: a small shuffle, and suddenly the space feels completely new.

As you know, we don’t have many rules at LALA – but there is one non-negotiable design tip we swear by: never push furniture flat against a wall. Give each piece a little breathing room. Even six inches can make a space feel more intentional, more layered, and noticeably more alive.

Another area worth rethinking is your desk. Clearing, editing, and restyling your workspace can be surprisingly energizing. Try swapping in a lamp from another room, introducing a different chair, or bringing a few favorite objects to live with you while you work. We like to treat desks as small vignettes – a stack of books, a ceramic piece, something collected on a trip. These personal details add joy to everyday life and remind us why we love the objects we choose to surround ourselves with. A beautiful object in your line of sight can spark creativity and instantly lift your mood.

As self-proclaimed rule breakers, we also love to experiment with function.

Take our LALA bar cart, designed for our Anthropologie collection. Yes, it works beautifully as a bar cart – but one of us uses it as a side table in an empty corner of the primary bedroom that previously had no real purpose. Styled with a lamp, books, candles, and a few beautiful objects, it suddenly became a layered, intentional moment. And when it’s time for a girls’ night? It effortlessly transforms back into a proper martini station, complete with an ice bucket and all the necessary accoutrements – right there in the comfort of the bedroom while getting ready.

The takeaway is simple: shuffle things around. Question placement. Let go of what no longer feels right.

And if you’ve been living with a piece – a chair, a painting, an object – that you secretly dislike and have never dealt with, consider this your permission slip to release it. Make space for something better to find you in 2026.

Here’s to a year of clarity, beauty, health, and abundance – in our minds, in our homes, and in the lives we’re creating.

Interior designer Poonam Khanna, founder of Unionworks, is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

Houses are physical structures, built for human habitation. A home is something else entirely – more a feeling than a construct.

Your mental image of a house is probably similar to mine: a front door, rectangular windows, a pitched roof sitting on a box-like volume, perhaps a chimney. But I’d wager that our ideas of home are nothing alike. I know they’re different, because home is deeply personal – unique to each of us.

Home is an infinite and varied combination of things: comfort and emotion, memories and belongings, belonging and acceptance. It is a sense of safety. It is feeling understood.

A house exists in a fixed time and place. A home is created slowly, over time.

When we begin working with clients, we are often in the realm of ‘what home is’ long before the house itself exists. From the earliest conceptual phase, a conversation begins – one that runs through the entire life of the project. It’s a continuous dialogue made up of countless decisions about structure and space, alongside hundreds of smaller conversations about dreams, wishes, memories, and aspirations.

There is always so much to discuss, and even more to learn – about our clients, their lives, and the houses that will eventually become their homes.

It starts with words. Then lines. Then materials, colors, and textures. Fixtures and furnishings follow, then art and objects – and finally, the personal touches.

The last and most critical ingredient is the people themselves. They are what transform a house into a home.

One of the first shopping trips I ever took with a client was to France. We traveled with a dear friend and one of my earliest mentors, Ted Wolter, who knew every brocante, fair, and vintage dealer worth visiting. We knew we would find something special.

We started at the Paris flea markets, then wandered through L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. In the back of a tightly packed shop, a group of 17th-century wood boiserie panels hung quietly on a wall. Almost immediately, we knew they were right – perfect for our client’s snug in a West Village townhouse we were renovating.

The panels are simple, yet they bring immense feeling to the space: history, warmth, texture. And now they carry a story – of how they were found, and where they live today – in a room that fits them, and a family that fits them too. That’s home.

For another project in the Hamptons, we spent countless hours searching for the right stone with our client. Nothing quite spoke to us – or rather, nothing felt like home. So we went straight to the source and travelled to the Carrara quarries outside Pisa.

Suddenly, we were surrounded by stone we’d never seen before, stretching endlessly in every direction. Beyond the vast blocks and slabs, we were invited to ride to the top of the quarry – the top of the mountain – a place rarely accessible due to its extreme incline.

The drive up was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure: a narrow gravel ledge carved into the mountainside, a sheer drop on one side, barely wide enough for the Land Cruiser carrying us. When we reached the top terrace, we stepped out of the car and into the clouds. We were impossibly high. It felt like we had left the world behind. I will never forget the magnitude of that experience. Every time I visit our clients’ home and see those stones in their kitchen and bathroom, I feel the clouds around me again. That’s home.

How a house becomes a home is simple: there is a story built into it – one that belongs entirely to the family inside.

Interior designer Jess Cooney is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

Have you ever stepped into a home that immediately feels right? You may not be able to explain why. The ceilings aren’t higher. The furniture isn’t more expensive. The color palette isn’t doing anything obvious. And yet something shifts. Your shoulders drop. Your breath slows. You feel, almost instinctively, at ease. That’s emotional architecture at work.

At its best, interior design goes far beyond aesthetics. It shapes how we live, how we rest, how we gather – and how we recover from the outside world. A well-designed home works quietly in the background, influencing our mood and behavior in ways we often feel long before we understand them.

We respond to space before we analyze it. Clear sightlines give both the eye and the mind room to rest. Rooms that flow intuitively from one to the next reduce friction. Proportion and scale in interior design matters: furniture scaled correctly to its surroundings creates balance, while pieces that are too large or too small leave a space feeling tense or unfinished – something people get wrong more often than they realize.

We also teach our clients the value of negative space. Just as pauses give music its meaning, visual breaks give a home clarity. A well-designed interior doesn’t demand attention at every turn. Instead, it offers moments of quiet – places where nothing is trying to impress, where the eye can land and settle. Design can function as emotional regulation. Light, texture, and materiality have a profound effect on how we feel in a space. Soft, layered lighting helps calm the nervous system, while harsh or overly bright light can leave us feeling unsettled or on edge.

I notice this every time I enter a room. I instinctively adjust the lighting – lowering overhead fixtures, softening sconces – and almost immediately, the space feels calmer. Control over light is often the fastest way to shift how a room feels.

Material choices matter just as much. Linen, wool, reclaimed wood, plaster – natural materials ground a space through texture and tactility. They offer comfort without excess. Over time, they develop a patina that adds depth and grace, creating rooms that feel lived in rather than staged – spaces you can truly relax into.

As designers, we think carefully about transitions. How a home moves from public to private, from active to restful. How materials carry you through that journey from room to room. These choices aren’t decorative; they’re emotional. They shape how the home is experienced, not just how it looks. Interestingly, homes that are overly designed can feel uneasy. Too many focal points compete for attention. Trend-driven choices may feel current, but they often lack emotional longevity and can overwhelm a space. This frequently happens when each material is selected in isolation – when every element is chosen to be the 'most interesting' rather than part of a whole.

Emotional ease comes from editing. From restraint. From knowing what to leave out as much as what to include. Restraint allows a home to evolve – to collect memories, objects, and layers over time. It gives the eye room to rest as it moves through a space. And in that visual quiet, we find calm, balance, and a sense of true tranquility.

In a world that grows louder, faster, and more visually saturated by the day, the role of home has fundamentally shifted. It is no longer just a backdrop for living – it has become a refuge from it.

Emotional architecture responds to this need. It creates spaces designed to soften the noise, prioritizing feeling, longevity, and intention over excess or spectacle.

The most beautiful homes are not the ones that demand attention with drama or polish. They are the ones that invite us to exhale. To rest. To settle in. They remind us that a truly well-designed home unfolds over time, shaped by conscious choices – by what is thoughtfully added, and just as importantly, by what is left out.

Interior designer Molly Kidd is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

They say history repeats itself, and in design, the rhythm is familiar: finishes fall out of favor, resurface years later, and are rebranded as the next new interior design trend. Yet every so often, a material doesn’t so much return as quietly remind us it was never gone. Nickel is having that moment now – not as a revival, but as a reaffirmation.

Nickel, silver, pewter, and other silver-sheened finishes have always existed in the background of well-considered spaces. Think timeworn tumblers, heirloom cutlery, aged hardware – materials that don’t demand attention but earn it over time. Nickel doesn’t shout the way brass can, nor does it disappear like a true neutral. It occupies the space in between: cool but not cold, refined without feeling precious. Its current rise feels less like a trend cycle and more like a collective recalibration – a return to finishes that are enduring, intelligent, and deeply livable.

What makes nickel especially compelling today – at least at Molly Kidd Studio – is our renewed appreciation for living finishes. We’re increasingly drawn to materials that respond to daily life, that soften, shift, and develop character rather than resist it. Our work doesn’t chase perfection or sealed, static surfaces meant to remain untouched. Instead, we gravitate toward finishes that evolve.

Polished nickel ages with grace. It warms, gently dulls, and records the subtle story of the hands that pass over it. It doesn’t ask to be preserved; it rewards use. In that way, it reflects how many of us want to live now – beautifully, honestly, and with room for life to leave its mark.

There’s a quiet rebellion unfolding in interior design. Homeowners and designers alike are stepping away from novelty for novelty’s sake, resisting the constant push toward what’s new, louder, or more fleeting. Instead, there’s a return to what has always worked. Nickel belongs firmly in that lineage.

Historically, it was a mainstay in European kitchens, baths, and hardware – not because it was fashionable, but because it was practical, elegant, and enduring. It aged well. It made sense. That logic still holds.

What feels fresh now is not nickel itself, but how it’s being used. We’re seeing it paired with warmer stones, richly veined marbles, aged woods, plaster walls, buttery hues, and hand-glazed tile. Against these textures, nickel reads almost luminous – clean without being sterile. It brings light into a space without harsh reflection. In modern kitchens especially, polished nickel feels like a breath of air: crisp against cabinetry, elevated without tipping into luxury for luxury’s sake.

At Molly Kidd Studio, polished nickel has long lived alongside our use of unlacquered brass and antique bronze. Not the overly bright, factory-perfect version, but antique polished nickel – softened just enough to suggest history. It’s a finish that feels right, whether a home is five years old or one hundred. We return to it again and again because it doesn’t compete with the architecture; it complements it, allowing stone, wood, and light to lead the conversation.

There’s an emotional quality to nickel that’s difficult to define but instantly felt. It carries a quiet confidence – a sense of restraint. Choosing nickel doesn’t feel like making a statement; it feels like making a decision you’ll never second-guess.

In an era when homes are once again treated as long-term investments – places to grow, gather, and stay – those kinds of choices matter deeply.

That may be why nickel’s resurgence feels so natural. It aligns with a broader return to the classics: tailored upholstery, thoughtful floor plans, honest materials, and rooms designed for living rather than photographing. Nickel slips effortlessly into this mindset. It’s polished without being showy, timeless without feeling nostalgic, familiar yet quietly modern.

In the end, nickel isn’t so much trending as it is being remembered. And sometimes, the most forward-looking design choice is simply returning to what has always endured.

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

Incorporating vintage and antique pieces into my projects isn’t merely a stylistic preference – it’s a non-negotiable part of my design philosophy. I simply can’t imagine a space without them. Why? Because truly considered interior design isn’t about adhering to a single interior design trend, idea, or era; it’s about the art of layering. A room composed entirely of one aesthetic – whether ultra-modern, mid-century, or period-specific – risks feeling flat, predictable, and overly thematic.

In contrast, the thoughtful integration of pieces with history brings nuance, depth, and authenticity. Vintage elements carry a patina of life: the worn textures of timber, hand-carved details that speak of skill and craft, and the quiet individuality that mass-produced items can never replicate.

A few guiding principles shape how I blend eras. First, don’t get me wrong – I love a beautiful object as much as anyone. Many pieces in our projects serve little functional purpose, existing purely to delight the eye. But beauty alone isn’t enough; intention is just as important. If everything in a room is simply 'nice,' nothing stands out. The joy of mixing old and new lies in allowing each element to perform its role – sometimes to anchor, sometimes to elevate, and sometimes, delightfully, to surprise.

Take something as simple as a plastered wall and a timber floor. On their own, they’re clean, understated, and perfectly pleasant – but they don’t tell a story. Introduce a reclaimed wooden console, rich with character in every grain, and the space transforms instantly. Personality emerges. Your eye is drawn to texture, scale, and craftsmanship. The old gives the new context, and the new allows the old to shine. It’s a quiet dialogue between eras, making the room feel intentional, lived-in, and infinitely more compelling.

Balance in interior design, however, is everything, especially when mixing old and new. A room can only handle so many bold moments before it tips into chaos. Too many antiques, and it risks feeling like your grandmother’s sitting room (not in the curated, charming way you’d hope). A space made entirely of contemporary pieces can feel sterile, just as one overloaded with vintage can feel theatrical. Thoughtful restraint is key. The sweet spot lies in selecting pieces with purpose, giving them room to breathe, and allowing the contrasts to create harmony rather than clutter.

One of my favorite parts of any project is stepping away from the drawings to source the pieces I like to call the 'treasures.' I wish I could say it’s always glamorous, but more often it means early mornings, dusty warehouses, endless market stalls, and a lot of rummaging. And yet, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of the hunt – the moment you spot something extraordinary hidden among a sea of forgotten objects is pure euphoria. It’s addictive, like uncovering a tiny fragment of history waiting for the right home.

Of course, the sheer volume of objects out there can feel overwhelming. Antiques markets and salvage yards are brimming with items of all ages, patinas, and charm.

The key is to prioritise quality and craftsmanship above all else. Age alone doesn’t confer value – integrity does. I approach vintage sourcing with the same rigour I bring to contemporary or bespoke pieces: quality signals intention. A well-made item, whether it’s a century-old chair or a newly commissioned console, carries a presence that elevates a room.

Mixing old and new isn’t about pitting eras against each other; it’s about curating the best of both worlds. Good design stands on its own, regardless of when it was created.

At the end of the day, blending old and new isn’t about rules – it’s about intuition. It’s trusting your eye enough to let pieces from different times converse with one another. When done thoughtfully, the result never feels themed or forced. It feels layered, lived-in, and full of stories – a home that didn’t come together overnight, but evolved over time, exactly as the very best interiors do.

Interior designer Emma Kemper is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

Not to plug my book again (well, maybe just a little!), but as I mentioned in my last column, I spent much of the past three years writing House Rules: 100 Ways to Feel at Home.

The process was truly eye-opening and completely reshaped how I think about and approach interior design and home decor ideas. Some might say I’m giving the milk away for free, but in the generous spirit of the holidays, I wanted to share a selection of my most-loved and most-revisited rules from the book – the ones that stand on their own, offer practical guidance, and help you steer clear of some of the most common design pitfalls.

1. Use Mood Boards to Define Your Design Concept

The first step in designing any space is defining your design concept. Think of it as the elevator pitch for the look and feel you’re aiming to achieve. A strong concept gives you a framework for every decision, ensuring that your choices work together to create a cohesive, harmonious result.

A common misstep is confusing a design concept with a theme. Your concept should guide you, not dictate every detail. Take it too literally, and a room can drift into 'theme territory,' feeling forced rather than thoughtfully curated. For example, if your beach house concept is 'sun-faded and collected', focus on items with character – like vintage pieces in soft, weathered tones – and steer clear of anything that feels overly coastal or nautical.

One of the easiest ways to define your concept is by creating mood boards. Start by gathering inspiration – Pinterest is my personal favorite for this – then step back and look for patterns. Notice recurring colors, materials, textures, or shapes, and remove anything that disrupts the overall feeling. Those recurring patterns will naturally reveal your design concept and set the tone for every choice that follows, helping you create a space that feels cohesive, intentional, and effortlessly stylish.

2. Embrace Sense of Place to Avoid Trends

One of the quickest ways a design can fall flat is by ignoring context. The most successful homes feel effortless because they seamlessly weave together architectural details, furnishings, and the environment in which the home exists. Choosing elements that feel native – or at least appropriate – to your home’s setting helps it feel authentic rather than trend-driven.

Color palettes, materials, and textures all play a role in honoring a home’s roots. When something feels forced – like ultra-modern furniture in a traditional Tudor – it immediately reads as disconnected, as if the design is chasing a trend rather than responding to the home itself. The same principle applies to location: a mountain retreat sprinkled with beachy décor, no matter how much you love rattan or tropical motifs, will always feel slightly out of place.

By keeping both architecture and location top of mind, you give your design a natural sense of cohesion. It’s a simple way to ensure your space feels grounded, timeless, and comfortable – a home that truly belongs to its surroundings.

3. Perfect Scheming

‘Scheming’ is the process of laying out all your furniture, finishes, and materials to make sure they work together to support your design concept. Being able to physically see material samples alongside images of furniture and fixtures removes much of the guesswork. I like to create simple PowerPoint pages of the pieces I’m considering so I can evaluate how everything looks together.

One important tip when selecting furniture is to vary height and scale throughout a space. You want the eye to move naturally around the room, taking everything in.

In my book, I liken it to a skyline – the most interesting skylines are made up of varied profiles rather than uniform heights. Unexpected scale can be a fun element to play with. The only hard-and-fast rule I follow is to use the largest rug a space can hold, as it makes the room feel larger and helps tie all the furniture together. Once you’re happy with your furniture mix, print your PowerPoint and place it alongside your material samples so you can assess everything together.

When choosing patterns and colors, always return to your design concept and the overall ‘vibe’ of each material. If something supports your original idea, it likely belongs – even if it’s an unexpected pairing. Establish a clear color hierarchy in each room: one dominant color, a supporting color, and an accent color repeated throughout. For paint, consider how the room will be used and what time of day you’ll spend in it most often. Paint a large swatch on the wall and revisit it during those hours to see how it truly reads.

For wallpaper, a helpful rule of thumb is to use smaller-scale patterns in smaller rooms and larger-scale patterns in more spacious ones. Order a roll – or borrow one if possible – and hang a large section so you can live with it for a few days before deciding.

Finally, while scheming, don’t look at rooms in isolation. Line everything up together to ensure the entire home feels balanced, cohesive, and intentional.

4. Embrace Patina

Certain materials only improve with age. Think of a well-worn leather club chair or an antique rug, rich with history and character. Unlacquered brass and other living finishes develop a beautiful depth over time, while surfaces designed to stay shiny and ‘perfect’ inevitably age in a way that reads as damaged rather than cherished.

Organic materials like reclaimed wood or natural stone will show wear too, but in a way that feels intentional, authentic, and beautiful. Patina adds instant warmth to a space and helps your home avoid feeling dated. Because these materials carry traces from different eras, it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly when they were installed.

A reclaimed tabletop, with its existing marks and textures, invites you to relax and enjoy everyday life rather than worrying about preserving a flawless surface. The same principle applies to vintage and antique furniture: pieces with a past feel lived-in, timeless, and effortlessly inviting.

5. Design is a Marathon – Honor Your Personal Preferences

Every design project involves compromise at some point. You might have to choose between something that looks exactly how you want or functions exactly as you imagined. For items you’ll rarely use, prioritise aesthetics – something that feels ‘off’ will bother you every time you see it, whereas functionality matters only in the moment of use. For pieces you’ll use regularly, function should always come first.

Your priorities should reflect your habits and values because, at the end of the day, it’s your home, and it only needs to work for you.

It’s easy to feel pressured to have a space look finished immediately, especially with the endless stream of perfectly polished interiors online. But the truth is, the best designs take time. Whether you’re waiting to come across the perfect piece, an item you love has a long lead time, or your budget is forcing you to slow down, creating a home that truly works for you is a process.

Avoid rushing into choices just to tick boxes on a checklist. Many would argue that a home is ever-evolving and never truly ‘finished’ – and that’s part of the joy. A slow, thoughtful approach ensures a space that is both beautiful and deeply personal.

Buy House Rules: 100 Ways To Feel At Home by Emma Kemper on Amazon here

Interior designer Poonam Khanna, founder of Unionworks, is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

I wasn’t quite sure how to begin a home decor column about collecting and collections, so I did what we all do now – I asked the Internet. What came back surprised me, not for its certainty but for its subtlety. I wondered where the threshold lies between ‘a few things’ and ‘a collection’. The answer, it turns out, is rather precise: a ‘couple’ is generally understood to be two to four. A collection, however, is not defined by numbers at all. It’s shaped by intent, by curation, by scope.

I love this distinction, because it has everything to do with what we choose – consciously or instinctively – to focus on and return to. Sometimes with purpose, sometimes without even realising we are doing it.

How freeing to know that a single object can be the beginning of a collection. The first record you bought with your pocket money as a child, played again and again, slowly becomes the soundtrack of your life, expanding into shelves of albums that span an entire wall. The ticket stubs from concerts attended over the years are tucked into scrapbooks, now stacked casually on a coffee table. A vintage Roger Capron coffee table discovered while wandering Paul Bert Serpette in Paris leads, over time, to ceramic pieces quietly dispersed throughout your home.

Each choice spools a thread. Together, they form a theme, a rhythm, a story you continue to write – often without even noticing you’ve begun.

When I think of intent, curation and scope as the guiding criteria of what I collect in both my personal and professional lives, there is a bit of random meandering-ness to it. I don’t have strict or even deliberate collections of anything. What lives with me is more like a stream-of-consciousness grouping of things that kind of find me as much as I find them. We more or less agree that we belong together and go from there.

In the sentimental category, we have a rolling collection of stones, shells, feathers, birds’ and wasp nests, dried weeds or flowers, and random ‘treasures’ we pick up on walks – in meadows and woods, on city streets, mountain trails, along stretches of beach, rolling hills, and among rock formations. They are time and place markers.

I also collect rocks and stones that have been wrapped, woven, or clad with and into other materials – thread, reeds, fabric, leather, paint, and more. They are small talismans, carrying the hand of the maker and a history of their own.

About a year ago, I visited Héctor Esrawe’s studio and furnishings showroom in Mexico City. His work is rooted in materiality and deeply connected to nature. Just above the showroom is a botanical perfume boutique that he designed. Xinū is a magical space, filled with plant life used to create the fragrances displayed alongside the perfumes on long tables. The collection of natural ephemera is literally woven into the space. It’s one of the most beautiful examples of what a curated group of objects, found materials, and intentional artisanship can be – truly a collection worth experiencing.

One of the other best parts of being a designer, aside from traveling to Mexico City, is the friendships I’ve been fortunate to make with incredibly talented makers and fabricators. I am especially partial to the women who consistently inspire me with the beauty they create. Deborah Ehrlich makes the most delicate, refined, and elegant crystal glassware I’ve ever seen. Her pieces are so subtle, they are almost invisible – you barely notice the contours and edges. Yet, when grouped together, they begin to have these wonderful, almost musical conversations with one another.

I know this firsthand because I live with a variety of her glassware. It sits inside a glass cabinet, where it can be seen yet remains safely protected, and comes out for special occasions. For me, Deborah’s pieces are heirlooms, tied to friendship.

A less obvious collection that lives with me is a group of production prototypes and a few limited editions. The prototypes make me so happy – in a way that feels like I got to witness the stages of creation in the studio or workshop. There is a distinct, individual quality to them because they are not the final product; they are more like numbered proofs.

One of the limited-edition pieces I’m lucky to live with is by Lindsey Adelman Studio. Only two of this particular piece were ever made. The joy it brings me will never diminish – a single, highly beloved object that is a collection of one, and that is more than enough.

Interior designer Jess Cooney is one of Homes & Gardens' new Editors-At-Large for By Design, sharing her thoughts on decor through her lens of soft light, vintage pieces, and a sepia-tinged palette. See the rest of her articles here.

A renovation often begins with a feeling. Your vision for your home doesn’t always align with the space as it currently exists. There are things you love and things you’re eager to change, and you know your home could serve you better. You know how you want to feel in the space – but bridging the gap between reality and your dream home can feel overwhelming.

The key question becomes: Which choices should you prioritize to add lasting value? How do you invest in elements that support your goals for the space while ensuring beauty, function, and durability for years to come?

The truth is, you can’t predict every interior design trend or taste shift. Some elements will inevitably feel outdated over time – but that’s okay. Items like throw pillows or playful wallpaper can bring joy in the moment, even if they’re replaced down the line. Part of designing a home is embracing those moments of fun without worrying about permanence.

Our role as designers is to help you distinguish between fleeting trends and true investments in your home. We guide you toward decisions that are timeless, enduring, and aligned with your vision, balancing beauty, longevity, and budget. We help you lay the foundation for a home that not only elevates your lifestyle but also honors your personal story.

High-quality millwork is among the most transformative elements in a home. Custom cabinetry, paneled walls, interior doors, and built-in storage shape a home’s architecture in ways that often go unnoticed – but their impact is profound. Millwork brings quiet order, unifies spaces, and delivers daily functionality that off-the-shelf solutions simply cannot match. When thoughtfully designed and expertly crafted, it becomes part of a home’s identity – aging gracefully, solving practical challenges effortlessly, and grounding each room with a sense of permanence.

The same principle applies to the kitchen, the heart of the home where daily routines and family gatherings converge. It is the hardest-working room, used from morning until night. Quality cabinetry, durable surfaces, intuitive layouts, and reliable appliances are not about indulgence – they are about creating a space that supports the way you live.

A kitchen designed with intention becomes the anchor of a home, where function and beauty coexist seamlessly. Flooring deserves this same level of consideration, even if it is often overlooked. As the largest continuous surface in a home, it sets the tone for every room. High-quality materials – whether site-finished hardwood, natural stone, or handmade tile – offer warmth, durability, and a visual continuity that cheaper alternatives cannot replicate.

Flooring is a long-term investment; while inferior options reveal their shortcomings quickly, carefully chosen materials only grow richer and more characterful with time.

Reclaimed wide-plank flooring is a prime example of this philosophy. With the character of age already imprinted in its boards, it patinas beautifully over time. Reusing these materials gives them new life and a depth that cannot be achieved with any modern substitute. For flooring like this, cutting corners is never an option.

Another piece of advice: don’t skimp on what goes behind the walls. Thoughtful lighting ideas soften corners, highlight textures, warm the mood of a room, and set the emotional tone for everyday living. Its impact may be subtle, but it is profound. You have one opportunity to get it right – before the insulation goes in and the walls are closed for good.

Lighting and electrical planning are some of the most influential elements in a home. Beautiful lighting not only brings architecture to life and creates ambience but also allows for seamless integration of technology, security, and task-oriented functionality where it’s most needed.

Equally important, yet often overlooked, is the primary suite. This is the one part of your home designed entirely for you – a retreat within your home. You’ve worked hard to create a custom space for your family, your guests, and yourself, so make this room a sanctuary. It should be a place of comfort and quiet: a bath, a few hours reading by the window, or even a restorative nap. Investing here is investing in your daily well-being.

Ultimately, a home renovation is defined not by how much you spend, but by where you choose to invest wisely. Millwork, the kitchen, flooring, lighting and electrical upgrades, and the primary suite form the backbone of a home that is both functional and enduring. These are the areas where thoughtful investment continues to pay dividends long after the renovation dust has settled, shaping spaces that feel intentional, cohesive, and deeply lived-in for years to come.

Interior designers Azar Fattahi and Lia McNairy, founders of the LA-based studio LALA Reimagined, have joined Homes & Gardens as Editors-at-Large for By Design. They’ll be sharing their insights on creating personality-filled interiors and the art of blending eclectic ideas into richly characterful schemes. See the rest of their articles here.

Last year, Los Angeles endured one of the most destructive wildfire seasons in its history. The city lived under a constant veil of tension – sirens echoing in the distance, the Watch Duty app alerting us to danger nearly every half hour, smoke lingering in the air, and that surreal, amber-tinted sky that makes the world feel slightly off its axis. One evening, a fire ignited suddenly along Mulholland, near Hollywood, and I found myself forced to evacuate with almost no warning.

Completely unprepared, I ran through my house, grabbing anything that felt important – valuables, mementos, sentimental objects – without logic, purely on instinct. It’s a feeling I never want to experience again. By the next morning, my phone was flooded with calls and texts. Friends, family, and neighbors – so many had lost their homes overnight.

And one of those losses cut particularly deeply.

Azar’s cousin, Tina, had been asking us for years to help design her home. But life got in the way – timelines, schedules, the usual juggling act – and somehow, the project never began. Then, in one devastating night, her entire world turned to ash: the home she cherished, the nursery she had lovingly prepared for her baby boy, due in just weeks – gone.

In moments like these, decisions are instinctive. We didn’t hesitate. We simply stepped in.

It took time to find the right home for Tina, her husband, and their newborn – a place with open flow, strong bones, and the potential to cradle a fresh chapter. And through it all, we remained mindful of the budget. When life is stripped down to its essentials, priorities shift. But one of our core beliefs at LALA has always remained true: beauty doesn’t have to be expensive. We thrive on the high–low mix. We treasure flea markets. We get resourceful. And yes – we make it fabulous.

The first transformation began with paint. We wrapped the entire interior in Kashmir by Portola Paint, but pushed it to 100% intensity – richer, warmer, and twice as soulful. Instantly, the house seemed to exhale, breathing life into its walls and ready to embrace its new story.

For the primary bedroom, our vision was simple: to create a sanctuary – a place where two exhausted, healing parents could land softly at the end of each day. We turned to Coda, another Portola hue – moody, enveloping, quietly luxurious. It became a cocoon of calm amid the chaos of rebuilding a life.

When you’ve lost everything, clarity arrives fast: a roof over your head is everything. The rest – the furnishings, the layers, the beauty – can come slowly, intentionally, with care. That’s where strategy becomes essential. We always begin by identifying the anchor pieces, the items you simply cannot compromise on. In most homes, the sofa is that anchor. It sets the tone for proportion, color, and comfort – it’s the heartbeat of the living space. Once that foundation is in place, the surrounding elements become more flexible. Chairs can be vintage treasures, flea-market finds, or – as in Tina’s home – affordable pieces elevated through thoughtful upholstery and material choices.

The bathrooms posed their own challenge, but also a profound opportunity. Luxury is not about price; it’s about perception, proportion, and intention. We identified the tones, shapes, and scales we loved, then sourced with devotion, searching until we found options that carried the same elegance without the extravagant cost. The transformation was immediate. The results felt custom, timeless, and quietly expensive – a testament to the fact that design magic doesn’t rely on a high price tag.

At LALA, every home tells a story, and we believe in letting that story unfold with intention. We ask: what is essential right now? What can be borrowed, repurposed, or held temporarily until the perfect piece reveals itself? That pause – that willingness to let the home breathe – is where the soul of a project forms.

This home, in particular, became a true labor of love – a reconstruction not just of walls and rooms, but of memories, hope, and the tender act of beginning again. Some things can never be replaced, yet others – warmth, beauty, comfort, and meaning – can be carefully and thoughtfully reimagined.

Stay tuned for Part II of this journey. As with everything that truly matters, the most profound transformations take patience, intention, and heart. More of Tina’s story – and the magic of this home – will be unveiled soon.