Some of my favorite design work begins without a room attached to it.

A new box of samples arrives, I pull everything out, and before long my desk is covered in textiles, wallcoverings, wood, stone, color, and whatever else has caught my attention.

There’s no client brief. No floor plan. No decision that needs to be made.

I’m just playing.

And I’ve come to realize how valuable that is.

Curiosity Before a Concept

When I’m sourcing for a project, every material has a job to do. It needs to work for the people who will live there, respect the architecture, perform well, fit the budget, and contribute to the story of the space.

Exploring without a project is different.

I can put two things together simply because I’m curious about what will happen. Something weathered beside something refined. An earthy texture against a cleaner line. Something familiar paired with something unexpected.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it absolutely doesn’t.

Both are useful.

It gives me the freedom to follow an idea without already knowing where it needs to end.

Building a Material Memory

Every sample also becomes part of a library I carry with me.

I remember the hand of a fabric, the irregularity of a stone, the grain of a wood, or the way a color changes when it sits beside something warmer or cooler.

Months later, one of those materials may suddenly be exactly what a project needs.

I find myself especially drawn to materials with character—natural variation, visible texture, evidence of the hand, and things that aren’t too perfect. I like the tension between lived-in and refined, old and new, natural and unexpected.

Those combinations are beginning to feel increasingly important in my work.

A Sense of Place

I also don’t think it’s accidental that I’m drawn to them.

Living and designing on the Central Coast has shaped the way I see things. Around Santa Cruz, rugged landscape and relaxed living exist side by side. Redwoods meet the coast. Old buildings find new lives. Things weather, fade, get repaired, get reused—and often become more interesting because of it.

There’s an individuality here that I love. Things don’t need to match perfectly or feel overly polished to belong together.

I’m becoming increasingly curious about how that sense of place shows up in my own design work.

I don’t want to define it too quickly or turn it into a formula. For now, I’m simply paying attention.

And sometimes that begins with giving myself permission to sit at my desk, surround myself with beautiful materials, and see where they take me.

Nature | History | Belonging