LIFE IN A NUTSHELL

Architecture or Art?

I’ve always paid attention.

Not selectively—instinctively. To people, to places, to how life actually looks when it’s being lived. I notice what surrounds us: what’s on a kitchen counter, the books on a side table, what looks used and what’s never touched.

I notice how people dress, what they eat, what they keep, what they discard. Not in a judgmental way—in a curious one. I’ve always been fascinated by how we live.

Over time, I began to understand that this attention wasn’t random. I was absorbing, sorting, assigning value—not to people, but to ideas. To ways of living. To what felt right, what felt aspirational, what felt grounding.

I drew references constantly, collecting inspiration from the world around me, bringing it home and then refining it, editing it, making it personal.

When you begin to notice life this way, it starts to resemble art. Not because it’s a visual medium or sensory experience, though it is, but because it’s creative, it’s composed, it’s an interpretation.

When you have the insight to notice and choose, and the growing confidence to direct, even in small ways—you begin to see how much life can be shaped.

Our lives are built from moments—some temporary, some structural. James Clear wrote a great book a few years ago, Atomic Habits, which really captures this idea of time and decisions that ultimately make up good habits or bad. The moments add up. And they land squarely on life’s balance sheet. You’re either adding to your life or deducting from it.

Some life moments—rituals, habits, whatever you prefer to call them—fall away. Others become pillars that define who we are. Once you recognize that, you realize you’re not simply living inside a life. You’re constructing one.

That’s what I mean by life as architecture and art. It’s a way of seeing—and then crafting your path—intentionally, once you do.

What I haven’t shared is a glimpse into what Life Architecture looks like for me.

THE ARRANGEMENT

Everything Begins At Home.

I don’t mean this philosophically, I mean it literally.

For most of us, our first memories are formed at home. It’s such a given that we rarely stop to consider it, but I’ve always thought about it. Home is where I find comfort and refuge, but it’s also where I observe, study, and experiment.

It’s my laboratory—my favorite place—and sometimes even my obstacle course: bumping into furniture quite literally (the Christian Liaigre sofa leg, a killer), or breaking imagined glass ceilings (if I’m lucky) during periods of everyday growth and self-discovery.

As a designer, my home is everything you’d pretty much expect. It’s clean, well run, and well stocked; it’s defined by organization, intention, and order. It’s designed for the way I live. I think of it from the top down—ranging from systems to what sits on a side table. No detail is too small.

I also think about my home in the context of its physical construction, along with the soft furnishings and finishing elements that shape how it looks—and how it functions. Do things work well? Do they flow? Are closets, cabinets, and drawers organized for ease of use?

Spatially, the way furniture is arranged is a puzzle that has to fit. It needs to sit comfortably within the architecture of the room and align with the overall language of the home—or, if it doesn’t, that contrast must be intentional. If these things are off, I’ll be distracted until they’re resolved. That said, what your eye corrects or finds pleasing may be entirely different from mine.

I design for conversation, for ease, even television-watching when one room serves multiple purposes. But rooms must be artful too. I want the composition to intrigue the eye—mine and others’.

Objects matter too, with one qualifier. Accessories fall flat when they exist purely as decoration. Another belief: less is more. I don’t decorate; I don’t believe in it. Everything you place is a statement of you—your taste, your choices, how you live—so why would you allow artifice to camouflage that? When a home doesn’t reflect you, it’s akin to flying a false flag.

What I do believe in is surrounding yourself with what you love. And I have many things I love.

There are too many opportunities in life to collect small treasures to live with things that don’t matter. They don’t have to be precious. They simply need to be of value to you. I once dragged rocks—not a few, but a backpack full—down the Mont Blanc Massif. Crazy, right? They’re priceless.

Objects that tell your story—the travels, memories, heirlooms, nostalgia—these are yours alone. These are talismans. And I am surrounded by them. I can look at virtually every object in my home and tell you where it came from, the story of its discovery, or the memory attached to it.

These objects, to me, aren’t ornamental. They’re distinctly personal. They remind me of where I’ve been, the people I’ve met, and the stories carried with them.

HOUSE FOOD

Serving Up Your Fridge and Pantry

What do you actually reach for, prepare, share, and return to time and again?

What lives in your pantry—and the real cliffhanger, your refrigerator—speaks volumes. It’s hard not to pause when you open someone else’s fridge. You notice the brands, the condiments, the containers, the order—or disorder. Is that food expired, or just…questionable? It’s endlessly revealing. And while I try not to judge (because even the best of us lets something go off), there’s a lot to glean from this sacred appliance. By the way, as I write this, mine has just blown.

My relationship with food has always been intuitive. I’m interested in nourishment, yes, but it begins with comfort. I grew up in a family where food was an expression of love, and that shapes you early.

Food holds deeply positive associations for me, and it informs my love of cooking and feeding just about anyone. I love the warmth of the ritual. And when it all comes together, there’s a wonderful result: good food.

When I’m alone, I cook differently—less expressively, more purpose-driven. Simple and functional, but always taste-centric. Who wants to eat bland food?

I also cook because it slows me down. I move quickly by nature, and cooking anchors me in something tangible at the end of a long week.

There’s no single way this should look. What matters is bringing this ritual—even in its simplest form—into your life. It’s self-care. In the coming year, I’m interested in sharing more about food and cooking traditions, along with recipes.

It’s such an important part of our lives and when approached with a sense of curiosity and ease, can be deeply rewarding.

Because what—and how—we eat is rarely just about food.

MARKING MOMENTS

How I See And Move Through LIfe

The experiences I’ve had in life are extraordinary. Much of what I design—and much of what I’m surrounded by—is associated with great privilege, even rarity. In every sense of the word, I work in the beauty business. My job is to create refinement through order in people’s lives.

At the same time, I’m aware that in a world that feels increasingly uncertain, caring about how things look or how spaces feel can seem indulgent, even tone-deaf.

I suppose I’ve never believed beauty exists apart from reality. I believe it exists within it. And more than ever, I believe that finding beauty—in ourselves, our homes, our relationships, even our routines—no matter how boring sometimes—steadies us.

The way I move through life is shaped by these beliefs.

Home plays a central role. It’s where I regenerate. It’s where I restore perspective, gather strength, and remind myself of what matters. It’s where I build relationships, enjoy family and friends, and entertain.

Sharing a meal is meaningful to me because I believe it slows us down, brings us back into our bodies, and connects us to one another. I like to think these aren’t small things. I believe they are acts of generosity, grounded in dignity, and respect.

I don’t think of these as traditions or routines so much as a way of moving through life. For me, they lean toward responsibility—how we show up for ourselves, yes, but also how we show up for others. How we give in small, intimate ways. It’s how we acknowledge effort, change, and yes—joy. The fun parts, too.

The gestures can be simple: texting someone good morning, remembering a friend’s birthday, cooking or sending a meal when someone needs comfort. These acts are about sharing beauty in unexpected moments—often right in the middle of an ordinary week.

I’ve also learned that scale has very little to do with meaning. What builds trust—in families, in couples, in friendships, in communities—is consistency. Attention to these little things. The feeling that someone has taken the time to notice, to care, to be there.

This is how I view and value beauty beyond the physical in life.

ART OR ARCHITECTURE

Picture Your Life

If there’s one thing I hope this leaves you with, it’s a sense that living well isn’t about having more—it’s about seeing and caring more. About noticing what supports you, and others, and building upon it.

It’s about creating more ease so you can better manage the challenges, finding more pleasure in the everyday, and enough structure that life doesn’t feel constantly rushed.

For me, beauty has always been less about appearance and more about how life feels beyond the shiny surfaces—the small moments when you’re really paying attention.

My hope is that this way of thinking feels accessible, not aspirational. That it invites you to look at your life and your home with fresh eyes—and to shape it like art.

That’s Life Architecture.

Here’s to life, in a nutshell.