José Manuel dos Santos

Some houses are magazine-perfect. Ours is not. And that’s by design, or at least by intention. This week’s piece reflects on minimalism, modernism, and the quiet rebellion of letting a home evolve with life, with mess, with memory. There’s beauty in white space, yes, but also in the hooks behind the door, the trinkets that linger, and the contradictions we live with. It’s not about fitting a philosophy. It’s about letting a space breathe, and letting it become what it needs to be

Photos and art, almost everyone has them, and when we don’t, we notice. In this new house, we’re finally unpacking our pieces again: childhood photos, friends’ paintings, my wife’s mother’s self-taught copies of Klimt and Van Gogh. Alongside them, we’re keeping the sculptor-owner’s sketches and black-and-white snapshots of the house. Nothing matches. Nothing is curated. But that’s the point. These pieces carry memory, identity, and a little bit of each life that has passed through here. It’s going to be fun.

I’ve done this before: long commutes, the math that never adds up. This time is different. On paper, it’s worse, longer drive, more time lost. But on the causeway home, with the ocean ahead and the wind coming through the window, something shifts. The body wakes up. The heart fills. The math resets. That’s the thing about moving, there’s always something lost. But if you pay attention, the trade-offs start to make sense. Not in numbers. In feeling.

We’ve moved. Boxes everywhere. Familiar things in unfamiliar places. Same towels, different hooks. Same chair, new corner. And with that, a quiet shift. Moving into a new house isn’t just unpacking, it’s unlearning old patterns and designing new ones, step by step. I find myself outside more too, tentatively reclaiming the outdoors. We’re not done, there are projects ahead, but for now, we’ve arrived. It’s still just a house. But it’s starting to feel like ours.

Renovation decisions aren’t just about budgets or contracts. They’re about trust – earned, not assumed. Our contractor offered to finance a major floor upgrade, not because of paperwork, but because of work already done together. It reminded me of design partnerships: the real agreements aren’t signed, they’re built, project after project. In work, in renovation, in life, execution matters more than promises. Trust is the true contract.

Experience doesn’t always come with a title or degree, but you know it when you see it. You feel it in the way the work is done, and sometimes, in the tools left behind. As we renovate this house, I’ve been thinking about what experience really looks like. The person who lived here before was a sculptor, a master. I now live with some of his tools, and they quietly remind me: there’s a difference between trying something, and truly knowing what you’re doing.

I’ve spent hours sanding an old, heavy table – restoring it by hand, with tools left behind by the previous owner. His sanders still work, barely. One, I’ve hotwired into function. My father would’ve smiled at that. He taught me to fix, to tinker, to care for objects with patience and respect. Now sore, but satisfied, I realize: this isn’t just about furniture. It’s about memory, touch, and preserving what still has life in it

I once swore I’d never build IKEA furniture again—yet here I am, with my daughter, assembling a closet in the new house. It’s not just about budget or convenience. Somehow, IKEA has followed me through decades, moves, and phases of life. For some things, we choose longevity; for others, IKEA is good enough. Again. In a home filled with inherited pieces and long-term investments, there’s still room for flat packs, and the stories that come with them.

Since the start of this renovation, there’s been a quiet tug-of-war, one I didn’t expect. The house sits near my Atlantic, in a place that doesn’t dress up for visitors. It used to be a carriage house, and you can still feel it. Especially in the ceiling; lofted, marked, exposed. Our contractor wants to cover it. I want to keep it breathing. Not for nostalgia, but because it tells the truth. And I think houses, like people, deserve to keep their stories visible.