Personal Musings

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.

Color isn’t just paint, it’s memory, mood, argument, compromise. In this renovation, I’ve learned that chroma is a moving target, wood has moods, and yellow tiles can sing or scream depending on the hour. Samples help, but they lie too. This isn’t just design, it’s negotiation between people who love each other and see “off-white” completely differently. We’re three weeks from moving in, and still adjusting the dial. Color first, finish later. Maybe.

I’ve been closely watching how our general contractor makes his money—not with judgment, but with curiosity. Intermediation adds cost, but ideally, it also adds value. Despite budget constraints and surprises along the way, we still feel in control of the process. Special assessments, supplier discounts, subcontractor fees—it all adds up. And yet, even knowing we’ll exceed the original contract by about 30%, I see that this is how the system works. It’s not just about cost, it’s about making the project possible

Watching specialists work—like the father and son plasterboard team on my renovation—reminds me of the balance between specialization and generalization in design. Industrial design once revolved around a few core skills, but today, expectations have expanded dramatically. CAD, visualization, human factors, research, marketing—designers now juggle a vast toolkit. Some might long for the days when sketching and modeling were enough, but the reality is, our profession has evolved. Like construction, design requires both specialists and generalists to build something lasting.

I’ve spent decades navigating the contradictions of manufacturing—pushing for lower costs while knowing the hidden trade-offs. Quality, sustainability, responsibility—these ideals clash with reality when deadlines and budgets take over. Renovating a house brings these dilemmas front and center. Where does all the waste go? Are better, local materials even an option? Can you truly build responsibly within the system we’ve designed? I question it every day. Maybe the system is rigged, or maybe we’re just not strong enough to fight it.

Travel exposes you to architecture, food, and culture—but behind every great city is a workforce built by immigrants. In Paris, London, New York, Boston, and beyond, construction sites, kitchens, and taxis are powered by those who weren’t born there but keep things running. As I renovate my house in Boston, I see it firsthand—my contractor is local, but his crew? Brazilian. They’re the ones shaping this space. And when all is done, I’ll remember who built it.