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I’ll admit it—I’m a bit of an art snob. My parents and grandparents collected and sold work by contemporary artists starting in the 1950s, ran galleries in Michigan and Florida, and in the case of my parents, even let some of them crash at our house when they had over-imbibed. These experiences gave me good dinner party stories, but also possibly an overinflated opinion of my ability to identify the good stuff amidst everything out there.

Misplaced or not, that confidence is not an entirely bad thing, because art can be intimidating—mostly due to the overwhelming sense that everyone knows something you don’t. Add in the galleries and the prices, and it’s easy to feel like it’s a world you just don’t belong to. I have felt that uneasiness even with my artists-partying-at-my-childhood-home “cachet.”

So in my career, I’ve set out to make art patronage feel more approachable. I want people to explore more, find what they respond to, and understand why they respond to it, while still having fun. And I ultimately want more good art in more homes (everyone’s, ideally).

I think of the way art and architecture seem to be an ingrained part of everyday life in Europe. I wish we had more of that here. You shouldn’t need a formal art education, cultural pedigree, or a grand budget to feel comfortable choosing something you love. And I have very little patience for a piece whose greatest achievement is matching the sofa.

Which brings me to my first stop: the decorative-art section of a furniture store. Please keep walking…

Framing is well and fully underway at Kemble Cottage, so naturally I changed the floor plan again. And not in a move-a-door-six-inches kind of way. I walked through the house, looked at the upstairs area that contains my girls’ bedrooms and guest room, and realized: I don’t like this. While I love a small room, these spaces were just doing too much, and were frankly way too small, even for me.

Here I had three bedrooms (with one also acting as an upstairs den), three bathrooms, and a full laundry room, all within roughly the same footprint that, downstairs, encompasses the kitchen, pantry, dining room and staircase. We made it work on paper, and everything technically fit. But standing there, it felt claustrophobic.

I don’t want my daughters to use their bedrooms as the primary hangout, but the rooms didn’t even leave space to comfortably do homework or spread out during a sleepover, and the bathrooms didn’t have enough storage. When I looked through the framing into the laundry room, I suddenly thought: Am I sacrificing all of this for you? We already have a full laundry room on the garden level.

So I killed it.

Instead, I decided to tuck a stackable washer and dryer with shelving in a hall closet, so the convenience of an upstairs laundry remains without devoting a whole room to it. Everything got better with that one decision. Their tween years are now primed for plenty of (organized) lip balm and skincare and journal writing.

Then I called my realtor (hi, Danny!) because I also want to know if a hypothetical future buyer will one day think I’m an idiot for not also having a big laundry room upstairs. Between having two full laundries and smaller bedrooms, or bigger bedrooms and bathrooms with a secondary hall laundry, the latter easily won.

For anyone building a home or doing a renovation, there comes a point where assessing your floor plan starts to feel like being stumped by the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with just a letter or two missing. You’ve been staring at the same letters for so long that you can’t see the obvious answer right in front of you. I do this for a living and it clearly still happens to me. Maybe especially because I do this for a living.

You can study a plan endlessly, dimension it, and redline it to death. You can move walls around by inches and convince yourself that because something works on paper, it works in life. Then you walk on site and it just doesn’t feel good.

I almost left it alone, because they were just about to finish framing those rooms. Changing it now is annoying, and changing it after it’s framed is expensive. But realizing I should have changed it after we’ve moved in would make me insane, so I did the annoying but doable thing.

For anyone stressed or overwhelmed by the huge lift of their renovation, I think it’s very important that I talk about this. Even people who create homes professionally do not arrive at The Plan in theory alone, then march through the execution without faltering. Maybe some do, but I don’t. A good plan gets pressure tested as the house becomes more real. I’d much rather admit that I missed something and fix it than protect my ego and build the wrong thing.

Unfortunately, I still have not figured out that third flex room. My client-turned-friend Lexi got me thinking about it as a way of pushing the kids out of their dedicated kid spaces and into the public areas of the house so they have to engage with the world—specifically with me. Honestly, after living in this small apartment for so many months, I’m a little terrified of losing the girls and Matt in this new house.

Right now, we live in about 1,100 square feet. Is it tight? Extremely. Do I occasionally fantasize about a door I can close and a room where nobody can find me? Obviously. But I also love how much we hang out. We are constantly on top of each other: Someone at the kitchen island, someone on the sofa, someone doing homework at the breakfast table. We don’t even have a dining table that fits us all.

The girls wander in and out of whatever we’re doing because there really isn’t anywhere else to go. But soon, there will be. I’ve really enjoyed not having that option. I don’t want to design a house so catered to everyone’s individual wants that we stop being together.

Try as I might, I know I can’t manufacture family closeness with a floor plan. The girls are going to get older and will want more privacy. There will come a day when they disappear into their rooms with their friends, closing the door tightly behind them. As they should, I guess.

But I can think about how to optimize spaces that pull us together. I think that means the best snacks and the coziest spots stay downstairs. It also means not giving the kids such an insanely fabulous private universe upstairs that they have absolutely no reason to come find us. Maybe I’m kidding myself and they’ll only come downstairs when they’re hungry anyway, but I don’t think that will happen—I work really hard at being cool.

Maybe that third bedroom is a compromise. It’s mostly a bedroom, but it can also be the upstairs TV room, like the one we kept messy and hidden at the old house, or a place to pile in with friends, or a place to work from occasionally, because the downstairs study is supposed to be Matt’s, but I may have already plotted my mahjong table in there. Look how quickly he lost his space.

I don’t need to decide exactly what it is yet, and I probably shouldn’t. Our needs will change as the girls get older, and I like the idea that the house can absorb some of that change over time. Matt might even get his study back. Maybe…

And I definitely can’t design my way out of my children growing up. However, I can make sure the house gives us good reasons to keep finding one another—with no unnecessary walls in the way.

If you asked someone to describe one of my rooms, “white walls” probably wouldn’t be the first thing they’d mention. People tend to conjure color drenching and patterned wallpaper when they think of us. Which is true! We do a lot of both.

Which makes it a little surprising that one of the biggest design decisions at Kemble Cottage has become which white paint to use. Despite my reputation, I love a white room. For my home, I’m looking not for a stark, bright white or a yellow-tinted cream. I want a warm white. I want it crisp but with the faintest hint of red beneath the surface. Though each room asks for something different, I’ve found that a red undertone most often enhances light, softens architecture, and is flattering and energizing in the morning but cozy in the evening. It also provides the best backdrop for art.

The biggest misconception about white paint is that it’s simple. In reality, it may be the hardest color to choose in an entire house. It’s never just white. The wrong white can throw off an entire room. Some lean warm and pinky, while others carry hints of yellow, green, blue, or gray. Most people couldn’t tell you exactly why one feels inviting while another feels cold, but they know it the second they walk into a room. The wrong undertone gives you that something-is-off feeling.

Sorry to Miranda Priestly you with this info, but once you start seeing undertones, you can’t unsee them.

I’ve also learned over many years that picking a shade of white depends on everything else you choose around it, from flooring and stone to upholstery and even the view outside the window. Put one hue next to warm, tan limestone and it might add just enough crispness to keep the room feeling fresh, but pair that same white with cool marble and the whole energy of the room is different.

I rarely start with a paint deck. Instead, I ask myself a question: What do I want this room to feel like? Quiet, historic, fresh, sunny, collected, immersive? The answer to that usually leads me to the right shade of white.

For my home specifically, I know it needs to provide relief. A canvas.

Unsurprisingly, many of the rooms embrace color in both finishes and furnishings. So much so that it has been important that I return to the importance of restraint. I need the right shade of white because the colorful rooms deserve room to breathe.

I often say that not everything in a room can be the star. When every room, or every element of every room, is trying to command your attention, nothing truly stands out. A home needs equal parts quiet and delight. I imagine my entry and hallways, maybe even the living room, to be the toned-down connective tissue between the more immersive rooms around them.

For a house and a practice that celebrates color, a white entry may seem unexpected, but I’ve decided I don’t want a visitor’s first impression to be a paint color. I want it to be light and art and architecture, and definitely a sense of awe at the lush landscape beyond. I want the eyes to adjust before the house slowly unfolds around them. Then the jewel-box dining room and colorful kitchen feel even more exciting because I haven’t inundated them with “moments.”

I know I’m chasing something very specific, and based on how often I’m asked about the best white paint, I know many others are, too. So think about how you want your own room to feel. What are you pairing with the white paint? How will the room be used? These are your litmus tests. And when you’re ready, below is a list of my go-to white paints, each with different undertones.

Grey Undertones

It is French Modernism—glamour with restraint. It draws from the rich luxury of Art Deco and moves toward the simplicity of early modernism, from the craftsmanship of Ruhlmann and Jean-Michel Frank to Charlotte Perriand’s more functional yet warm perspective.

Luxurious materials take shape inside simple forms, and ornament is used thoughtfully. That tension is what makes it so enduring: these pieces can bring warmth to a neomodern space or make ornate architecture feel fresh and current. That interplay between old and new, spare and decorative, is what I keep coming back to.

And while Kemble Cottage receives a dose of this influence and I dream about my own imaginary apartment in Paris, here are a few more attainable pieces, old and new, that channel the spirit of French Modernism.

Clockwise, from top left:

• Charlotte Perriand: The Modern Life reveals personal sketches from the iconic furniture and interior designer who perfected the balance of modern and warm.

• This Vintage French Iron Folding Screen could be the perfect antidote to a room that feels cold but wants to remain neutral.

• Add vintage flair to cabinets or furniture with Rejuvenation’s Ellis Cabinet Knob.

• Picture this sculptural Solid Dark Walnut Chair as the exclamation mark at the end of a hallway.

• I remember coveting pieces like this Jacquard Long Coat from Shanghai Tang when they had a storefront on Madison Avenue many years ago. Thankfully, it’s still sold online.

• What could be chicer than a Tasseled Tortoiseshell Comb on your vanity?

• Two for one…this Donut Cable Catch is both a beautiful catch-all and keeps your charger cord from slipping off the table.

• The Clement Pendant is new to Huey Lightshop and has a very French-coded understated glamour.

• I can’t get enough Antoinette Poisson, and I’m very tempted to buy all of their pillows. If I HAVE to pick one I’ll go with the Guirlandes de fleurs cushion.

• Make a Vintage Sterling Silver Small Box an even more perfect gift by filling her with mood enhancers.

Barring the discovery of a trust fund my parents forgot to tell me about, living in Washington, D.C., means being a renter for me. But working at a design firm means I see the most beautiful homes imaginable, and that means I am NOT OK with an apartment void of taste. My taste, to be specific.

Let’s go back to the year 2000. Were you also the child risking serious injury to rearrange your bedroom furniture? Destroying my back to reorient my bed frame or smashing my fingers during a solo attempt at moving a giant pine dresser (and leaving horror-movie-style scratches in the hardwood) feels like peak childhood self-expression. It was the high of having a little slice of autonomy.

I shared a room with my sister until high school, and thankfully we agreed on most aesthetic decisions. One or two posters might adorn the walls—Mary-Kate and Ashley almost exclusively—but they had to be framed (Mom’s rules!). Add a curtain of beads in the doorway and an inflatable chair from Dry Ice to complete the picture.

I didn’t understand how decidedly un-timeless those choices were at the time, but I’ve never wanted any of my spaces to feel temporary or anonymous. In college I would save up all my summer earnings from bussing tables and lifeguarding to go absolutely nuts at IKEA and flea markets. And I ALWAYS had framed art and photos.

When I upgraded from a one-bedroom apartment to a one-and-a-half bedroom apartment in 2024, I suddenly had to reckon with what to put on my walls. All that space! For nearly two years, my biggest bedroom wall sat empty, minus a brass mirror I was given (took) from Zoë’s old house. It kind of bummed me out every morning, but at the ripe old age of 31, my DIY days were behind me, and I really didn’t have it in me to print, frame, and mount a gallery wall unaided.

Lucky for me, my boss happens to be great at curating gallery walls, and she also happens to have a collection of them at the ready with her longtime collaborator, Framebridge. I finally pulled the trigger and got down to business on that blank wall. The whole process was as simple as selecting the gallery arrangement I liked and the digital files I wanted to frame.

I chose the Vertical Grid because I love mixed metals, and it was the perfect size for the space above my shoe cabinet. When the frames arrived, I taped up the paper template, placed the hardware at the Xs, and hung the photos—no second person, tape measure, level, adjusting, crying, or fighting with husband required.

I’m not someone who loves showcasing posed, professional photos. It just doesn’t feel very artful. But I had some lovely candid film photos from my wedding and a beloved shot from the 1950s of my grandmother on the beach. Then I sprinkled in a photo from a trip to France and a sketch of Amy Sedaris’s character Jerri Blank from Strangers with Candy.

In less than half an hour, I had a stunning gallery wall that didn’t need any tweaking. The mixed metals and asymmetry of the design make it feel like it’s been curated over time, not just pulled out of a box (even though it was).

After such a painless experience, I have no clue why I waited so long. So effortless! So chic! 10 out of 10 recommend!

Now that box has been checked, is it time to bring back beaded curtains? Let me know in the comments and I’ll pass it along to Zoë for the next collab.

But whenever I would go back to glance at it, I had the same thought: it has the shell, but not the soul.

I hate flat spaces. It’s probably my biggest fear as a designer. I don’t mean visually flat, because there are plenty of beautiful rooms that don’t leave much of an impression. I really mean a room without a point of view; one that goes in too many (or not enough) directions. I want all of my rooms to make people stop and think, “I want to borrow something from this room.” I’m never not chasing that moment.

I’ve also put a lot of pressure on this project, which probably isn’t helping. It’s my own house, I’ve been sharing the process publicly, and I know people are following along. I’ve talked about this before, but it’s much easier to make decisions for a client than it is for your own family. You can conjure a vision of what they need more clearly because you aren’t as close. I’m experiencing the whole “shoemaker without shoes” idea.

The missing piece was harder to pinpoint because I wasn’t lacking one big design move, but dozens of tiny ones. I needed to zoom in on the pillowed edge of a plaster hood, an ornate yet refined molding profile, and the way the stone will (or won’t) die into the wall. I had neglected to consider a few things that don’t matter much on their own, like the thickness of the countertop and the reveal around cabinet doors. But once you layer enough of those elements together, a room starts to take on a personality. I’d gotten so focused on getting the big picture right that I’d forgotten to take my own advice and remember that the beauty is in the details.

Then there’s the color. Kemble Cottage sits in front of the most incredible park and gardens. It’s one of those rare city properties where every window frames a different view, and because the landscape changes constantly, the house feels different every time you walk through it. I found myself wanting the kitchen to respect that more. My instinct was to let the view be the hero, so I started with this fresh, crisp, almost acidic green that felt like an extension of the garden.

The more I sat with it, though, the more I wondered if I was asking too little of the room. Should the kitchen simply support the view outside, or should it have a voice of its own?

The answer came from something I hadn’t really considered before. Every room facing a beautiful landscape has two completely different lives. During the day, the landscape pours in through the windows. At night, those same windows become mirrors. When the garden disappears, the room has to carry a feeling by itself.

That changed the way I thought about the design. I stopped asking what the right green was and started asking what the room would have to offer after sunset. Sidenote (pun intended), it is entirely possible that I still end up with some shade of green in the kitchen.

One thing we talk about all the time in the studio is studying before we design. Before anyone starts drawing cabinetry or choosing stone, we’re looking. Like, really looking. Why does one room feel calm while another feels restless? Why does one plaster hood feel sculptural and another feel heavy? Why does one room feel layered but not busy? Sometimes the room we’re studying doesn’t resemble the project we’re working on at all. That doesn’t matter. We’re not studying the room itself, but the choices that make it work.

It’s no different than writing. You wouldn’t sit down to write without gathering your thoughts, making an outline, or doing a few first drafts. You would probably think about authors or essays you love. Studying is how we make the design version of an outline. It’s how we remind ourselves of the importance of proportion, restraint, and tension.

Lately I’ve found myself returning to rooms by Pierre Yovanovitch, Giancarlo Valle, Joseph Dirand, deVOL, and Jamb London over and over again. Not because I want a Pierre or Giancarlo kitchen replica, but because each of them solves problems in a way that teaches me something. Pierre reminds me to add whimsy and humor. Giancarlo reminds me to take risks and lean into unexpected colors. Dirand is a master of proportion and sophistication. deVOL understands the importance of imperfection better than almost any designer. Jamb lighting fixtures have an inimitable sense of permanence.

I want to know the thinking behind the room or object, not copy the look.

I think that’s one of the biggest misconceptions about inspiration, especially in these algorithm-driven times. People imagine designers collecting images so they can recreate them. In reality, the longer I’ve been doing this, the less interested I am in borrowing someone’s aesthetic and the more interested I become in understanding which of their decisions made the space work.

So here’s where I am today: I’m still changing the color and moving moldings around. I still don’t know how high the stone should climb up the backsplash. I’m editing!

But I’m glad I haven’t finished the kitchen yet. It’s finally starting to show me what it wants to be, and I feel like I’m asking the right questions by treating the process like I would a client’s. Could this mean less winging it in my future? I can only hope.

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Instead, I’m a sleepaway camp mom for the next seven weeks, which means approximately 94% of my brain is occupied by wondering whether my children have changed their underwear, remembered sunscreen, brushed their teeth, or if they’re thinking about me even half as much as I’m thinking about them. I hope not (on the last point). I very much hope they’re changing their underwear and brushing their teeth.

So naturally, today I’m talking about kids’ rooms. I think it’s because their rooms are sitting exactly as they left them, or maybe because, in the middle of all this missing them, I’m deep in designing Kemble Cottage, and I want to do something to connect with them.

I actually think children’s rooms are some of the hardest rooms in a house to get right. You’re designing for two people at once: the child they are today and the person they’re about to become. I want my girls to walk into these rooms and immediately feel like they’re theirs, but I also need them to be chic enough that I don’t regret every decision in five years.

The funny (and maybe unsurprising) thing is that they both landed on pink, but applied in very different ways.

Let’s start with Lucy because, if I’m being honest, designing for a ten-year-old has been infinitely harder than designing for an eight-year-old.

Lucy

She’s such a tween now. It’s a whole thing.

From the moment I told her she would have her own room, she had two non-negotiables: no wallpaper in her bedroom (but the bathroom was fair game), and it had to be pink. Not blush, or dusty rose, or “reads pink depending on the light.” PINK. She’s fully committed to Nancy’s Blushes by Farrow & Ball, and I’m weirdly excited by the challenge of making such an unapologetic color feel sophisticated.

Her room has this wonderful arched vestibule leading into it, so instead of treating it like a hallway to the closet, we’re wrapping it in millwork. I love those in-between spaces. They’re easy to overlook, but they provide an opportunity to inject personality and surprise.

The bedroom itself will stay fairly classic: an upholstered queen bed for sleepovers, a vintage dresser that will become home to entirely too many perfumes and skincare products, and a stripe somewhere (if my client approves).

Other things I spend too much time thinking about: storage. My brain doesn’t really see floor plans anymore, just missed storage opportunities. It’s like a very specific set of VR goggles.

Lucy’s bathroom is the perfect example. Her shower was generous, but did it really need to be that generous? I stole sixteen inches from it to create open shelving for towels, baskets, products...all the things that seem to multiply overnight. The remaining shower gets one oversized recessed niche running across the back wall, which I actually think feels more luxurious than what we started with.

I’m irrationally excited about those new shelves. Finding space for them gave me a high. I’m even thinking about wrapping them in tile.

Juliet

Juliet couldn’t be more different. Where Lucy knows exactly what she wants, Juliet gives me feelings instead of instructions. She wants her room to feel softer, more colorful, cozier. An incredibly sophisticated design brief from an eight-year-old. She did have one very specific request: tulips.

But not just any tulips. A blush field with poppy red tulips and a hint of green. Whether that’s on wallpaper or fabric or something else remains to be seen, but it’s more than enough direction to start building the room.

Her bathroom will have a custom wildflower mosaic floor, so every decision in the bedroom has to support that instead of compete with it. I’m also giving the tub and shower an architectural moment by framing it out with millwork and adding a custom shower curtain so it feels thoughtful. I’m playing with Farrow & Ball’s Pink Cup and Sherbert Lemon, and I’m envisioning a little Delft blue somewhere to keep it from becoming too predictable.

The one thing I know for sure is the bed. I want a canopied daybed with a trundle tucked underneath for sleepovers, because I want it to feel a little magical.

The rest is still evolving. I keep pulling patterned fabrics, then putting half of them back. But that’s design. People think that beautiful rooms must have arrived fully formed, but they don’t. You collect beautiful ideas, sit with them, edit them, then edit them again.

By the time the girls come home from camp, I’ll probably have renderings and fleshed out material boards ready to show them. I already know how those presentations will go. Lucy will have notes, Juliet will just tell me whether it feels right, and if I’ve learned anything from working in a service industry, they’ll both tell me to change things.

From these clients? I’d expect nothing less.

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I love tiny rooms. In fact, they may be my favorite spaces to design—and almost always my favorite spaces to spend time in.

I've always preferred intimacy to cavernousness. Give me a cozy room over a double-height great room any day. Small rooms have a way of pulling people in. They're cozy and usually more interesting. They're also the spaces where I'm …

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There are certain patterns I return to again and again, no matter how much design evolves. Some of the chintz prints that filled the Manhattan apartments I began my career decorating in the 90s still stay with me. They created such an incredible sense of atmosphere and made the rooms feel layered, personal, and plush. The florals softened the architecture, the colors carried warmth through the space, and everything felt as though it had been collected slowly over time.

When Nestig co-founder Sara Adam Slywka approached me with the idea for a design-forward, elevated set of prints and colorways for their newly launched gliders, that sensibility became an early starting point for our collaboration.

I’ve always found nursery design fun but challenging because children’s spaces so often end up disconnected from the rest of the home. Somewhere along the way, nursery design became inherently temporary because the design was so age-specific. I’ve never really approached them that way. I think children respond beautifully to spaces that feel calm and comfortable, and I believe those rooms can still feel sophisticated without losing softness.

In our initial iterations, we leaned more heavily into traditional chintz references, but as we began translating them into upholstery, we realized the density of those patterns could feel too heavy on the gliders themselves. The chair needed more air around it. We started pulling the florals apart, allowing more movement and negative space so the patterns felt as though they were trailing across the fabric rather than fully blooming on it.

The final floral print has a more vine-like quality that I love because it feels organic and relaxed rather than overly formal. It still carries some of that British-inspired romanticism that drew me to historic textiles in the first place, but in a way that feels lighter and easier to live with inside a nursery.

The ditsy print evolved similarly. I wanted it to feel delicate without becoming overly feminine or precious, which can happen very quickly with smaller florals. Keeping the palettes subtle helped, but so did the spacing and irregularity of the pattern itself. It feels soft and playful without tipping into sweetness.

At the same time, I knew not every nursery needs another pattern. Some of the most beautiful children’s rooms already have amazing wallpaper, books, textiles, antiques, and collected objects, so the solid gliders became equally important to the collection. The contrast piping gives them a slightly tailored feeling that makes them feel more like custom upholstery than traditional nursery furniture. I especially love them in pattern-heavy rooms where a little restraint creates balance.

What I kept returning to throughout the process was the emotional role these pieces eventually play inside a home. A glider becomes part of someone’s daily rhythm almost immediately. It’s where we read stories, spend long nights half awake, and begin forming routines and memories.

That’s also why it was important to me that these pieces not feel confined to a nursery. I’ve never been particularly interested in disposable furniture or pieces designed for a single chapter of life. From the beginning, we wanted these gliders to feel beautiful enough to move beyond the nursery and into a living room, family room, reading corner, or bedroom once the baby moment has passed. The silhouettes, fabrics, and color palettes were all chosen with longevity in mind.

The best rooms evolve alongside the people who live in them, and I wanted these chairs to do the same. They should feel just as natural holding a newborn at 2 a.m. as they do years later, tucked into a corner with a stack of books and a cup of coffee.

Our Nestig collection is now available, and I’m so excited to finally share it. You can browse the full collection and shop all of the prints and upholstered styles with Nestig.

SHOP THE FULL COLLECTION

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For readers who may be discovering Ateliers Jacob for the first time, how would you describe the company and what makes your approach distinct?

Ateliers Jacob is a second-generation Canadian company specializing in custom cabinetry, refined millwork, and bespoke design, with five locations across Canada, plus our Georgetown showroom in Cady’s Alley, which is celebrating its one-year anniversary this summer.

At its core, our philosophy is simple: wellbeing begins with thoughtful design. For us, it’s not just creating cabinetry; it’s creating spaces that feel lived in, layered, and lasting. We want to design spaces that genuinely reflect the people who inhabit them and make their lives easier.

What sets us apart is the depth of collaboration behind every project. Our craftspeople and designers work extremely closely with each client through a highly developed process that allows for a level of customization, quality, and personal detail that simply isn’t possible in a conventional setting. Every project we take on is truly one of a kind, because every client is.

What initially excited you about collaborating with me on my home?

Author’s note: We have no fun at all.

What immediately excited us was the boldness and whimsy in your vision. There’s a creative energy to your design approach that feels both distinctive and personal, and that set the tone for everything that followed.

What made it especially meaningful was the sense of true partnership from the very beginning. You brought strong instincts and a genuine openness to exploration, which is exactly the kind of collaboration we find most rewarding. There was a shared curiosity and a mutual desire to create something thoughtful and lasting. That made this project a natural fit for Ateliers Jacob, and it has resulted in a collaboration process that feels iterative and genuinely exciting at every stage.

What are some of the guiding ideas or priorities behind the kitchen cabinetry in Kemble Cottage?

The creative force behind the kitchen cabinetry at Kemble Cottage comes from a sense of continuity with the home’s history. The intention is to create something that feels as though it has always been there, quietly settled into the architecture rather than dropped in, with subtle nods to the charm and details of an English cottage.

Because of the property’s vast natural landscape, the design draws from its immediate surroundings, emphasizing the relationship between interior and exterior. There is also a gentle sense of play throughout, with small details that reveal themselves in everyday use, whether through a unique cabinet profile or unexpected niche, that adds a sense of discovery and surprise.

One thing we talk about often at my firm is balancing beauty and livability. How does Ateliers Jacob approach that balance in its work?

For us, beauty and livability are never separate goals to reconcile—they are inherently the same thing. A space can be visually refined, but if it doesn’t support the people who live in it, it will never feel complete.

Our process always begins with understanding how a space will be used: the individual rituals and routines that shape the client’s life at home. From there, we layer in materiality, proportion, and detail to complement the functional needs of the kitchen and express the client’s aesthetic taste. Our goal is always a room that holds up practically and creatively over time.

How do you think kitchens have evolved in the last several years in terms of how people want to live and entertain?

The biggest shift is that people are no longer separating entertaining spaces from everyday-use spaces. The kitchen has had to become more fluid by necessity. It’s a working space, a gathering space, a living space, and it’s in motion throughout the day.

That has pushed kitchen design not just stylistically, but also in terms of flexibility, endurance, and intelligence. Our favorite kitchens today feel just as right with one person making coffee in the morning as they do with a full house moving through them at once. That’s a harder balance to strike than it sounds, and it’s one we think about constantly.

What do you hope people feel when they walk into a space created with Ateliers Jacob cabinetry?

Ease, above all. An immediate sense that the space was made for them. We want our design details to portray a quiet confidence and the feeling that nothing is forced or overworked, but that every detail has been considered. When it hits that mark, the design becomes the backdrop and the life being lived inside it is enhanced.

We also want our spaces to feel grounded and restorative. We want them to let people slow down, move through their routines with fewer obstacles, and feel genuinely at home in the deepest sense of the word.

To get the full Ateliers Jacob experience, visit their beautiful Georgetown showroom, or explore more work on their website. Stay tuned as we finalize the design and move into installation (AJ’s DC location both creates AND installs their own cabinetry—a huge bonus)!

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The kitchen is where the biggest shift has happened. We’ve changed the overall direction, both in layout and palette, and it now leans into an orangery feel. (Special shoutout to Ateliers Jacob, who has worked tirelessly to iterate on this kitchen with us until it’s perfect.) We’re adding a bay window with very slim mullions to maximize glass and bring in as much natural light as possible. I want the kitchen to feel more connected to the garden and less like a contained interior room.

The palette has also been refined. We’ve returned to greens and blues, which feel consistent with the geography of the house and more at ease with the lushness of the exterior. The kitchen was also feeling a bit wood-heavy, so the floor has shifted to a glossy brick tile from Fireclay laid in a parquet pattern, or maybe a limestone, which introduces structure and a bit of polish without losing warmth. The counter stone has returned to my initial pick of Quattro Stagioni honed marble. Is anyone surprised I landed back where I started?

The caterer’s/prep kitchen is becoming much more functional. It’s likely keeping its Lulworth Blue color drench (I say with 10 percent confidence), but it will now operate as a true working kitchen with the addition of a steam oven, a full-height wine column, and more prep space. We’re also considering a swinging, diner-style door with a small window cutout, which would make the space feel both practical and a bit more informal. It will also serve as the snack spot for the family room next door.

Elsewhere in the house, I’m flip-flopping between two hardwood styles: a lighter American oak that feels more cottage, or a slightly red-toned oak that is more elegant. Any initial thoughts from the peanut gallery?

We’re also looking at the garden-level root cellar, which is currently giving horror movie. That said, it has great potential. We’re exploring using it for wine storage and root vegetables, leaning into that slightly raw, cellar-like quality rather than over-finishing it. Done well—and Fajen & Brown always does it well—it could feel very modern homesteader. I plan to have a vegetable garden and am manifesting abundance, so I’ll take all the storage I can get.

Our garden level has taken on new importance. After my dad passed, we made the decision to fully equip that level for my mom to use long-term (she’s not fully convinced yet but…manifesting!). It will now include a small but mighty kitchenette with a fridge/freezer, cooktop, dishwasher, and microwave from Sub-Zero Wolf—everything she might need on a daily basis, but also useful for casual moments like movie nights. It also now has easy exterior access. The goal is to make the space comfortable and complete so she naturally spends more time with us.

And a gym! We swapped the locations of the gym and family room on the garden level so the family room is dark for movies and sleepovers, while the gym has windows and a garden view (and I will actually feel like spending time there). Shout out to Yuri from Ateliers Jacob for the suggestion!

Space planning is now well and truly underway across the house, which is always the sticking point for me. I’m focusing on how to use each area more efficiently and flexibly. That includes maximizing sleepover space in the lower-level family room (obviously), adding a door to the playroom so it can also function as a guest room, removing a tub from my older daughter’s room because she is fully a tween and totally over baths, and continuing to refine kitchen storage so it supports daily use without feeling overbuilt and McMansion-y.

At its core, this phase is about making sure every space has a purpose and supports the way we live day to day, and I’m still figuring it all out.

I’d love to hear what you’re working through in your own homes. What’s not quite clicking yet? I’ll be hosting another AMA in the Substack subscriber chat on May 13 from 6 to 9 PM EST, so leave your design quandaries in the comments or join the open chat next Wednesday (don’t worry, I’ll send a reminder!).

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P.S. If you’re attending the D&D Spring Market in New York and are interested in hearing more about Substack as a storytelling tool, please join me on May 14th at 3 PM in the Marc Phillips showroom (inside the D&D Building). I’d love to see you there!

REGISTER

Dad,

You died a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t feel real. Everything looks the same, but it isn’t. There’s a shift beneath everything now, and I keep finding myself tracing it back to you—what you gave me, what you built around me, and how much of my life has been shaped by it.

Today is my birthday. The first one without you.

And I’m realizing how much of who I am—and who I’m still becoming—comes directly from you.

You believed in me before there was any evidence that you should have. I wasn’t a particularly good student, and I didn’t have a clear path. For a long time, that weighed on me. The world didn’t show me that I was capable of something exceptional. But you did. You told Mom, who saw things in a much more structured, exacting way, that I had something in me. That I could be great. You told me, too. I wasn’t convinced then, but I held onto your belief.

You built a world around me that I didn’t totally grasp as a kid. The attention you put into our house and furniture and art; the influence of people like Eero Saarinen, Charles and Ray Eames, and Florence Knoll, and your parents’ early experiences with them; allowing artists like John Chamberlain and James Rosenquist to (literally) move through our lives and home—it didn’t occur to me until much later that it was anything but ordinary. It shaped how I see everything. It trained my eye before I even knew I had one. I now know how much of my perspective came from your love of architecture, your instinct for design, the part of you that probably should have been an architect in another life.

When I started my career, there was a moment early on when I wanted to quit. I had a bad client experience, and it shook me enough that I thought maybe I wasn’t cut out for any of it. I came to you defeated, ready to give up. You said: No. That’s not how we do things. And then, more pointedly: I paid for your education. It was not free. You owe me a career. It surprised me in the moment, because you never operated very rigidly. Now I understand that it wasn’t pressure for its own sake, but belief with boundaries. You weren’t going to let me step away from the person you knew I could become. That moment changed everything for me.

As I got older and my business grew, I kept thinking about how to build something charitable into my work. Of course, you had already figured out an easy system for doing that in your own practice. It was automatic and consistent—charge a small amount, donate it, match it, over and over again. I’ve carried that forward in my own way: we donate our consultation fees, we match them, we plant trees at the end of a project. It’s simple, but it’s intentional. That came from you.

But more than anything, what you gave me was your way of moving through the world. You were generous in every sense—with your time, your energy, your resources, and especially your words. You didn’t hold back encouragement. You didn’t gatekeep what you knew. You believed in sharing ideas, knowledge, and opportunities. You believed there was more than enough to go around, and that sense of abundance is something we don’t see enough of.

Since you died, I catch myself quoting you constantly. Sometimes out loud, sometimes in my head: what you would say, how you would think about something, the way you would push me or steady me. Not long ago, you said that you had already given me everything I needed; that you had told me everything I would need to know to navigate the world.

The truth is, I knew that. I knew you believed in me. I knew you were teaching me while you were doing it. I just don’t think I fully understood how much I would rely on it.

Someone once told me that if you listen closely to the people you trust—and actually live by what they tell you—you don’t have to make every mistake yourself. Your life can be easier that way. That’s what you were giving me all along. Not just encouragement, but a way forward. A way to move through the world with a little more clarity, a little more confidence, a little less unnecessary struggle.

You were the person who believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. Without you here, that belief doesn’t go away, but becomes something I’m responsible for carrying. The bar feels even higher now that I understand the magnitude of what you gave me. I see how much it matters. I see how powerful it is when someone believes in you—early, consistently, without proof. I see how much that can shape a life.

And it makes me think about how much more of that the world needs. More opening doors instead of closing them. More sharing what we know instead of holding back. More generosity, in small ways and in large. You understood that, lived that, and passed it on to me.

So I will keep trying to do the same: by reminding people there is more possibility in them than they think, to share what I’ve learned so someone else can feel empowered, to not guard the things that could help someone build a beautiful career or a meaningful home. And also to notice. To slow down enough to actually see what’s around me: a detail, an intention, a moment of beauty most people walk right past. That’s something you gave me, too.

Even now, I hear you all the time. And since you have already given me everything I need, I promise to do something good with it.

Not a particularly dramatic one. No statement fabric, no kooky silhouette. What made people stop was what it was doing.

We designed it to sit between a living room and a dining room—one of those spaces that’s too open to feel defined, but too connected to justify a wall. The floor plan made sense on paper but created this ambiguous middle zone that didn’t belong to either room. You’ve probably stood in a space like it: not sure whether you’re arriving somewhere or leaving it.

From one side, the piece reads as a sofa. From the other, a bookshelf with built-in surfaces. It divides space, adds storage, and creates function without closing anything off. No wall needed. No awkward console shoved against the sectional. Just one piece cleanly doing the work of three.

I think it resonated because almost everyone has experienced a version of that problem (the layout that almost works, the zone that collects clutter because no one ever decided what it was for, the room that’s furnished but still feels unfinished).

These are the principles we keep coming back to when solving these spaces, and how custom can be a big part of getting there.

Stop Decorating Around the Problem

Custom furniture often answers a room’s questions and makes for easier living. It addresses transitions and spaces that need to serve more than one purpose. Do you have any quandaries that custom furniture might solve? Comment below!

1. Valle Silver and Onyx Ice Bucket - From Argentinean studio AIREDELSUR; equal parts wine chiller and display piece.

2. Iris Linen Tablecloth - Leave it to Cabana to produce table linens both outrageously sophisticated and completely effortless.

3. New York Times Essential Book of Cocktails - Perfect for cocktail and copy snobs.

4. Romie Objetti Candlestick Set - A delicious, glossy set from French sculptor Alice Damiens, sold through Sézane for a limited time. Sidenote (see what I did there?): Sézane is back for good in Georgetown—Washingtonians rejoice!

5. Snack Spreaders Set - Colorful acetate spreaders in gastronomic shapes. I suggest pairing with fancy cheeses.

6. Line Drawing Embroidered Linen Napkins - Designs that hint at warmer weather ahead but work on and off the coast.

7. Daisy Placecard Holders - A delicate addition to any dinner party that instantly elevates, from a favorite cheeky brand Dear Annabelle (pair with snarky placecards).

8. D’Ascoli Shaya Oil and Vinegar Set - Arabian Nights-inspired cruets handmade in India. I love the little glass stopper.

The Gourmands

1. Il Buco: Stories & Recipes - The next best thing to a reservation at Il Buco is stealing one of their recipes. The powerful narration from owner Donna Lennard and eye-catching photography make this suitable for the kitchen and the coffee table.

2. Espresso Coffee Maker - Designed by an architect to prevent coffee from getting bitter; also, it just looks really, really cool.

3. Condiment Queen Box - It’s me! I’m the condiment queen. Please comment if you agree that sauces are the best part of any meal.

4. Greek Pepper Mill - I love anything that patinates, including this pepper mill. Mom and dad will use it every day and think of you :)

5. Assisi Wide Cheese Board - Makes store-bought food look gourmet.

6. Pamela’s Pickles - Pam Anderson has mastered the garden, now she’s moved to the pantry. These are a twist on her family recipe and proceeds benefit Save the Chimps.

7. Garlic Basket - I met Underwater Weaving founder Erin Pollard at my friend Jessie’s event celebrating their new tote collab. In addition to her gorgeous bags, she makes the sweetest household accessories.

8. Hand-Painted Ceramic Egg Holder - For the parents who have chickens in the backyard (or definitely will one day), this egg holder is hand-crafted by Patagonia-based ceramicist Lucía Boglioli.

The Green Thumbs

1. The Warley Fall - A new color take on an old classic. This deep red Haws watering can holds two gallons of water and comes in a pretty gift box.

2. Canvas Garden Apron - Pockets galore! And in a cut and color that works for mom or dad.

3. Provence Rattan Gathering Basket - A pretty lug basket to collect produce or cut flowers that can also be used to hold linens or flatware when hosting a crowd.

4. Indoor Herb Planter - City-dwellers can get their gardening fix with this mess-free wooden planter, complete with biodegradable pots and a guide for beginners.

5. Martha Stewart’s Gardening Handbook - This instructional guide from the queen of domesticity herself is like a super beautiful text book, revealing all the resources needed to make like Martha.

6. Copper Plant Tags - Again with the patina! These plant markers will last forever and can be labeled with permanent marker, then wiped off with alcohol.

7. Honey Pot Ceramic Planter - Classic kid move: fill this adorable pot with a plant, then leave it for your parents to take care of.

8. Ida Hand-Painted Seed Box - Organize their seed packets in this pretty hand-painted box, or store family photos, jewelry, rocks…whatever they’re into.

The Health Nuts

1. Barrel Cold Plunge - Is your parent a glutton for punishment, too? The cedar surround makes this less of an eyesore and can be used indoors or outdoors.

2. Classic Set - Everyone’s doing it, so you might as well get cute gear. Pickleball brand Recess even lets you design your own paddle if you’re feeling crazy.

3. Beast Mighty Stainless Steel - A blender and thermos in one, in a variety of chic colors. The stainless steel keeps contents chilled longer.

4. Pvolve Signature Bundle - A take-anywhere, low-impact workout set that makes #NoDaysOff a reality.

5. Wellness Trio - Three teas for three different moods: I’m resting, I’m glowing, and I need a minute. Surprisingly effective at all three.

6. Metabolic Power Protein - Turns a morning smoothie into something that sounds vaguely clinical, which is half the appeal. Get them a subscription so they’re reminded of your generosity every month.

7. The Weight Case - Can’t you just picture your mom walking around the neighborhood with these?

8. Manifest In Action - A guide from “the manifesting queen.” No explanation needed.

The Homebodies

1. Living With Chamberlain - Visit the homes of others (including my parents!) without stepping foot outside, each featuring pieces from the late artist John Chamberlain. Besides my mom and dad, other kinda-cool people featured include Vera Wang and Solange Knowles.

2. The Eclectic Two Stack - A sweet and shippable piece from my collection with Framebridge, perfect for displaying family photos or digitized kids’ art. (Fool- and fight-proof hanging guide included).

3. Unisex Striped Linen Cotton Robe - A robe is a gifting classic for a reason—you never think to buy one for yourself, but it’s a treat to receive a nice one. Matching for mom and dad?

4. The Matcha Bowl - Made in collaboration with former fashion designer Shane Gabier, this whisking dish is so cool you’ll want to use it everywhere, for everything.

5. Weighted Blanket - I know, I know, I go on about Avocado. But they’re the best! Their weighted blankets don’t look like a sad drugstore find, and they really help with anxiety.

6. Needlepoint Mahjong Tile Kit - Once a game for my grandma, now I am a full mahjong convert. This would be a fun activity to do with your parent on your next visit.

7. Malvada Personal Stationery - Everyone loves beautiful stationery, and these can be customized with a full name or just a last initial for anyone in the family to use.

8. Slipware Teacups - Terracotta slipware with a gorgeous olive glaze, handcrafted in the UK by Neville Tatham; each piece is one of a kind.

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