A large A4 envelope. No return address, but official-looking enough that I didn’t feel I could simply throw it away. So, for now, it is sitting on the bench while I wonder what one is supposed to do with mail addressed to someone who lived in a house for almost sixty years.

I think about you often, Rosemary.

A quick one - if you have Milan Design Week on your bucket list then you must join us! The Design Anatomy tour of Paris and Milan is accepting applications to join the trip of a lifetime. Clear your calendar for April 2027 and join us!

Simply reply to this email or send to designanatomypodcast@gmail.com for the details

I still don’t entirely understand how we ended up here, in your beautiful home, but sometimes I wonder whether you had something to do with it. Perhaps, after living here since 1963 with your husband and your son, Michael, you wanted another family to fill it up again.

I hope you’d be pleased to know that we have.

Michael came back

About a year or so ago, Michael knocked on the front door.

He told us he had grown up here and that he had nothing but happy memories of this house. We invited him inside, but he didn’t really want to come in. I completely understood. Perhaps he wanted to remember it as it had been: the rooms as you arranged them, the furniture where it belonged, his own childhood still intact inside the walls.

His children used to visit you here too, so this wasn’t only his childhood home. It was also the house where your grandchildren came to see you.

He told us it had always been a home full of love and happiness.

It still is.

He also told us how difficult it had been to pack everything away. Before leaving for the final time, he stood at the kitchen sink and looked out at the view.

That same sink is still here.

It is an extremely sturdy stainless-steel sink and, as people like to say when confronted with an indestructible object from the 1960s, they simply do not make them like they used to. I suspect it will outlast all of us.

Michael also took a cutting from the pomegranate bush in the garden. He said it had originally come from his grandmother’s tree.

You might like to know that it has probably quadrupled in size during the almost five years we have lived here. It now produces so much fruit that we don’t know what to do with it. Every year I briefly imagine becoming the sort of woman who makes pomegranate molasses and gives beautifully labelled bottles to friends.

I have not yet become that woman.

Michael is welcome to return for another cutting whenever he likes.

The garden is doing its best

I must confess that we cannot manage the garden quite as well as you did.

The garden that tumbles down towards the Yarra was wildly overgrown when we arrived. We have managed it, which is not the same as mastering it. We occasionally cut things back, clear a path and congratulate ourselves before the entire garden grows over again with renewed confidence.

The front garden, however, is looking rather wonderful.

We uncovered the lava rock that had disappeared beneath years of weeds, and I like to imagine it now looks something like it did in the 1960s, perhaps even when Michael was growing up.

There are bicycles lying around. Basketballs. Inflatable pools in summer. Children rushing in and out and abandoning their possessions precisely where everyone will trip over them.

Maybe it looked like this then too.

It is a very good place for children to play.

The birds are still looking for you

Whenever a bird lands on the balcony, I tell it, “Sorry, Rosemary doesn’t live here anymore.”

They still seem to be looking for you.

I know you fed them, and perhaps birds have longer memories than we give them credit for. Or perhaps they have simply passed the information down through several generations: Try that house. The woman there is generous.

We feed the parrots when we can. A beautiful one visited the other day and let us come surprisingly close.

I know you loved the birds here. You wrote two books about them while living in this house.

I have written two books as well, so perhaps we have that in common, although I suspect our bookshelves would reveal some fairly significant differences between us.

I understand yours were overflowing with literature and legal texts. The neighbours still speak about your bookshelves with a sense of awe. You were a Supreme Court judge—the first woman appointed to that court in Victoria—and I imagine the shelves were as serious and impressive as the work you did.

Mine contain a few proper books.

They also contain an alarming number of oversized coffee-table books and magazines I insist I need for research.

Still, we both wrote here.

I sit at my desk in what may once have been your dining room, looking out through the trees. It is the most wonderful place from which to run a creative business. I wonder whether you sat in this same spot, reading, writing or preparing for work. I wonder whether the light fell across the room in exactly the same way.

How did we end up here?

The first time I saw the house was on the Nelson Alexander website.

I had always hoped I might one day live in a mid-century home, but I never quite believed it would happen. It felt like something other people did. People with better foresight, better timing or a secret knowledge of real estate that I did not possess.

During that period, one song kept circling through my head: Brandi Carlile’s The House on the Rock.

I listened to it in the car on the way to the open inspection. I listened to it again on the way home. I hummed it constantly, as though singing the words might somehow make the house ours.

And then, somehow, it did.

The strange thing is that this may quite literally be a house on a rock. In the basement, beneath the house, there is an enormous formation that looks like either a rock or an extremely committed pile of hardened earth.

Either way, the house has been built around it.

Perhaps the song knew before we did.

We have filled every room

We have moved into every nook and cranny.

Coco, our middle child, is downstairs with her own ensuite. Benji has his room. Indy has hers too.

Having three children, each with a bedroom of their own, is something I never take for granted. I honestly didn’t know it would be possible for us.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I am not grateful for this home.

It has been the most wonderful backdrop to our family life.

We put the fire on and gather in the living room together. Sometimes we watch television. Sometimes we read, play Uno or sit side by side looking at entirely different screens, which may not be the wholesome family tableau one imagines, but it is real.

The room allows us to be together without feeling as though we are on top of one another.

Then there is the dining area, where we knock about every day.

We eat dinner together there each night. The children draw, make things and spread their belongings across the table. There is colouring, craft, slime and an ever-changing population of squishies.

The floor plan is extraordinarily good for a family. It asks nothing complicated of us. It simply gives us room to live.

And everywhere, there are the treetops.

The house looks out across the Yarra, and yesterday four girls rode horses along the boulevard. We heard the clip-clop of hooves moving slowly over the potholed road.

It felt like something from another time.

Perhaps it is a sound you remember too.

The house is still happy

I wanted to write and tell you that we are taking care of the house.

Not perfectly.

The garden is a little wilder than you might prefer. The books are perhaps less distinguished. The stainless-steel sink is still here, heroically enduring everything we throw at it.

But the house is full.

It is noisy and untidy and deeply loved.

There are children in the garden, books on the shelves, people gathered around the fire and dinner at the table every night.

You gave your family a home full of love and happiness, and somehow that feeling remained after you left. It was here when Michael returned to the front door. It is here when the parrots land on the balcony. It is here in the pomegranate tree, the view from the kitchen sink and the sound of horses passing below.

So, thank you, Rosemary.

I don’t know how we found your home, or how it found us.

But I hope you would be pleased to know that it is still doing exactly what a good home should do.

It is holding a family.

It was exactly the kind of brief I love.

For years, Decor + Design has showcased emerging furniture through VIVID, but this was something a little different. The idea was to create an exhibition of furniture and lighting that an interior designer could genuinely specify into a project tomorrow. Pieces that felt fresh, relevant and commercially available, while still pushing the conversation forward.

I wanted to create a collection that reflected how I actually design.

Yes, there were collectible pieces, there were Australian makers. And there were also international brands.

There were also a few pieces that perhaps you don’t normally expect to see at Decor + Design. Furniture that felt a little more elevated, a little more refined. Pieces that reminded us that Australian design sits comfortably alongside some of the world’s best.

I loved curating it. But, strangely, the furniture wasn’t what stayed with me.

The conversations did.

Within the first few hours I’d met designers from New Zealand, Perth, Brisbane and Sydney, as well as plenty from Melbourne. I found that surprisingly encouraging.

Sometimes Australia can feel like we’re all working inside our own little bubbles, so it was lovely to see people travelling interstate and even across the Tasman, just to spend a few days talking about furniture.

I also spent time catching up with interior designers from Melbourne’s design community, many of whom I’ve known for years. We really do have a generous, supportive industry.

But I found myself equally fascinated by the people I didn’t know. People who didn’t necessarily look like interior designers. Importers, manufacturers and fabricators.

Many were Chinese Australians, or had parents who had built manufacturing businesses in China before importing furniture into Australia.

I became completely fascinated and I probably asked far too many questions.

One conversation told me China was facing a labour shortage. Not because there weren’t enough people. But because as the middle class has grown, fewer young people want to work on factory floors. Manufacturing jobs that previous generations eagerly pursued are becoming less desirable.

An hour later someone else laughed. “No shortage,” he told me. “There are so many people. If one person doesn’t want the job, somebody else will.”

Same industry.

Two completely different perspectives.

And I loved that.

Because it reminded me how dangerous it is to reduce a country as vast and complex as China into one simple narrative.

Another conversation challenged something else I’d always assumed. Like many people, I’d unconsciously filed Made in China into one neat little box.

Cheap. Mass produced. Lower quality. But that’s simply not true.

China can manufacture almost anything.

The quality depends on the brief. The materials. The engineering. The level of craftsmanship. The quality control. And, perhaps most importantly, what the client is willing to pay.

One importer explained it to me perfectly. China makes the inexpensive furniture we all know about.

It also makes extraordinary furniture that most people would never guess came from China. Those two things can exist at exactly the same time.

Then we started talking about craftsmanship. Several people spoke about ageing master ceramicists and woodworkers who have spent decades refining techniques that simply cannot be learned overnight.

These aren’t skills that appear on a production line after a week of training. They’re the result of forty or fifty years of practice.

Some of these craftspeople now travel throughout Europe teaching porcelain techniques that have existed in China for centuries. It made perfect sense.

China has been making porcelain long before Europe fell in love with it. Yet somehow I’d never stopped to think about where that expertise still lives today.

The biggest surprise, however, came while I was standing beside one of Luke Crouch’s beautiful handmade chairs.

An importer walked over. We started talking about the craftsmanship, the joinery and the Australian timber. Then he casually said,

“I have clients in China who would love this.”

I was surprised.

“But couldn’t they just have something like this made in China?” I asked.

I’ll admit, another thought crossed my mind…. Was he looking to copy it?

Trade fairs have long had a reputation for inspiring knock-offs. Someone sees an innovative piece, sends a few photographs overseas and before long something remarkably similar appears on the market. So I asked him, as gently as I could.

“Could this be copied?”

He smiled.

“Of course someone could make something similar.”

“But that’s not what my clients want.”

I opened Luke’s Instagram and showed him videos of Luke making the chair. You could see him selecting the timber. Planing the seat by hand. Working in his Tasmanian workshop. Every stage of the process.

He watched quietly before saying something that completely reframed the conversation.

“That’s what they’re buying.”

Not just the chair. The story. The Australian timber. The Tasmanian workshop. The maker.

The authenticity.

Yes, someone could manufacture something that looked almost identical. But they couldn’t manufacture Luke. They couldn’t manufacture the years he has spent refining his craft. They couldn’t manufacture the provenance.

That conversation stayed with me.

For decades we’ve thought about manufacturing as something that flows in one direction.

Australia designs.

China manufactures.

But perhaps that’s becoming too simplistic.

Increasingly, there are wealthy collectors in China searching for something they can’t easily find at home. Not because China lacks extraordinary manufacturing capability. Quite the opposite.

They’re looking for rarity. For provenance. For a handmade object crafted by a particular person in a particular place from a particular material.

A chair made from Tasmanian timber by Luke Crouch carries a story that no factory—anywhere in the world—can replicate.

And perhaps that’s where luxury is heading.

Not towards exclusivity for the sake of price.

But towards authenticity.

I wasn’t trying to expose the bed linen industry. I wasn’t looking to uncover a conspiracy. I certainly wasn’t expecting to receive more than one hundred direct messages from people passionately discussing fitted sheets. And thousands of votes.

I simply asked a question.

What bed linen do you actually recommend, and not recommend?

Within hours my phone looked like a customer service department for the global bedding industry.

People weren’t just recommending brands. They were defending them. Mourning them. Breaking up with them.

One woman wrote simply:

“Still looking!”

Another messaged:

“I’m so invested in this.”

I’ve never seen people so emotionally attached to something they spend eight hours unconscious in. And yet... here we are.

It wasn’t really about bed sheets.

The more messages I read, the more I realised this wasn’t a conversation about linen at all. It was about expectation. Most of us don’t buy beautiful bed linen every year. We save for it.

A $500 or $800 linen bedding set isn’t an impulse purchase. It’s an investment. We justify it because we’ve all heard the same promise.

“Linen gets softer with age.”

“It lasts forever.”

“It’s worth spending more.”

Then the messages started arriving. One woman sent me a photo of her torn duvet cover.

She wrote:

“It makes me feel like we must be a slob family who can’t look after anything compared to everyone else.”

That message really stayed with me. Because I had been wondering exactly the same thing.

Wait... it’s not just me?

A few weeks ago my own linen doona cover developed holes. It was five and a half years old. It wasn’t exactly cheap. I found myself staring at it thinking...

Have I done something wrong?

Am I washing it incorrectly? Is my detergent too harsh? Am I somehow sleeping... aggressively? Apparently not.

One message read:

“Thank you so much. I’ve just binned another set of linen that has torn to shreds, wondering what on earth I’m doing wrong.”

Another said:

“This happens to us too. The fitted sheet wore thin and ripped after twelve months.”

Another wondered if maybe it was detergent. Another blamed the dryer. Another blamed children. Another blamed husbands.

Nobody really knew.

And that uncertainty fascinated me.

We have become accidental textile experts.

One woman wrote back after I shared a video explaining thread count.

“It’s so hard to know! We really need to be experts just to buy a sheet.”

Exactly. Buying bed linen now seems to require a degree in textile engineering.

Thread count. Long-staple cotton. European flax. French flax. Belgian flax. Stonewashed. Yarn dyed. GSM. Percale. Sateen. OEKO-TEX. Made in...

Actually...

Made where?

One of the most surprising conversations wasn’t about quality at all. It was about origin.

Several readers pointed out that brands previously marketed as French flax no longer clearly state where the linen itself comes from, only where it is manufactured.

Others suggested that many Australian linen brands are produced by the same factories, customised under different labels.

I haven’t independently verified those claims, so I’m not presenting them as fact.

But I do think they reveal something important. Consumers are paying attention. People want transparency.

The recommendation chart wasn’t the interesting part.

I expected everyone to ask,

“Which brand should I buy?”

Instead they asked,

“Why are expensive sheets failing?”

That feels like a much better question. Because here’s what surprised me...

There wasn’t one universally loved brand. There wasn’t one universally hated brand either. Almost every brand had both enthusiastic supporters and disappointed owners.

One reader told me she’d happily buy the same brand again.

The next message said they’d never touch it again.

That’s not a definitive product review.

That’s real life.

So I’m not publishing the blacklist.

I did ask everyone which brands they wouldn’t recommend.

And yes...

There were clear front-runners.

But after reading hundreds of responses, I’ve decided not to publish that list.

Not because I’m trying to protect brands. Because I don’t think anonymous Instagram responses are enough to fairly condemn one. Someone may have purchased during a manufacturing issue. Someone else may have washed theirs every week with six children. Another may have had them for ten years and still adore them. Context matters.

What I can tell you is that the same complaints appeared again and again regardless of brand.

• Holes appearing far sooner than expected.

• Fabric thinning.

• Pilling.

• Fitted sheets wearing through.

• Linen taking forever to dry.

• Feeling disappointed that expensive didn’t necessarily mean longer lasting.

Those themes were remarkably consistent.

Perhaps the bigger question is...

Has linen peaked?

For years, linen bedding has been shorthand for good taste. Every beautifully styled bedroom on Pinterest has relaxed oatmeal linen casually tossed across the bed.

It photographs beautifully. It wrinkles beautifully.

But quietly...

Many of the messages I received ended the same way.

“I’m going back to cotton.”

One reader wrote:

“Half the price and probably lasts the same amount of time.”

Another:

“Cotton for me.”

Another:

“Love the percale.”

Perhaps we’re seeing the beginning of a swing back towards crisp cotton.

Not because linen isn’t beautiful. Because people are questioning whether it delivers enough value over time.

So what did everyone actually recommend?

Rather than focusing on the brands people regretted buying, I’d rather share the brands that repeatedly came up as favourites.

This community has collectively spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on bed linen over the years.

Their recommendations are based on years of washing, sleeping, children, pets, hot nights, cold mornings and everyday life.

That feels far more valuable than a glossy campaign photograph.

This is not a list complied by me, it was simply a question box that a small handful of you filled out. I will note that I had easily TEN TIMES more votes of ‘not to recommend’.

So if you don’t see your favourite brand listed here, it is just because no one added them to the list.

One final thought.

I wasn’t gifted any bedding.*

I’m not sponsored by any linen brand.

There are no affiliate links hiding at the bottom of this story.

This wasn’t market research commissioned by anyone.

It was simply hundreds of people sharing their own experiences because they wanted someone else to avoid making an expensive mistake.

And maybe that’s why this conversation resonated so deeply.

We don’t really care about bed sheets.

We care about making thoughtful purchases. We care about craftsmanship. We care about buying less, but buying better.

And if we’re going to spend close to a thousand dollars on something we use every single day...

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect it to last a little longer than five years.

I'd love to keep this conversation going. If you've found a bed linen brand that's genuinely stood the test of time—or you've switched back to cotton—leave a comment below. The collective wisdom in this community has been far more useful than any marketing campaign I've read.

Sweet dreams dear reader,

Lauren

*but I am open to testing out some and a few brands have reached out since, so watch this space.

The funny thing is that sometimes only a single road separates them.

On one side, there’s a slow and deliberate curation of Italian vintage furniture collected over decades, books stacked in every corner and an Akari lamp glowing softly in the background.

Cross the road and suddenly you’re standing in a home with professionally coordinated fabrics, custom sofas, marble selected from three different quarries and cushions that have been arranged with military precision.

Neither is right.

Neither is wrong.

They’re simply different expressions of what people value.

Over the years I’ve worked in homes from Brighton to Toorak, Armadale to Fitzroy, and while every client is unique, each suburb has its own decorating habits, aspirations and design tells. Like fashion, once you know what to look for, you can’t unsee them.

So in the spirit of gentle observation (and because I know half of Melbourne will recognise themselves immediately), here’s my completely unscientific guide to how Melbourne suburbs decorate.

If you’re offended by your suburb’s description, just know I probably live in one of these stereotypes too.

This was inspired by a fashion story by that was so fun to read - thanks Zara!

Armadale

You say that you don’t really follow trends anymore but somehow you own the exact same lamp as three of your friends.

Your reformer Pilates instructor knows more about her life than your husband.

You have a standing lunch booking at Bistro Thierry and can recommend a cosmetic dermatologist faster than a restaurant.

1. Backdrop: Project by Cassandra Walker

2. Rhode Sofa from Arthur G

3. Gubi Floor Lamp from In Good Company*

4. Nile Blue cushion from Bonnie & Neil

5. Zulta Yellow cushion from Fenton & Fenton*

6. Halo Glossy Coffee table from Fenton & Fenton*

7. Clam Chair from Great Dane

8. Marseille Sky Floor Rug from Hali*

9. Sonny Wall Mirror from Fenton & Fenton*

• items on sale

Your Armadale house is kind of like a mullet, business out the front and party at the back. The grand Edwardian front rooms are formal with their fireplaces and decorative ceiling roses, and at the back there’s a light and bright extension. So when it comes to decorate you want to show that yes, the rooms maybe grand but no, you’re not uptight. You can have fun, too.

That’s why the house contains at least one piece from Fenton & Fenton, purchased after saying, “We just wanted something a little bit different.”

Everything feels soft. The curtains are linen. The sofa is linen. The bedhead is linen. You have strong opinions about linen.

The overall effect is calming, expensive and vaguely resembles a luxury wellness retreat where nobody has ever spilled a glass of red wine.

Toorak

The family holiday home is referred to by its location, not as a holiday home. “Are you going to Sorrento this weekend?” No explanation required.

The house contains at least one room that nobody uses but everyone is pleased exists.

When renovating, the phrase “while we’re doing it” has caused financial damage on multiple occasions.

1. Backdrop interior by Simone Haag

2. Wall mirror Soleil by Guillaume Bardet from Galerie Kreo

3. Rolo Up Down Pendant light by Articolo

4. Chicago sofa by Baxter from Space Furniture

5. Armchair 1st Edition from Tigmi Trading

6. Trace Clay Floor rug from Halcyon Lake

7. Miniforms Side table from Features Group

8. Mini waves cushion from Bonnie & Neil

9. Greek Amphora Vessel 02 from Tigmi Trading

10. Aura Coffee Table from Emma Donnersberg

The Toorak home has never met a slab of marble it didn’t like. Marble on the island. Marble on the splashback. Marble in the powder room. Potentially marble in places where marble should not reasonably exist.

Every fabric in the house has been coordinated by an interior designer and every cushion somehow relates back to a curtain somewhere.

There is a level of confidence to a Toorak home that says: “Yes, this stone was expensive.” And honestly? Good for you.

Read more

Perhaps it was simply the lens I was looking through. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Or perhaps there really was a noticeable divide emerging between the spaces I found myself drawn towards and those I couldn’t wait to escape.

Are you coming to the Milan In-Review event? Bree and I will be presenting an un—biased breakdown of what matters from Milan Design Week. The colours, themes, stand-out furniture releases and more. Can’t wait to see you there!

Milan In-Review Melbourne

Milan In-review Sydney

What I noticed throughout Milan Design Week was a growing tension between what I can only describe as masculine and feminine interiors.

Not male and female designers. Not biological gender. But two very different ways of thinking about space.

One prioritised intellect, architecture, control and restraint.

The other prioritised emotion, comfort, atmosphere and human connection. And nowhere was this divide more apparent than at the annual Elle Decor exhibition.

Every year, Elle Decor takes over the same extraordinary Palazzo Bovara in Milan and transforms it into an immersive installation exploring ideas around contemporary living. It is one of the most anticipated exhibitions of the week.

Last year was designed by Patrica Urquiola, and this year anticipation was even higher.

Thanks to Bree Banfield, my Design Anatomy co-host, we were invited to a private press preview before Milan Design Week officially opened. No queues. No crowds. Just a guided tour through the installation with time to absorb every detail.

This year's title was Sensory Landscape — a project conceived by Piero Lissoni alongside Antonio Perazzi for the landscape design and the contribution of netsuke studio for the exhibition design coordination.

As we entered, I was impressed.

As I left, I realised I hated it, which is unusual.

As a designer, there are many spaces I admire but wouldn’t choose to live with. There are spaces I don’t personally connect with but can still appreciate intellectually.

This was different.

I wanted to leave.

The strange thing is that I loved how strongly it made me feel.

Because indifference is far worse than dislike.

The concept was focused ‘on the senses as a means of reconnection with space’ however I could not connect at all, no matter if the scents were tailor made for the space with a specific soundtrack - I just wanted to get out of there.

The opening sequence was magnificent. A winding pathway cut through tall grasses beneath a painted cloud mural. Mirrors expanded the boundaries and created the illusion that the landscape continued infinitely beyond the room. The lighting was theatrical and moody. Nature, reflection and atmosphere combined beautifully.

Then things changed.

One room felt disturbingly like an interrogation chamber. The walls were lined in dark grey acoustic foam with a pyramid texture. In the centre sat a pair of chaise longues.

It was probably intended as a meditation on sound, isolation or sensory experience.

What I felt was anxiety.

Another room was little more than black walls displaying a Picasso beside an Andy Warhol.

The implication seemed to be that proximity to greatness creates meaning.

I’m not convinced it does.

There was a beautiful AI-generated floral installation by Fuse within the space which I found genuinely captivating. But the room itself felt hollow. A collection of important names rather than a compelling idea.

The library was perhaps the clearest expression of what troubled me.

Black gloss walls. Black gloss floors. Empty chrome USM shelving wrapping the perimeter. A single shelf of books. Furniture positioned with almost mathematical precision.

The lighting was intentionally disorientating. Small pendants hung below eye level so the fixtures themselves disappeared and only their effect remained visible.

It was clever. Very clever. Perhaps too clever.

The room felt hard, controlled, reflective and distant. It reminded me of a certain strain of 1990s minimalism that valued intellectual purity above all else.

Piero Lissoni's approach is radical and precise, founded on a conscious subtraction: “No superfluous decorative elements; even the presence of materials is discreet and essential. In my vision, Sensory Landscape is a catalog of clear-cut, almost black-and-white sensory experiences, capable of leading the visitor not toward a neutral experience, but toward a clear stance. The invitation is to rediscover the value of measure and of a kind of ‘visual silence,’ where rationality is not a limit, but a tool to rediscover meaning and depth in space.”

I kept waiting for warmth. For softness. For humanity.

For some acknowledgement that people might actually want to spend time there. And perhaps that is where my discomfort originated. The exhibition seemed designed to be admired rather than inhabited. Observed rather than lived in.

Its success was measured in concepts rather than comfort. Yet what fascinated me was that this wasn’t an isolated experience.

As I moved through Milan, I kept noticing traces of the 1990s returning.

Black lacquer. Black leather. Reflective surfaces. Strong geometry. Monolithic forms.

And those glowing backlit white walls that seemed to appear everywhere.

I remembered seeing kitchens presented this way in magazines during the 1990s. Futuristic white membranes glowing from within. A vision of modernity that felt sleek and optimistic.

But then I visited Poliform, which complicated my theory entirely.

Because Poliform was also embracing some of this language. Black. Gloss. Reflection. Minimalism.

The difference was atmosphere.

Inside a magnificent historic palazzo sat a kitchen installation composed of crisp architectural forms and a glowing backlit white wall. The contrast between the ornate decorative shell and the contemporary intervention was striking.

The white felt brighter because of the darkness surrounding it. The modernity felt sharper because of the history surrounding it.

The tension made the space interesting. The black surfaces no longer felt cold. They felt deliberate.

This was when I realised that perhaps what I was responding to wasn’t style at all.

Because Poliform was using many of the same ingredients. The difference was emotional.

The spaces that stayed with me this year weren’t necessarily softer. They weren’t necessarily more colourful.

They were simply more human.

Instead of glossy surfaces, they offered materials you wanted to touch. Timber with visible grain. Handmade tiles. Textured wool upholstery.n Natural stone.

Layers that revealed themselves slowly rather than announcing themselves immediately.

The studio that embodied this most completely was Studio Pepe.

In fact, by the end of Milan, I realised almost every space I had fallen in love with shared one thing in common.

Studio Pepe had designed it. Their former studio space, reimagined as an installation called The Intimacy, was one of the most beautiful environments I experienced all week.

And when I say beautiful, I mean it brought an actual tear to my eye, which sounds dramatic. And perhaps it was.

It could have been exhaustion. It could have been the fact I hadn’t yet had coffee that morning. But I don’t think so.

The space possessed that elusive quality that designers spend entire careers trying to create.

It felt right. The scale felt right. The proportions felt right. The colours felt right. Everything felt intentional but never forced. Collected rather than curated.

There were creams, taupes and soft beiges layered together with unexpected moments of chartreuse, dusty pink and yellow.

Nothing shouted. Nothing performed. Nothing demanded attention. And yet the space was unforgettable. It felt intimate, which is perhaps why the name was so perfect.

And then there was MOHD.

Huge metallic spheres floated within rooms of earthy materials and curved architecture. Reflection sat beside tactility. Glamour sat beside comfort.

It was one of the most sophisticated demonstrations of furniture, materiality and atmosphere I have ever experienced.

A masterclass in combining contrasts. A masterclass in restraint. A masterclass in emotion. And perhaps that’s ultimately what I realised in Milan this year.

The divide wasn’t really masculine versus feminine.

It was emotional versus intellectual.

The spaces I loved acknowledged that human beings don’t simply look at rooms.

We inhabit them. We touch them. We rest in them. We create memories within them.

The most successful interiors weren’t asking to be admired.

They were asking to be lived in.

Are you coming to the Milan In-Review event? Bree and I will be presenting an un—biased breakdown of what matters from Milan Design Week. The colours, themes, stand-out furniture releases and more. Can’t wait to see you there!

Milan In-Review Melbourne

Milan In-review Sydney

What continues to impress me most about Melbourne Design Week is the sheer depth of talent on display from Melbourne and across Australia. There is an energy here that feels confident, generous and increasingly self-assured. My city really does put on a remarkable show.

The work presented throughout the week tends to fall into two categories. There are the conceptual pieces that push design culture forward through experimentation and ideas. And then there are the pieces that provoke a far more immediate reaction: the ones you mentally place into your own home before you’ve even finished looking at them.

These are the pieces I would happily live with.

1. Hothaus x Robert Gordon

When hand-blown glass meets hand-crafted ceramics, something unexpectedly poetic happens.

The collaboration between Hothaus Glass and Robert Gordon combines translucent colour with earthy tactility in a collection of table lamps and wall lights that feel both playful and deeply considered.

The contrast between glossy glass and textured ceramic gives the pieces a distinctly sensory quality. I found myself imagining a pair of the wall lights mounted beside a fireplace in a living room or lining the wall of a kitchen, where they would cast a warm atmospheric glow in the evening. There is a softness to them that feels quietly joyful.

2. Mod-u by Joanne Odisho

Designed by Joanne Odisho, the Mod-u lamps are composed of two stackable modules. One is 3D printed, while the other is formed from eggshell composite, creating an intriguing dialogue between technology and waste material.

The forms can be endlessly reconfigured, almost like illuminated building blocks, glowing softly from within like miniature apartment towers at dusk.

What I loved most was their versatility. A cluster beside a sofa would create a beautiful ambient light source in the evening, while during the day they read as sculptural objects in their own right.

3. Tra Noi at 100 Chairs

Shown as part of the 100 Chairs exhibition, the Tra Noi chairs were designed by IF Architecture and produced by Arthur G.

Inspired by 19th-century conversation chairs, the design consists of two petite seats that nest together to encourage closeness between parent and child.

There is something deeply emotional about them.

Perhaps it is their scale, or perhaps it is the upholstery, which was particularly beautiful. But they feel less like furniture and more like an invitation to pause. I imagined them in a living room near a games cupboard for spontaneous moments together, or in a child’s bedroom for story time before bed.

The best furniture often supports rituals we haven’t yet realised we value.

4. Shuggie by Studio Ceravolo for Wilson & Dorset

Covered entirely in New Zealand sheepskin, the Shuggie bench by Studio Carvolo for Wilson & Dorset is wonderfully tactile.

Its softly sculptural form curves gently as you sit, creating a piece that feels playful yet functional. I was immediately drawn to its unusual proportions and comforting texture.

Placed in an entry, it would transform the everyday ritual of putting on shoes into something unexpectedly luxurious.

5. Wall Tapestry by Martyn Thompson at Synthesis

At Synthesis, the woven wall tapestry by Martyn Thompson stopped me in my tracks.

Known for his painterly visual language, Thompson’s textiles possess an extraordinary depth and softness that almost disguises the fact they are woven objects rather than paintings.

Hung above a sofa or within a quieter room, the tapestry would bring both warmth and atmosphere to a space. It is the kind of piece that changes the emotional temperature of a room entirely.

And perhaps that is what all of these objects share. Beyond aesthetics or innovation, they each possess a certain emotional resonance. They are pieces designed not simply to be viewed, but genuinely lived with.

6. Lightly: Twenty Years: The Making of a Symbol.

Lightly also caught my attention with a celebration of 20 years of the brand, revisiting some of their most beloved pieces across wool, stone and resin.

There was something genuinely lovely about seeing a brand so deeply woven into the Melbourne design landscape reflect on its own visual language with confidence and clarity. The collection felt recognisably Lightly in the best possible way. Playful, graphic and distinctly Australian without trying too hard.

I would happily take one of everything.

An iconic planter, the striped resin stool, the richly textured geometric rugs. The pieces feel joyful and highly liveable, which is perhaps why they have endured for two decades in the first place.

7. Sense of Occasion

Who’s idea was it to curate an event about champagne buckets? It was the brilliant idea of Thomas Maxam Studio.

There are no favorites here, they are all gorgeous and we all need one in our homes immediately.

What stood out most throughout Melbourne Design Week was not simply the quality of the work, but the sense of optimism surrounding it. There is an increasing confidence within Australian design right now. A willingness to experiment, to embrace materiality, and to create pieces that feel emotionally resonant as well as functional.

And perhaps that is what I found myself responding to most strongly this week. These were not objects designed purely for spectacle or social media consumption. They were pieces that invited touch, conversation and everyday living. Pieces that quietly asked to become part of someone’s home and rituals.

In an era where so much design imagery is consumed rapidly and digitally, there is something deeply refreshing about encountering work in person and immediately imagining how it might live alongside you. A lamp beside the sofa. A chair in a child’s bedroom. A tapestry softening the mood of a room.

That, to me, is the magic of design week. Not simply seeing new ideas, but discovering the pieces that stay with you long after you’ve left the exhibition.

Because usually, when I’m specifying furniture for clients, I already have an idea of what the piece could be and which brand the client might like. The important words here being piece and brand. They become tangled together. It’s hard to separate them.

Like, if Cassina releases a new armchair, I already walk into it with a certain expectation. I know the brand. I know the designers they work with to design their pieces. I know the visual language. I almost know I’ll like it before I’ve even sat in it.

And look, that’s not necessarily bad. Brands build trust for a reason. But I think sometimes they also save us from having to form our own opinion.

Too often we rely on external validation to tell us if something is “good.” Magazines. PR agencies. Instagram. Someone stylish standing next to a chair looking emotionally unavailable. Suddenly we all agree it’s important.

So when I go to Salone, what I really want is to be surprised.

I want something to stop me in my tracks before I even know who designed it. Before I know the brand. Before the marketing has had a chance to whisper in my ear.

And really, that only happened a few times.

If you want more from the ground in Milan, I will share details of the Milan In-Review 2027 event shortly. Last year it was huge and Bree and I have so much to share with you.

Anyway, all of this is subjective of course. These are simply the pieces that stayed with me that I hope to share with you before all of the marketing fully kicks in and tells us how we should feel about them.

Here are my personal favourites, starting with the seating edition. My slightly emotional, slightly sleep-deprived opinions from the ground in Milan.

1. Coltre Modular Sofa by Muuto

I predict this sofa will be huge.

Designed by Studio Pepe, it’s giving conversation pit energy without requiring you to excavate your living room floor.

It gently curves, the vertical ribbed upholstery adds texture, and the whole thing feels soft in a very convincing way. Puffy, low, inviting. Curves in all the right places, frankly. (I can’t believe I just wrote that either.)

2. Ochre Armchair

I really love this armchair.

Maybe it’s the leather-wrapped frame paired with the squishy linen cushions. Maybe it’s the relaxed proportions. Maybe it’s simply that colour, which is gorgeous and slightly emotionally stabilising.

I’ve always associated Ochre more with lighting, but this made me want to pay much more attention to their furniture pieces.

It feels casual in a very sophisticated way. Like someone who owns expensive linen trousers but somehow never spills olive oil on them.

3. Twins Armchairs by Sancal

These are just… sweet.

Designed by Júlia Esqué for Sancal, the Twins armchairs use the exact same structure but completely transform depending on the fabric.

It’s such a simple idea, but seeing them side-by-side really reminds you how much upholstery changes the personality of a piece.

Like siblings who had the same upbringing but wildly different attachment styles.

I also really enjoyed the unusual colour combinations at the Sancal stand. Vibrant orange, soft blue, burned caramel, periwinkle and a soft grey backdrop. It really was so fun to experience because it was so different to anything else I’d seen.

4. Ada Armchair by Freifrau

This chair genuinely stopped us in our tracks.

We were speed-walking to the next fabulous Milan thing, slightly dehydrated, mildly over-stimulated when the shape, colour and texture of this chair pulled us into the showroom.

The frames came in timber or painted finishes, the fabric options were beautiful, and the seat had this irresistibly squishy quality that practically demanded I sit down immediately.

And I can confirm: extremely comfortable.

Which, during Milan Design Week, honestly feels luxurious in itself.

5. Kelly Wearstler + H&M Home

Ok, I know it is literally impossible to view these pieces outside of the gigantic marketing machine surrounding them. The coolness of Kelly Wearstler is already deeply embedded into the collection before you even walk through the door.

But honestly? I still thought it was worth including.

Partly because Kelly is such a recognisable design figure, but mostly because these were some of the few pieces shown during Milan Design Week that an everyday person could realistically bring into their home.

And weirdly, accessibility immediately makes something less cool to certain corners of the design world. The chair gatekeepers hate nothing more than a beautiful object ordinary people can actually buy.

Personally, I think it’s quite a cool move for Kelly to collaborate with H&M Home. She could easily align herself exclusively with luxury brands and her own furniture pieces are certainly luxurious in both quality and price. So there’s something interesting about bringing that visual language into a more accessible context.

The exhibition itself was gorgeous. Although honestly, Palazzo Acerbi nearly outshone the collection. Which feels rude to say, but also true.

The armchairs were stacked into this giant upholstered hill where it became difficult to tell where one chair ended and another began. Very sculptural. Very dramatic. They sat incredibly low to the ground and felt less like practical seating and more like design objects. Which I am completely fine with, despite the fact my lower back may not be.

There was also a timber chair in the collection that I really liked. Strong silhouette, angular shape, confident without trying too hard.

Which, now that I think about it, is probably the entire Kelly Wearstler brand. I will buy it for a hallway or entry area.

My favorite piece in the collection is the stone coffee table. I’m wondering why modular coffee tables aren’t more of a thing becacuse this makes a lot of sense.

6. Knoll

I was really impressed by the Knoll presentation at Salone this year.

There were courtyard gardens built within these strong architectural frames with grasses, cactus, soft landscaping and suddenly Knoll felt… cooler? Softer? Less corporate modernist dad and more emotionally evolved.

There was more colour. More ease. Less seriousness.

Two pieces really stood out to me: the Muecke Lounge Chair and the Morrison Hannah Chair.

The lounge chair by Jonathan Muecke follows on from the Muecke dining collection released in 2025, and it was one of those pieces where the detailing quietly does all the work.

The exaggerated timber dowel crossover detail somehow makes the oak feel even more beautiful. Which sounds ridiculous because it’s literally just wood being wood. But the proportions and construction make you notice it differently.

And honestly, after several days of lacquer, chrome and conceptual seating experiments, seeing something so grounded and tactile felt strangely emotional.

The Morrison Hannah Chair also really stayed with me. Originally designed by Andrew Morrison and Bruce Hannah in 1973, it has now been reengineered for 2026.

And honestly? Do you know how hard it is to find a chair that is ergonomic, comfortable and beautiful?

Because apparently the design industry believes you should only be allowed two out of the three.

I need this chair.

So that’s my wrap-up from the ground in Milan.

I will share details of an in person Milan In-Review event shortly. Last year it was huge and we have so much to share with you.

If you’d like to join the Design Anatomy Tour in 2027, reach out. We visit Paris for three days of exclusive home visits and hard-to-find showrooms. Then we fly to Milan to experience design week without the 3 hour long queues.

It is off-the-chain amazing. Send a note to designanatomypodcast@gmail.com

Because truly, it can be very hard to remember what we’re all actually doing there.

I had FOMO. While physically in Milan. There is always something else you should be seeing, someone you should be bumping into, a door you should be slipping through. It makes being present feel almost impossible.

Also, I am a Capricorn. Which means I cannot relax. Even in Italy. Even with a spritz in hand. My brain is like: how can this be used in a project? how can this become content? have you optimised this moment?

And then just to really round out the experience, I lost two precious hours of a perfect sunny afternoon going to the wrong address.

I went to Via Guadenzio Fantoli.

I was meant to go to Via Guadenzio Ferrari.

One of these is a stunning private apartment I had somehow, miraculously, been invited to. The other is a storage facility near the airport. I will think about this for the rest of my life.

It was also towards the end of the trip, when the tight grip of my spreadsheet had loosened and I had the audacity to trust myself. A mistake. A cautionary tale. A character-building moment I did not ask for.

Anyway.

The point is: there is too much to see. And not enough hours. And you cannot win.

There’s also a kind of collective cynicism floating around this year. Louder than usual. People complaining about big brands creating “experiences,” about things being too commercial, about the “wrong” people attending, about influencers doing it incorrectly (which is apparently a moral failing now).

It’s giving… nostalgic gatekeeping.

My feeling is: if you don’t like the big brand installations, don’t go. If more people are interested in design, that feels like a good thing? I don’t know, I’m not here to police joy.

Anyway, once you get past the noise and your own spiralling, there is design. And it’s actually very good. I’m sharing the highlights in the coming days.

Also, if you’re a designer or design-adjacent interested in joining the Design Anatomy Design Tour for 2027, get in touch! We’re releasing details soon. designanatomypodcast@gmail.com

There’s a TikTok-fuelled phenomenon of “becoming Chinese” and it seems Milan got the memo.

I’m writing this now from the lounge at Shanghai Pudong International Airport, fully immersed in ‘Chinamaxxing’ myself, drinking tea and reflecting on what was an incredibly inspiring week.

Throughout Milan, I kept noticing references to China and Japan: lacquered finishes, tatami mats, bamboo furniture, silk. Not in a pastiche way, but something more embedded. It made me wonder: what is this moment we’re in? And why now?

Because of course, this isn’t new.

Europe has long been fascinated with the East. The story that Marco Polo introduced noodles to Italy is a myth, but his travels along the Silk Road did bring ideas, materials and objects back to Europe. Porcelain, paper money, silk.

By the 17th and 18th centuries, silk, lacquerware, spices and tea (a lot of tea) were being traded in huge quantities. And beyond goods, there was an entire imagined version of the East, it was romanticised, idealised, a little mysterious. Particularly in France, where chinoiserie became an aesthetic language of its own.

So in many ways, we’ve been here before.

But this time feels different.

Now, the fascination isn’t just aesthetic, it’s about systems, speed, precision. China’s hyper-efficient cities, the integration of technology into daily life, the feeling that everything just… works. There’s an optimism to it. A sense of forward motion.

And you can feel that shift culturally too. The global success of K-Pop Demon Hunters- winning Oscars and becoming a genuine hit is part of the same story. Film, music, design… it’s all moving.

It also feels, in part, like a reaction. Perhaps a quiet dissatisfaction with the West, politically, economically, socially and a curiosity about what else is possible.

Anyway. Back to Milan.

1. Nilufar Depot

At Nilufar Depot, the “Grand Hotel” exhibition captured this intersection perfectly.

There was a strong Art Deco undercurrent — which made sense, having just come from the show at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris, where the Orient Express exhibition was all about layered opulence and travel.

Nilufar felt like a continuation of that story.

Mohair velvet, heavy drapery, glossy lacquered tables, everything rich, enveloping. And then woven through it, these Eastern references.

The pieces I kept going back to were vintage Gabriella Crespi, bamboo and brass shown alongside a table by George Nakashima, all sitting on tatami mats.

It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. But it really did.

2. Molteni&C

At Molteni&C, the influence was more subtle, but just as telling.

Lacquer is definitely having a moment.

I noticed hints of it last year, especially in pieces by Christophe Delcourt, but this time it felt everywhere: high-gloss timber, reflective finishes on armchairs, even polished stone benchtops.

It makes me wonder if this is the beginning of a shift away from the honed, matte surfaces we’ve loved for so long.

3. Villa Necchi

At Villa Necchi Campiglio, built in 1935 the Eastern influence wasn’t a trend, it was already there.

Chinese objects placed throughout the home: a figural lamp that looked like carved Shoushan stone, a Laughing Buddha, delicate pieces that could have been ivory, and ceramic lions flanking the fireplace.

This was chinoiserie in its original context — not decorative for decoration’s sake, but as a symbol of status, wealth and global awareness. These objects were rare, fragile, and signified access.

Some things don’t change.

It was my third Milan Design Week, and my first time inside this house — and honestly, one of the highlights. Thank you to Gaggenau for making it happen.

4. Raritas / Salone

At Salone del Mobile, I visited Raritas and again… tatami mats.

They kept appearing.

At Side Gallery, there was a low table and sofa set by Isamu Kenmochi, everything closer to the ground, more considered, more intentional.

It changes how you sit, how you move, how you experience a space.

5. Bugatti

The work of Carlo Bugatti doesn’t neatly fit into this idea of “Asiamaxxing,” but it speaks to something adjacent.

There’s a fascination with the “exotic” drawing from Asia, from Morocco — but filtered through Art Nouveau.

His pieces are intricate, layered, detailed: inlaid with bone, pewter, and other materials. Yves Salomon showed a collection alongside Dimore Studio at PAD Paris, and I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Seeing them again in Milan, at Nilufar and within a private residence for Interni Venosta, only reinforced that.

So yes — Milan 2026 felt different.

Less about trends, more about a shift in perspective.

A return to craft, to gloss, to richness. But also a leaning toward precision, restraint, and a different way of living.

And whether you call it Asiamaxxing or something else entirely — it’s definitely happening.

The forever home is a lie.

(I know. I’m going out on a limb here because every second interior designer seems to be out there promising timeless homes for forever living and I’ve been quietly sitting in the corner like… are we all just pretending this is a thing?)

Because I don’t believe in it.

And I think we need to talk about it.

The comfort of “forever”

I get why we say it.

Clients are investing a huge amount of time, energy and money into their homes.

Of course they want to believe it will last. Of course we want to reassure them.

“Forever home” sounds safe.
Grounded.
Responsible.

It suggests permanence in a world that feels increasingly… not that.

It also helps justify the cost. Because if this home is going to serve you forever, then the investment makes perfect sense.

And then there’s “timeless”

Designers love this word.

Timeless.

It implies that a space somehow exists outside of time.

Untouched by trends.
Unaffected by culture.
Immune to the passing of decades.

Which… is a beautiful idea. But also, not entirely true. Because every design, no matter how refined is shaped by the moment it was created in.

The materials we use.
The layouts we prioritise.
The way we live.

All of it reflects now.

Even the most “timeless” interiors are quietly participating in trends. They’re just better at hiding it.

The problem isn’t just design

Sometimes a home doesn’t “last.” And we think the design failed. But often it’s not a design problem.

It’s an us problem.

We change. Our lives change. Our priorities shift in ways we couldn’t possibly predict.

A small example from my own life

I lived in a two-bedroom apartment in South Yarra for ten years and it was crummy yet perfect. We were in our twenties and we went out for dinner constantly because there was barely a kitchen to speak of.

There definitely wasn’t a dining table. And that was fine, actually it was more than fine - it was fun.

Trying to imagine my family of five living there now is… laughable. The apartment didn’t fail. It just belonged to a different version of me.

I see it with clients all the time

I’ve worked on many so-called “forever homes.”

And ten years later…? A lot of those clients don’t live there anymore.

Not because the homes weren’t beautiful but because life moved on.

Children grew up and left. Large homes started to feel too big. Too quiet.

Pools and gardens became maintenance instead of joy. Travel became a priority and suddenly, an apartment — one you can lock and leave — makes far more sense.

The home didn’t fail.

It just stopped matching the life.

So why are we so attached to the idea?

I think it comes down to this:

We want stability.

We want to believe that we can design something once and have it carry us through every version of ourselves. But when you really think about it…

It’s quite rare that one home can hold:

Your twenties self
Your parenting years
Your empty nest phase
Your later life

That’s a lot to ask of a floorplan.

The same goes for interiors

Why are we striving to create spaces that don’t change…

When we do?

“Timeless” has become one of those words that sounds impressive but is actually a little… hollow. Because a home that truly reflects you will inevitably change as you change.

And that’s not a flaw.

That’s the whole point.

A different way to think about it

Instead of asking:

Will this home last forever?

What if we asked:

Does this home support how I live right now?

Because that’s where the magic is.

Designing for your current life.

Your current routines.

Your current desires.

A small nudge (you knew it was coming)

Paint the room.

Buy the comfortable armchair.

Hang the art.

Plant the garden.

Personalise your space.

Do it now.

Not when everything is “perfect.”

Not when you’re sure it will last forever.

Because it won’t.

And that’s okay.

One last thought

I recently listened to Alain de Botton speak about homeson the Homing podcast, and he said he would feel sorry for anyone who lived in the same house their entire life.

At the time I remember thinking, well that’s a bit dramatic.

But I think I understand what he meant.

A life well lived is one that evolves.

And our homes should be allowed to evolve with us.

So no.

I don’t believe in the forever home.

But I do believe in a home that feels right, right now.

And that feels like a much more interesting place to start.

Somewhere along the way we started confusing a Pinterest board with taste.

Recently I was speaking to the French interior designer Cléo, who is based in Paris and works frequently with vintage furniture. (listen on the Design Anatomy podcast)

Naturally, the conversation turned to Pinterest.

She said something that really stayed with me.

Cléo uses Pinterest for image research like most designers do, but she told me that if you only rely on Pinterest, a room can start to feel flat. Predictable.

You know the look.

Beautiful, yes.

Perfectly styled, yes.

But somehow still a little… one note.

Quick note: I’m opening up dates for design consultations over Easter as March is nearly booked out and I’m in Paris and Milan for design week. So reply to this email (or email studio@sisalla.com.au) if I can help with the interiors of your home.

Cléo explained that adding vintage pieces changes that. Vintage introduces layers of time. Pieces with history. Objects that weren’t designed to sit neatly inside the same algorithmic aesthetic.

Her words were that vintage pieces can “hold the room.”

They anchor it.

Without them, interiors can start to drift into that very familiar “influencer home” look, lovely to photograph, but somehow lacking depth.

A few nights later I fell into a TikTok rabbit hole that reminded me of that conversation with Cléo.

Not the cute kind where you learn how to peel a mango with a glass or discover a genius pantry labelling system.

No.

The kind where you suddenly realise the algorithm has quietly been deciding what taste looks like.

But before we get into how brown sofas are trending and the great algorithm aesthetic machine, we need to talk about something deeper.

Taste.

Taste is not a Pinterest board

Recently I listened to an episode of the Style-ish podcast (ok I only saw the TikTok clip) where they described writer Tamsin as pretentious.

Apparently because she suggested that developing taste means understanding where your references come from.

Not just collecting images.

Actually knowing the lineage.

And I found that criticism fascinating.

Because in design, whether it’s fashion, interiors, architecture, or art understanding your references isn’t pretentious.

It’s the whole point.

Tamsin’s argument was essentially this:

Taste isn’t having a Pinterest board.
Taste is understanding why the images ended up on the Pinterest board in the first place.

Which is very different.

Pinterest is a collection.

Taste is an investigation.

You look at an image and ask:

Where did this come from?
Who influenced it?
What movement does it belong to?
What came before it?

It’s a really good take on taste and how it comes from curiosity, friction and experience. Not the algorithm spoon feeding it to you. You can see her burner account on TikTok here.

For me, the really fun part is when you start looking at the sources of the sources.

Because that’s where things get interesting.

There is nothing pretentious about knowing the sources

In fact, I’d argue it’s essential.

All creatives must research.
All creatives must stay curious.

You would have found me sitting in the front row of the History of Architecture and Decorative Styles class many years ago, completely transfixed.

Rococo. Postmodernism. Georgian. International Style. I love it all.

When you can identify the motifs, shapes and ideas from eras that came before us, it enriches every design decision you make.

It gives context.

It gives depth.

It gives you a sense that design is part of a long conversation across centuries.

That’s also why you will never find me walking past one of those little plaques attached to historic buildings in Europe.

You know the ones. The small metal signs explaining that this building was constructed in 1783 by some architect whose name you can’t pronounce.

I always stop. Yep, I am that person.

Because it blows my mind that you’re standing in a place where hundreds of years of design history have layered themselves on top of each other.

Design never appears out of nowhere.

It evolves.

Design has always borrowed, referenced and translated

Some of the most famous design objects in the world are the result of cross-cultural inspiration.

The Wishbone Chair by Hans J. Wegner was inspired by traditional Chinese Ming dynasty chairs.

During WWII, the Eameses developed lightweight, molded plywood leg splints for the U.S. Navy, which led to their pioneering techniques for shaping plywood into compound curves. This material innovation directly enabled their iconic furniture, such as the Lounge Chair Wood (LCW) and the Eames Lounge Chair.

The work of Frank Lloyd Wright was deeply influenced by Japanese woodblock prints. Image from The Smithsonian

And the Fjord chair designed by Patricia Urquiola in 2002 carries a strong Scandinavian influence with references to Arne Jacobsen.

Design has always moved like this.

Ideas travel.

They are translated, adapted, and reinterpreted.

Which is exactly what makes studying the lineage so interesting.

Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Pinterest is not a source

Pinterest is wonderful.

But Pinterest is not a source.

It is an algorithmic image recycling plant.

Think of it as Google for visuals.

An image performs well → it gets saved → it spreads → it detaches from its origin.

Soon you’re seeing the same kitchen, the same sofa, the same linen curtain moment across fifty boards.

But no one remembers where it actually started.

Which brings us to the most iconic fashion monologue of all time.

The cerulean sweater effect

If you’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada, you’ll know the cerulean sweater monologue.

Where Miranda Priestly explains that the blue sweater Anne Hathaway is wearing didn’t just appear out of nowhere.

First it appeared on a runway.

A designer referenced something in art or culture.

That idea was interpreted by another designer.

Then it filtered down through department stores.

Eventually it landed in a bargain bin.

That is how taste travels.

And by the time it gets to you, it can feel like it simply appeared.

Pinterest works exactly the same way. Except Pinterest is essentially the bargain basement of visual culture.

Which is not an insult.

Zara is wonderful. I love Zara.

But when you buy something at Zara, it helps to know that a lot happened before that garment landed there.

Just like a lot happens before an image lands on Pinterest.

By the time it reaches you, its origins can be blurry.

The interior design version of the cerulean sweater

In interiors we have our own version of the cerulean sweater.

At the moment, I think it might be the brown sofa. I am a fan of this colour because it is warmer than the previous grey sofa and works effortlessly with natural materials. I predicted brown in a story for The Design Files back in 2019 but I don’t think folks were ready for it then. Anyway…

Chocolate brown.
Mocha brown.
Caramel leather.
Velvet espresso.

Brown sofas are absolutely everywhere right now.

Scroll Instagram and you’ll see them sitting under curved floor lamps with travertine coffee tables and a stack of art books about Carlo Scarpa.

But here’s the interesting question.

Where did the brown sofa moment actually come from?

If we trace the lineage backwards, we might land in places like:

1970s Italian interiors
postmodern design revivals
the recent obsession with earthy palettes
fashion’s return to chocolate and espresso tones

And eventually — like all trends — it travels down the ladder.

One moment comes to mind, in 2022 when Sarah Ellison (now Ellison Studios) partnered with Pantone to release the Float sofa in a custom Espresso colour. I loved it then and I love it now. Sarah is always ahead of something big. It was a genius moment.

From luxury brands.

To mainstream retail.

Which is how you know something has officially arrived.

Because when Koala and IKEA are offering brown sofas…

We’ve gone mainstream, baby.

The algorithm flattens taste

The real problem with the algorithm is not that it shows us trends.

Trends have always existed.

The problem is that the algorithm compresses the timeline.

An aesthetic appears. It spreads instantly.

Everyone saves the same images. Everyone buys the same sofa.

Suddenly entire cities start to look visually identical.

It creates a strange illusion that we are all independently discovering the same thing.

When in reality we’re just seeing the same content pipeline.

Curiosity expands taste

One of my favourite quotes from Kate Forster (my favorite person on the internet) is this:

“Curiosity is what moves culture forward.”

She also says:

“Curiosity expands taste and defensiveness tends to close it down.”

Which feels like the perfect antidote to algorithm culture.

Curiosity sends you down rabbit holes.

It makes you open books.

It makes you follow references backwards.

Defensiveness does the opposite.

It says: this is my style, this is my aesthetic, this is my Pinterest board.

And that’s where growth stops.

Real taste develops slowly

True taste takes time.

It comes from curiosity.

From seeing things in the real world.

From reading books and learning the histories behind objects.

From noticing the difference between a 1970s Italian sofa and a 2025 interpretation of one.

From understanding that what looks “new” is often a reinterpretation of something older.

Taste isn’t just aesthetic preference.

It’s cultural literacy.

And once you start digging into sources, design becomes infinitely more interesting.

Because suddenly you’re not just looking at an image.

You’re looking at a lineage.

A small experiment

Next time you see an image you love on Pinterest or Instagram, try this.

Instead of saving it immediately, ask:

Where might this have come from?
What decade does it reference?
Who influenced it?
What movement does it belong to?

If you follow those threads long enough, you’ll find yourself somewhere far more interesting than an algorithm feed.

You’ll find yourself in the history of design.

And once you start looking there…

Pinterest suddenly becomes a lot less powerful.

—

Next week in Style Studies, we’re going to talk about something related but slightly different:

The myth of “timeless” interiors.

Because that word gets thrown around a lot.

And I have… thoughts.

Mostly I’ll leave it.

I don’t feel compelled to stand in a crowded room holding a warm glass of something I don’t want, shouting over music I don’t like, waiting for permission to become a slightly better person at midnight. By 12:15, I’m usually in bed. Relieved. Slightly smug.

But Chinese New Year? Completely different.

On this occasion, we eat.

My husband is of Chinese descent. His parents came to Australia from Hong Kong, bringing with them an understanding of food that permanently ruined suburban Chinese restaurants for me. They actually owned many suburban Chinese restaurants in the 1980s, and their home cooking was, and still is, better than anything you can order from behind laminated menus and faded aquariums.

And yet, on Chinese New Year, we dine out.

Our go-to was and still is Gold Leaf in Springvale. (Springvale is a vibrant, multicultural hub southeast of Melbourne known for its intense cultural diversity, bustling Asian markets, and authentic dining scene.)

If you know, you know.

The dragon weaving through the restaurant. The firecrackers exploding outside the entrance. The thick, joyous chaos of it all. I remember being in my early twenties, sitting there with my future in-laws, wide-eyed and slightly overwhelmed, clutching my red pocket like I’d just been handed something sacred. Which, in a way, I had.

It wasn’t just money. It was luck. Intention. Continuity.

These moments stay with you.

Every year since, we’ve marked the occasion. We add a few decorations to the house, nothing excessive, just enough to signal that something is shifting. Something is beginning again.

And now, my family joins in too. This year, it was my mum who made the booking at Gold Leaf. I loved that.

The ritual expanding. The circle widening.

This is the Year of the Horse.

Before the celebrations begin, it’s traditional to deep-clean the home. Not in a casual, “wipe the bench and call it done” way. In a purposeful way. A clearing. A resetting.

The cleaning symbolises releasing bad luck from the previous year and making space for good fortune to arrive. And honestly, even if you don’t believe in luck, you can feel the logic in it.

You can’t invite anything new into a space that’s already full.

This quote Suzanne Butler via House & Garden explains it perfectly:
“The Horse does not move well through clutter. It trips in narrow corridors, piles, and bottlenecks. If your home feels congested, your life often does too.”

I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

Because homes have momentum. Or they don’t.

You can feel when a space supports you, when movement is easy, when nothing blocks your path, when you’re not constantly stepping around things that don’t belong to your current life.

And you can feel when it doesn’t.

When the hallway is too narrow. When the chair you never sit in interrupts the natural flow of the room. When the cupboard is full of clothes that belong to a version of you that no longer exists.

“If you have to step around things, squeeze past furniture, or navigate piles,” Suzanne says, “your home is mirroring resistance in your life.”

That sentence landed heavily.

Because design isn’t just visual. It’s behavioural.

It shapes how you move. How you feel. How easily you progress.

So this year, I’ve been paying attention to the quiet bottlenecks. The subtle friction points. The things I’ve tolerated simply because they’ve always been there.

Letting go of clothes I don’t wear. Objects kept out of guilt. Furniture that interrupts rather than supports.

Not dramatically. Just honestly. And honestly so far I’ve gone so far to think about it, but haven’t actually got around to it!

The Year of the Horse is about momentum. Forward movement. Energy.

And I’ve realised that sometimes, the most important design decision you can make isn’t what you add.

It’s what you remove.

Because good homes don’t just look beautiful.

They let you move forward without resistance.

It’s usually delivered with a quiet superiority. As though trend awareness is somehow shallow. As though ignoring what’s happening in the world makes you more timeless.

I disagree.

Strongly.

If you ignore trends, you are not fully servicing your clients.

Let me explain.

Trends are not just colours or cushion shapes. They are signals. They tell us how people are living, what they value, what they’re struggling with, and what they aspire to.

If you ignore that, how do you design spaces that actually work?

Bree and I talk about this today on our podcast Design Anatomy. Listen here for our trend predictions for 2026.

Trends Tell Us How People Live

For example:

If you ignored the trend toward working from home, how would you know your client needs more than a desk shoved into a spare bedroom?

She needs:

• a considered home office

• beautiful joinery

• proper task lighting

• and yes, a Zoom backdrop that doesn’t look like a temporary solution

That’s not a trend in style. That’s a trend in behaviour.

If you ignored the trend of how people consume media now, how would you know that:

• fewer people gather around scheduled television

• more people stream on laptops

• and families sit together doing separate things

Which means…
Power outlets beside the sofa matter.
Side tables need depth for devices.
Lighting needs to support screen glare.

Design is responding to digital life.

If you ignored the way people entertain now, how would you know they don’t want their kitchen mess on display?

The rise of the butler’s pantry isn’t (just) about status.

It’s about:

• hosting with ease

• hiding prep

• creating a calm main kitchen

That’s a behavioural shift.

If you ignored wellness culture, how would you know your client may want:

• a sauna

• a cold plunge

• a bathroom that feels more like a living room

Plaster walls. Artwork. Layered lighting.

Because for many clients, the bathroom is no longer purely functional, it’s restorative.

That’s not a tile trend.
That’s a lifestyle priority.

Trends Are Cultural Data

When designers say they “don’t follow trends,” what they often mean is they don’t chase fads.

And that’s wise.

But ignoring trends altogether? That’s risky.

Trends are cultural data.

They tell us:

• when people are burnt out

• when they crave enclosure

• when they want openness

• when they need control

• when they’re ready to entertain again

Design that ignores this becomes disconnected. It becomes decorative instead of responsive.

The Real Skill

The real skill isn’t blindly following trends.

It’s understanding which trends are:

• fleeting

• aesthetic

• behavioural

• or structural

And then designing accordingly.

You don’t need to specify every trending colour.

But you do need to know that your client might:

• work from home

• stream instead of watch TV

• entertain differently

• value wellness

• crave emotional support from her home

If you ignore that, you’re designing for a version of life that no longer exists.

The Bottom Line

Good designers don’t chase trends.

But great designers understand them.

Because trends aren’t about fashion.

They’re about people.

And if you’re not paying attention to how people are living,
who exactly are you designing for?

Till next time,

Lauren

Not in the tick-off-the-sights way, but in the way it gently rewires how you see the world, and how you work within it.

When you travel, you’re reminded that there isn’t one way to live well. You see how people on the other side of the world use their homes differently. How they gather. How they cook. How they prioritise beauty, or privacy, or ritual. A Parisian apartment teaches you something about restraint and proportion. A Milanese home reminds you that design can be expressive and emotional without being loud.

Travel gives you perspective. It opens your point of view. It loosens the grip of whatever bubble you’ve been operating in and replaces it with curiosity. You come home seeing familiar things differently, materials, layouts, even your own habits. It’s incredibly inspiring for our work, but also quietly grounding as humans.

But if I’m honest, the most memorable part of these tours isn’t just the homes, the showrooms or the cities themselves.

It’s the people.

The Design Anatomy Paris x Milan tour brings together designers and creatives who get it. People who are curious, thoughtful, generous, and just as obsessed with design as they are with how life is actually lived. The kind of people you can have long conversations with, not just about furniture and lighting, but about work, confidence, creativity, and the strange joy of doing what we do.

It’s the conversations around the table that stay with you. Sharing a delicious meal after a full day of seeing beautiful things. Talking freely, laughing, swapping stories, feeling understood. Those moments are the ones you carry home with you long after the trip ends.

Yes, we see extraordinary spaces.
Yes, we visit exclusive showrooms.
But what we really create is a shared experience, one that feels nourishing, inspiring, and deeply human.

That’s what makes these tours so special.

A rare thing has happened, one of our wonderful attendees can no longer join us (we’ll miss you!) and that means a spot has just opened up for the Design Anatomy Paris x Milan tour.

We kick things off with drinks at a Paris rooftop on Tuesday 14 April, before starting the tour the following morning.

If you’d like to claim that lucky last spot get in touch with me as soon as possible by sending me an email designanatomypodcast@gmail.com

Gros bisous,

Lauren

The sofa is nice.
The walls are expensive.
The furniture was chosen carefully, possibly with a spreadsheet.

And yet… the vibe is off.

Congratulations, you’ve just met visual weight.

What even is visual weight?

Visual weight is how heavy or light something feels in a space.
Not how much it weighs. Not how much it cost.
Just how bossy it is on the eyeballs.

Some things shout.
Some things whisper.
Some things sit there like they’ve eaten the entire room.

Dark colours feel heavier than light ones.
Chunky furniture feels heavier than furniture with legs.
Stone and timber feel heavier than glass or metal.
Texture adds weight. Smoothness removes it.

And when everything is heavy at once?
Your room starts to feel like it needs a lie-down.

The sofa situation

If your sofa runs all the way to the floor — especially if it’s deep, dark, or generously upholstered — it’s already doing a lot.

So please don’t plonk a chunky, solid coffee table in front of it and call it balance.

Instead, contrast it:

• choose a coffee table with legs

• something lighter visually

• something that lets your eye sneak underneath

Think of it as giving the room a bit of breathing space. No one likes feeling smothered. Including rooms.

Walls are not innocent

Walls like to pretend they’re neutral observers. They are not.

A heavy stone wall, textured plaster, or timber panelling carries serious visual weight. It’s already making a statement.

So if you park a big, bulky armchair right in front of it?
Now the room feels like it’s leaning forward aggressively.

Instead:

• choose a lighter armchair

• visible legs

• softer upholstery

You’re not matching. You’re balancing. Big difference.

When lightness is the wrong answer

Sometimes people panic and go too light.

A solid timber dining table has presence. Authority. Gravitas.
If you hang a tiny, delicate pendant above it, the light just… disappears. Like it’s embarrassed to be there.

In this case, heavy needs heavy.

That table wants:

• a pendant with scale

• visual confidence

• something that can hold its own

If your lighting looks lost, it probably is.

Character needs a calm friend

A characterful piece — an antique cabinet, a sculptural chair, a hand-carved table — already has a big personality.

It does not need backup dancers.

Pair it with something simpler:

• clean lines

• quieter materials

• less visual noise

Let one piece be the star. Everyone else is supporting cast.

Shine is not superficial

Every room needs something reflective.
Not because mirrors are magic (although they sort of are), but because reflective surfaces carry a lighter visual weight.

Metallics and mirrors bounce light. They lift things. They stop rooms from feeling like caves.

So if your space is heavy on:

• stone

• timber

• texture on texture on texture

Consider:

• a large mirror

• a mirrored wall

• polished metal finishes

It’s not about sparkle. It’s about relief.

The point of all this

Visual weight is one of those quiet design principles that, when done right, makes a room feel calm, grounded, and resolved.

You don’t need more furniture.
You don’t need trendier furniture.
You don’t need to start again.

You just need balance.

And when the visual weight is right, the room doesn’t scream DESIGN.
It just gently says, ahhh.

I’d love to help you with your home. I know that it can be overwhelming and take up a lot of your time when you’re as busy as you are.

I’m here to help in either a one hour consultation, in person (Melbourne) or online. If you need more support and an overarching design for your renovation, new build or decoration just ask.

That was me when Pantone announced its 2026 Colour of the Year and it turned out to be… white. A slightly grubby, not-quite-anything white, romantically named Cloud Dancer but spiritually named Nah I’m Tired, Just Paint It.

We were so rattled, Bree and I called an emergency episode of Design Anatomy with our friend, designer Jono Fleming, to debrief. What we thought would be a cute “Ooh, what’s the new colour?” chat turned into a full-blown group therapy session about politics, apathy, trad wives, white nationalism, trend forecasting and why white walls make so many of us want to scream into a boucle cushion.

So let’s unpack it. Because it’s… a lot.

“It’s just a colour, don’t make it political!”

(Except… everything is.)

The official line from Pantone is that Cloud Dancer is about “quiet contemplation,” a “blank canvas,” a “fresh start.”

Cute in theory.

But here’s the thing: colour forecasting does not happen in a vacuum. These decisions are made by panels of people who are supposed to be reading the global room – politics, culture, economics, climate, social movements, all of it. That’s literally the job.

So when the world is on fire (sometimes literally), democracy is wobbling, inequality is rising, and there’s a very loud, very white, very “traditional values” movement brewing… choosing white as the colour of the year isn’t neutral. It’s loaded.

No, liking white interiors does not make you racist.
No, painting your living room white does not mean you’re aligned with anything sinister.

But symbolism matters. Context matters. And a big, global, culture-shaping brand choosing white right now feels less like “fresh start” and more like “let’s paint over the mess and pretend everything’s fine.”

As Jono put it on the pod: it’s giving landlord special for the planet. Just paint over the black mould and call it “healed”.

White as “nothing” vs white as a choice

Let’s talk interiors for a second.

In a lot of homes, white isn’t a considered colour choice. It’s a default.

“We’ll just paint it white.”

No thought about undertone. No mood, no story, no emotion. Just… “we didn’t want to decide, so we went white.”

That’s why this colour feels like apathy more than serenity. It’s not giving peace and contemplation; it’s giving shrug emoji. In a time when we desperately need people to be engaged, active, and awake, a global colour authority choosing “nothing” feels painfully on the nose.

And then there’s the luxury angle: white sofas, white carpets, white everything as a symbol of a life with no kids, no pets, no mess, no stress and probably a cleaner who comes twice a week. In a world where more people are slipping into financial stress, that “pure white = aspirational life” message feels… off.

The algorithm, our bubbles, and why panels exist

One of the most interesting parts of our chat was the idea of subjective reality.

We’re all living inside our own little algorithm:
What we see online. Who we follow. The shows we watch. The neighbourhood we live in. The conversations we’re part of.

Trend panels are meant to cut across that. Bring together different perspectives, locations, disciplines. Find the common threads in what everyone is feeling.

Which makes this choice even stranger.

Because from where many of us are standing, the mood isn’t “float in a white room and think lovely thoughts.” It’s:

• Things are unstable

• People are activated, protesting, speaking up

• There’s a big pushback against the curated “clean girl / trad wife / beige perfection” aesthetic

• Messy, hand-drawn, imperfect, colourful, human is back

And yet… we got Cloud Dancer. A padded cell with a moodboard.

So where does this leave us?

Honestly? A bit flat, a bit fired up, and a lot more certain about what we stand for.

Because if Pantone’s going to opt for apathy, we don’t have to.

We can:

• Keep having nuanced conversations about colour, politics, privilege and design

• Keep encouraging people to make intentional choices in their homes

• Keep celebrating boldness, individuality and emotion

• Keep pushing back (gently, with humour) against “default white” as the only acceptable backdrop

And if you’ve made it this far into an essay about white paint, firstly, bless you you’re probably one of us: someone who cares about what colour says, not just how it looks.

If you want to hear the full, gloriously unfiltered rant, you can listen to the Design Anatomy episode where Bree, Jono and I process our feelings about Cloud Dream, padded cells, trad wives, and why we’ll keep flying the flag for colour anyway.

Here are the elevated, timeless, quietly chic pieces worth paying attention to next time you’re lost between the cinnamon scrolls and the rug department.

1. BOTKYRKA WALL SHELF

A folded steel shelf that looks like contemporary joinery.
The profile is extremely fine, slim, architectural, and instantly minimalist.
It’s the kind of piece people assume came from a fancy Scandinavian showroom, not aisle 17 near the flat-pack chaos.
Use it in a kitchen for cookbooks and ceramics, or in a living room for sculpture and art. It reads designer.

2. STRANDAD FLOOR LAMP

Soft, warm, and sculptural.
It has that Japanese-Scandi fusion that looks modern without trying too hard.
A great way to add mood lighting and depth to a living room without overwhelming the space. The ricepaper shade gives any space instant atmosphere and did I mention it is only $15!!!

No excuses then for a boring, flat room. Go get this now!

3. STOCKHOLM 2025 SOFA

Especially in the dark brown.
This is where IKEA feels grown up: a comfortable, sculptural sofa that pairs beautifully with colour palettes we’re enjoying right now: burgundy, ochre, sage, powder blues.
That deep espresso fabric gives it weight and credibility.
It always looks intentional and put-together as it’s tightly upholstered, no puffing up cushions required.

4. BERGSHULT + PERSHULT SHELVING COMBINATION

A floating wall shelf system that keeps the hardware visually light.
Here’s the designer move:
Swap the IKEA shelves for solid timber or a beautiful veneer.
Suddenly it feels custom, warm, and completely un-IKEA.
Perfect for styling in kitchens, home offices, or kids’ rooms.

5. NYMÅNE FLOOR LAMP

Minimalist. Quiet. Pure function with just enough elegance.
In white, it disappears into a room — which is exactly what a good reading light should do.
Place it behind a sofa or next to a chair and enjoy lighting that doesn’t scream “lamp.”

6. STOCKHOLM 2025 AMBER GLASS VASE

Chic, sculptural, and works with everything from single branches to big floral gestures. The amber glass is perfect and it’s only $49.
If you love that effortless “I just threw these stems in and it looks perfect” energy - this is your piece.

7. STOCKHOLM 2025 CABINET

This is a standout.
Natural rattan fronts, beautiful soft wood tones, brass hardware, and a shape that feels high-end.
Use two side-by-side for a larger credenza moment.
It plays nicely with art, styling, and statement lighting. A workhorse disguised as a hero piece.

8. STOCKHOLM 2025 RATTAN ARMCHAIR

An embracing, sculptural shape with a soft, relaxed cover that makes it genuinely comfortable — not just pretty. The natural rattan frame adds warmth and an organic calm to any room, giving it that effortless, Scandinavian ease.

I like it without that little back cushion and I’d pop a sheepskin over the seat for added hygge.

9. TOLKNING HEADBOARD

The TOLKNING series is crafted from natural fibres, giving it a warm, organic feel. This freestanding rattan headboard brings a calm, relaxed mood to the bedroom. And the best bit? It only gets more gorgeous with age. Pop one behind a kid’s bed, or line up two for a perfectly boho queen situation. So sweet.

10. STOCKHOLM 2025 FLAT-WOVEN RUG

Rust and powder blue is an unexpected, delicious colour combination that we’re seriously loving at the moment.
It’s graphic, modern, and works beautifully with timber and warm neutrals.
If your living room feels flat, this rug will bring movement and depth without shouting.

The secret isn’t avoiding IKEA — it’s choosing the right pieces.
Clean lines, real materials where possible, and shapes that feel timeless rather than trendy.

You can absolutely shop IKEA and still have a designer-level home.
Just skip the obvious flat-pack clichés and head straight for the quiet achievers.

Pale blue slices through all that warmth like a cool breeze through a sunroom. Together, they’re magic: grounding meets fresh, earthy meets airy, hot chocolate meets sky.

Adding pale blue to a neutral interior is simple and easy yet the results are always interesting and elegant.

1. Dancer Lamp by Coco Flip. (adore this!)

2. My favorite sofa release for 2025 is the Butter sofa by Faye Toogood for Tacchini. Available from Stylecraft. I had the pleasure to sit in it whilst in Milan and can confirm, EXTREME comfort. (will she write about design and not mention Milan?)

3. Splaf lounge chair by Antonio Citterio and Paolo Nava for Vibieffe. Italy, 1971. From Azotea found on instagram.

4. Roger Capron’s ‘Sou-Chong’ coffee table from Design Art Object Anything tiled adds a tactility irresistible to touch.

5. Artwork Alts Bandai 2024 by Rob Howe from Sophie Gannon Gallery.

6. Laurel side table by De la Espada from In Good Company.

7. Moroccan Beni Ourain Rug from Loom.

8. Strand cushion from Ferm Living.

The rationale on how to pull this together.

1. The largest piece of furniture should be pale blue - make it the sofa. It may seem a bit risky to go for a coloured sofa. A neutral is so much ‘safer’ however pale blue is a surprisingly easy colour to live with. It’s a colour without being overwhelming and when paired with shades of brown, it’s more sophisticated.

2. Next, you’ll need a “bridge piece”, something that ties those blues and browns together so the palette looks intentional, not accidental. The rug is perfect for this job (it’s basically the peacekeeper of the room). But a cushion or side table could do the same heavy lifting.

3. Now, artwork. Look, I’m not a fan of art that matches the décor, it can veer dangerously close to “display home energy.” But let’s be honest, colour plays a huge part in how we experience art, so a subtle connection to the palette won’t hurt. Just don’t make it too neat. Throw in a wildcard or two, something you love for the story, not the swatch.

4. Your secondary pieces — side tables, lighting, accessories, can bounce between the blues and browns, keeping the conversation going across the room.

5. And finally, every space needs something old, odd, or slightly offbeat. A vintage find, an op-shop treasure, the weird ceramic jug that makes no sense but you can’t stop looking at it. That’s what stops a room from feeling like an online shopping cart and gives it soul.

Blue and brown together feel timeless, tactile, and quietly confident, like espresso meeting sky.

At its absolute worst, lighting is just a sad little grid of downlights slapped across the ceiling. No thought, no finesse. Just: “Hmm, let’s evenly space some holes up there.” Cool. Except no.

The next level up? Task lighting. A pendant over the kitchen bench. Vanity lighting in the bathroom. A little spotlight on that artwork you love. This is where things start to get functional.

But the ultimate level - the magic layer - is atmosphere.

Lighting isn’t just about seeing. It’s about feeling. The way a room glows can completely shift your mood.

Wall lights and pendants do require some forward planning (and an electrician, sorry) but they’re worth it. Side lighting is chef’s kiss flattering — trust me, your face will thank you.

If you’re not up for rewiring, don’t panic. Scatter some floor lamps in the corners, pop a lamp on a table, layer them up. Lamps look beautiful even when they’re off, but once switched on? They cast the most delicious, soft glow. Your home will be transformed. Promise.

Here are some of my current favorites to inspire:

1. Oversized sconce designed by Louis Kalff for Philips, circa 1950. Features a translucent fibreglass shade and a sculptural opaline glass bulb. From Collectibles 11 11.

2. ‘Spacecraft’ pendant lamp by Time & Style from Boffi. Made from Akita cedar and Mino washi paper,

3. ‘Selene’ uplight by Marz Design, based in Byron Bay. This light utilises timber offcuts and elements from other products it’s very clever, beautiful AND sustainable.

4. ‘Cesta’ lamp by Santa & Cole from Ajar. Designed by Miguel Milá in 1960 and as its name suggests, Cesta (Spanish for “basket”) was designed to hold this fragile shade.

5. Vintage wicker lamp made in Yugoslavia from Shop Wilma

6. An illuminated sculpture by Guy Bareff from various galleries and 1st Dibs

7. The Anders pendant light by Pinch from In Good Company. It’s sculpted from layers of fibre derived from the banana plant family draped and stitched around the central bronze bulb fixing. Each one is a unique handmade piece.

8. Akari 24N floor lamp from In Good Company. Designed by Noguchi beginning in 1951, they have been handmade for a half century by the original manufacturer in Gifu, Japan.

9. Crochet pendant light by Naomi Paul Studio in London.

10. ‘Linear Lodge’ wall sconce by Workstead from In Good Company. The timber elongated vertical shape is capped at each end by a porcelain LED bulb.

11. Pendant by Faina, by designer and architect Victoria Yakusha in Ukraine from Tigmi.

12. The Bell floor lamp by Ellison Studios combins natural woven rattan with polished nickel finish.

I won’t deny that some of these options are, shall we say, aspirational. However you don’t need to spend a fortune to enjoy an atmospheric space. I would just encourage you to start layering your lighting - it will totally transform your space.

It’s the surface you wipe, chop, spill wine on, and lean across every single day. And it sets the whole kitchen vibe. If not, the whole home vibe.

Now, here’s a little designer secret I probably shouldn’t be spilling: there’s a natural stone we love that’s tougher than marble (goodbye etching!) but lighter and fresher than granite. Basically, the unicorn of benchtops.

So, let’s break it down. Stone by stone.

1. Marble

2. Travertine

3. Dolomite

4, 5, 6 and 7 are just for the legendary paid subscribers.

At the end you’ll find a Kitchen Benchtop Stone Comparison Chart

1. Marble

The classic beauty. Think French bistro bar tops or Nonna lovingly making pasta on a marble benchtop. Lean into patina which means that it’s natural for a bench top to show a bit of wear and actually it makes it more beautiful. If patina isn’t your vibe then skip marble and keep reading. Because marble will stain however all it needs is a little care, it will be fine. It’s been used for centuries - embrace it!

• Look: Elegant, veined, timeless. Comes in whites, greys, greens, pinks, blacks.

• Durability: Softer, porous, and prone to etching/staining (wine, citrus, coffee = danger).

• Maintenance: Needs regular sealing, careful cleaning.

• Vibe: Luxurious and dramatic, but high-maintenance.

2. Travertine

The rustic romantic or 90s throwback. Travertine has seen a huge renaissance as interiors shifted from those cool greys into warm beige tones. I would never specify it for shower floors and as much as I love it I talked a client out of this just yesterday. Don’t even think of the Shower Power going anywhere near travertine!

• Look: Soft, warm, earthy tones with natural pitting/holes (often filled).

• Durability: Softer than marble and limestone, scratches/stains easily.

• Maintenance: Requires sealing, not ideal for heavy-use kitchens.

• Vibe: Old-world charm, textural, great for softer, Mediterranean aesthetics.

3. Dolomite

The middle ground. It is no surprise that ‘Super White’ was the stone that EVERY Melbourne interior designer was specifying in their projects. Clients wanted light grey marbles however they were cautious of the porosity and staining. In comes Super White dolomite stone and we were onto a winner. Undoubtedly it is a stunning stone however as we have moved to the warmer beige tones we are seeing less Super White. There are so many soft tone dolomites to explore beyond Super White.

• Look: Soft grey and white tones, sometimes with subtle veining — like a calmer, gentler cousin of marble.

• Durability: Harder and more scratch-resistant than marble, but softer than granite or quartzite. Can still etch with acids (wine, lemon juice).

• Maintenance: Moderate. Needs sealing and care, but less fussy than marble.

• Vibe: Balanced, understated, a smart compromise between beauty and practicality.

4. Onyx

The showstopper. It’s not often used in residential interior design due to it’s fragility and price point. When back-lit it’s translucent, but don’t be tempted to do this in your home unless you want to feel like you live in the Crown casino.

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