GOD IN THE DETAILS
Like most design enthusiasts, I'm hopelessly addicted to Pinterest. It's a real problem—the hours I spend scrolling, creating boards, pinning hundreds of variations of the same Parisian fireplace for a future Parisian-styled home I'll (most likely) never own.
I honestly don't know how designers ever lived without it. Conversations with new clients inevitably involve a request for a Pinterest board. It's how I learn everything I need to know—no forms, questionnaires, or lengthy conversations necessary. "Pin what you love,"send it to me, and I'll take it from there. (Though I do have a new client who, when I asked him to create a "Pinterest board," looked at me as if I had four heads and opted instead to fly to Denmark for design inspiration.)
Obviously, I'm jealous.
While I'd love for all my clients to travel to their ultimate design destination for inspiration, the magic of the Internet puts the entire world at our fingertips. We can peruse Parisian apartments in our pajamas at midnight, scrolling through countless fireplace variations, honing in on what truly captivates us. Though the sheer number of options can be overwhelming, the magic lies in the curation.
My curation process isn't methodical or scientific. I curate based on what moves me, searching for images that resonate on an emotional level—ones I'm still pondering the next day. I seek spaces that speak to me, with design elements powerful enough to transport me, allowing me to imagine how I'd feel there.
““...it wasn’t so much the way the room looked that pleased me as it was the way it made me feel. It was a room where I felt happy and at peace, where everything seemed the way it should be and everything about myself seemed the way it should be too.”
At this stage, I'm not concerned with budget constraints or "realistic" limitations. I simply follow my emotions. While I might begin with a thousand images on an inspiration board, only a select few truly resonate. These become my trusted guides.
THIS DINING ROOM IS ONE OF THOSE IMAGES.
You may not find it particularly remarkable, but I've spent countless hours studying this room. I want to live, eat, and dream here. The space achieves a perfect, elusive balance between high style and livability with it’s harmonious blend of elegance and comfort: arched windows juxtaposed with cozy natural wood beams, the subtle sparkle of chandeliers and sconces, a simple yet refined dining set, structured clean lines softened by curves, a soothing neutral palette punctuated by contrasting black touches, and—of course—that breathtaking cityscape view.
We all have spaces that speak to us for deeply personal reasons. We might be drawn to symmetry and structure because parts of our lives feel chaotic and uncontrolled. Or we may crave curves, movement, and whimsy to counterbalance the drab and mundane aspects of our existence. Regardless of your personal style—whether you're an expert or a novice, a millionaire or a penny-pincher—design matters. Beautiful spaces matter. And most importantly, design that moves you matters. Yes, trends are fun, and though we might resent how much they influence us, timeless design speaks to who we are and who we aspire to be.
This is why design should never be reduced to a formula—design is personal. It's an art form involving trial and error, addition and subtraction, and attention to the emotions it evokes. This is also why good design isn’t a luxury reserved for the wealthy. My "dream" dining room may include expensive architectural features like arched windows, beamed ceilings, and a stunning city skyline view—luxuries not available to everyone. However, we can all draw inspiration from fundamental design elements and principles, such as clean lines mixed with curves and strategic "wow" moments.
Good design rests on harmonious balance. Too much "wow" can fall flat. Have you ever seen a bathroom entirely enveloped in marble, where the beauty of the natural stone somehow loses its appeal? Excess can ruin design. The eye needs places to rest to fully appreciate standout elements. Gold is gorgeous, but not when the entire room is drenched in it. The Japanese art of Kintsugi—mending broken pottery with gold, silver, or platinum lacquer—strikes this perfect balance.
This "reclaimed object" becomes even more beautiful than the original, its "defect" only adding to its allure. It's unexpected and not "too" perfect. It has become an object imbued with meaning. Does this sound overly theological for a conversation about aesthetics?
I would argue that design should be theological, in that it should be meaningful. It should move you, transform you.
Philosophers often downplay the importance of aesthetics, wary of our tendency to fixate on superficiality. Yet despite these critiques, few things move and inspire us like beauty. Beauty has the power to speak to our better angels. This is the potential of good, intentional design.
In his captivating book The Architecture of Happiness, Alain de Botton posits that "Where we are critically determines what we are able to believe in" and that "our devotion is continually affirmed by our buildings." It's a profound notion—that our surroundings can influence our devotions, moods, and even our morality. Does this, then, consign those without wealth and privilege to moral poverty? I think not. Just as the interplay of natural and unrefined elements with touches of sparkle brings a space to life, infusing what you have with attention and intentionality can imbue any space with substance, meaning, and beauty.
This makes meaningful design attainable for everyone, not just those with unlimited resources. In fact, I often find lavishly designed rooms where no expense was spared more boring than impressive. Excess can feel impersonal and inhuman—a shortcut that bypasses meaning and can even create a sense of unease.
PROOF THAT JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN, DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD.
While unlimited resources neither ensure nor precipitate good design, this doesn't mean intentionality isn't required or that well-designed spaces aren't worthwhile. Far from an exercise in frivolity, the beautification of our most essential spaces is both a form of self-love and a practical way to dignify and care for the people around us, an approach that transforms the entire project into something holy and consecrated—into sacred space.
Design holds that power and potential to teach us to approach everything and everyone in life this way. As we allow ourselves to create and recognize the sacred, we learn to notice God in the details. Things that once seemed inconceivable suddenly become reasonable. Spaces that speak to us at this level even have the power to help us return more easily to ourselves.
"We depend on our surroundings to embody the moods and ideas we respect and then to remind us of them. We look to our buildings to hold us, like a kind of psychological mould, to a helpful vision of ourselves. We arrange around us material forms which communicate to us what we need—but are at constant risk of forgetting we need—within. We turn to wallpaper, benches, paintings and streets to staunch the disappearance of our true selves." (Botton, Alain, 2008, The Architecture of Happiness)
Design that moves you matters, so pay attention. The next time you're in a church or sacred space, soak up the meaning held within the walls, symbols, and stained glass. Allow yourself to feel the reverence those spaces evoke all the way down to your toes, and carry it with you when you leave. Far from trivial or unserious, this might just be the Lord's work.