During my years studying fashion design in the UK, I came to understand something distinctly British: a reverence for history. An old thing was never something outdated — it was something time had already proven worthy.

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Later, earning my MBA in luxury brand management in France, I learned something else entirely: true luxury was never about price. It was about the hand and about time — whether something deserves to be called luxurious depends on whether it carries the warmth left by a hand, and by time spent. The French also taught me what elegance really means — not the kind that’s carefully engineered, but the kind that feels effortless, as if it had always been that way.

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I’m a recent immigrant to the United States. California’s sunsets, the shadows cast by palm trees, the desert stretching along the highway — this is beauty the land itself gives us, unpolished and original. I’ve also come to love the clean, honest lines of California mid-century modern architecture. And as someone Chinese, I carry with me the restrained, understated beauty that comes from my own culture’s long accumulation of time.

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I wanted to bring all of these together — into something that is my own, singular understanding of what a home can be.

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I don’t believe good design should look beautiful the way a showroom does, at a single glance. The person who lives in a home should be its eternal protagonist. Good design is what allows that person, together with the furniture and objects around them, to keep creating — day after day — a certain jing (境): not an environment, not merely an atmosphere, but something that only emerges after time has passed — a story that belongs to no other home, and a feeling too subtle to fully put into words, yet deeply felt.