Design for Inner Peace

As a photographer, I’d always hear people tell me that when they look at my work, they get a feeling of zen.  And it was funny because that’s not something I specifically intended to go for, nor is it part of my personality, but throughout the years of following what I was drawn to aesthetically, this feel naturally derived as something I needed in my life. Maybe that feeling of ‘zen’ is what I myself was looking for and gave myself, through my work.

Navigating divorce, a pandemic, and what seemed like weekly historical events, I think I was always looking for something to ground in, some ways to feel at peace, a way to soothe that didn’t involve wine or running away from my feelings. And so I created. It was one of the only things that made me feel present, noticing soft light and shadow play as my dress was blowing in the breeze, or a quiet corner that gave me an instant feel of calm, I felt inspired to capture little moments like this. For no other purpose than visual relief, these were just moments I wanted to last longer than the blink of an eye. So I’d capture them, then share.

And in time, that feeling of calm grew. When I’d have moments of panic or doubt, I’d go look at my website or browse through my portfolio. And not out of ego or pride, but it would do something to my nervous system. I couldn’t put my finger on it, all I knew is that it worked each time. Throughout the years, comments from friends and strangers would let me know it had the same effect on them, telling me they experience zen or “peace and serenity” from looking at my images. And it is that feeling I want others to experience whether it is by interacting with my work, or bringing elements inspired by it into their own spaces.

I started attending the UCLA Interior Architecture & Design program in the summer of 2021, and felt so torn, as I didn’t know if any of the skills I’m picking up would even be relevant when it was all said and done. The world felt like it was a giant jar of sand and water that had been shaken over and over and over, never fully settling to clarity, I had a hard time seeing through the murkiness that kept being jolted unexpectedly.

For one of the papers for my interior architecture fundamentals class, we studied trends in design, from a book written before it all got turned upside down. I couldn’t relate to any of the ideas the chapter talked about, and how large groups of people were leaving rural areas, heading for the cities. This was around June 2021. I was noticing the opposite. A mass exodus was making people choose life outside the city more than ever. More and more people were moving back to the country, looking into growing their own food, homesteading and being more self-reliant. 

So how could I guide myself by the material we were covering with “experts” who’d been in the design industry for decades, who continued a rhetoric aimed at a world that no longer existed?

I was confused. Was I the only one who saw things differently than what momentum was dictating was the “right direction”?

I wanted to drop out. I felt I was in the wrong place and the decade-long rhetoric that was so applauded in the industry was not resonating with me. I felt like I didn’t belong in the program and yet again, for the millionth time in my life, felt like the black sheep.

Yet there was something there. Each time I considered dropping out, a friend, a stranger, a comment or meme would remind me of my love for design, for architecture, for beauty, and my own wellbeing. I’d find a paragraph in the textbook that sounded more like therapy than it was instructional. The meaning that came through between the lines landed and resonated beyond a career choice. It resonated with my whole being.

And so I held on to the thinnest thread in the moments of biggest doubt. I’d come home to the tiniest apartment and felt relief. Instantly. My feet would touch the soft white cowhide I used instead of a rug, I’d light some chubby incense and dim the lights. Play music and stare at my cute Japanese tea kettle while I was waiting for my water to boil. My nervous system would slowly rebalance.

It was then when I realized why I had been drawn to this aesthetic and to design this entire time. It had never been for fame, or money, or to prove my worth, but it had been the most consistent tool of rebalancing my nervous system and find peace, so I can get back to the real work, that of being in this world. It’s not about aesthetic or beauty or a certain style, it’s about what it does to the soul.

And that’s why I feel it’s important more than ever to continue sharing this work. And what I’d want to share with others so they can take bits and pieces and bring them into their homes, for a little bit more peace and calm in their lives, no matter what the world around us throws our way.