SEASONS AND CHANGE

Two weeks ago in Providence, we were buried in more than three feet of snow. Today, as the clocks spring ahead, the snowbanks have softened and begun to recede. Damp earth is starting to appear again, and a fresh breeze hints at the Spring that will soon arrive.

 

The equinox arrives in the middle of this muddy transition and marks a brief moment of equilibrium; day and night held in equal measure before the balance tips again. It’s a useful time to take stock: of what has taken root, what has shifted, and what might be ready for more light.

This year, I’ve been thinking about seasons in a few different ways.

One of our projects is nearing completion: a home on the side of a mountain in Vermont for a family of six. When we began working together, their youngest child had just turned two. Our conversations were about durability, roughhousing, toys scattered across the floor, and how parents keep an eye on everything at once.

 

Three years later, the house will open into a different moment in their family’s life. The toddler years are already fading. Soon, the spaces will begin to support teenagers’ privacy and independence. The next season will begin to appear, and the home will support and shift along with them. 

I see this often in our work. Many people redesign their homes when something in life has shifted.

 

A child is born.
Teenagers need space of their own.
A career change.

 

Sometimes the shift is less obvious. A person simply begins to notice that the space around them no longer matches the life they are living.

 

These kinds of seasons show up in the studio as well.

This winter, a new intern joined us one day a week. Maggie is finishing her final year in the furniture program at RISD, seventeen years after I graduated. Having her in the studio has been a kind of time mirror. She’s asking the questions I once asked: how furniture shapes space, the quality of material, and how drawings eventually become real things.

 

It’s a reminder that so much of this work accumulates slowly. Years of projects. Learning how materials behave or the many ways people actually live. Slowly building the experience that allows a team to create something that belongs to a particular place and a particular family.

 

You don’t notice the change day to day. But eventually you look up and realize you’re standing somewhere very different from where you began.

 

Spring is a reminder of that pace. Change rarely arrives all at once. More often, it unfolds through small adjustments and gradual shifts that only become visible when you look back.

 

The snow melts.
The ground softens.
The light changes.

 

And somewhere along the way, something new begins to take shape.

 

(1) Regular design reviews and check-ins

(2) Monthly budget and schedule updates

(3) Clear meeting notes outlining next steps

(4) Live tracking for orders, costs, and milestones

COMING NEXT

In the next issue of In Residence, we’ll share Part 2 of our process, what happens once design is complete: how drawings become construction sets, how we coordinate with builders and artisans, and how every piece comes together in the final installation.