We remember some spaces long after their appearance has faded from our minds. What remains is the feeling, and the details we noticed when we entered and spent time there.
PROJECT MCHIt is this less visible layer of a space that intrigues me most: not simply how it is designed, but how it feels and how life unfolds within it. An interior does not necessarily begin with a colour palette, furniture, or even a stylistic direction. It begins with an idea of how we want to feel there. Only then does form find its purpose. That is why I do not see a space as a static backdrop to life. It is an active participant, absorbing our habits, changes and moods, and holding objects chosen not merely because they are fashionable, but because they remind us of something. A good interior is not a perfect picture. It is a relationship between a person and a space that deepens over time.
Space as a personal story.
There are two kinds of interiors. In some, we sense that the space has grown out of life; in others, that life has been asked to fit into a finished picture. We notice whether objects have their place without feeling rigid, whether materials age gracefully and nothing has to prove its worth—or whether there is a distance between what a space presents and what its inhabitants actually need.
A home is not a neutral canvas. It speaks of our habits and the way we live: whether we gather friends, need quiet for work, make the kitchen the heart of our home, or have particular ways of resting. These may seem like small things, yet they are what make an interior convincing. Before aesthetics comes attention.
So rather than asking what is fashionable at the moment, I want to know who lives here, which rituals they wish to keep, and what they want to let go of. An interior then becomes more than a pleasing floor plan and the things within it. It becomes a personal story given form.
From form and function to feeling.
The history of interior design is, to a great extent, a history of the changing relationship between beauty, function and ways of living. In the late nineteenth century, the American architect Louis Sullivan, the “father of modernism”, formulated the idea “form follows function”. Expressed in an age of new construction methods and tall buildings, it called for architecture to grow out of its purpose rather than simply repeat historical styles.
In the early twentieth century, modernism took this shift further. Clear organisation, honesty in materials, pure geometry and the rejection of unnecessary ornament became expressions of a new age. The Bauhaus, in turn, sought to bring together art, craft, architecture and industrial production, believing that good design belonged not only in galleries and grand drawing rooms, but in everyday life. Design became a social question: how to live better, more simply and more meaningfully.
There is still great value in that idea. Function is not the enemy of beauty. On the contrary, it gives beauty proportion, discipline and clarity. Yet a person is not an abstract unit, and a home is not a machine to be judged solely by its efficiency. We also live through memories, touch, scent, symbolism and habits that are not always rational. An object may even be impractical and still be irreplaceable because it belongs to something deeply personal.
Later movements made room once more for colour, symbolism, irony, ornament and individual expression. History, as usual, moved not in a straight line but through opposing ideas. That is precisely why we do not have to choose between function and feeling today. We can understand them as two dimensions of the same decision: a space must support life through its functionality, while that same life has an emotional dimension.
Feeling before trends.
Never have we been surrounded by so many beautiful interiors. Every day we see perfectly framed rooms, recognisable palettes and objects that seem to appear everywhere almost overnight. These images are valuable sources of inspiration, but they can easily become quiet instructions for how our homes supposedly ought to look.
A trend is not a problem in itself. It captures the spirit of a moment and introduces us to new materials, technologies and ways of thinking. The problem begins when it replaces our own judgement. When we design a space around an image we like rather than the life we lead, the result may be striking, but short-lived. As soon as the algorithm changes, so does our confidence in our choices.
Timelessness, by contrast, does not mean neutrality, beige or a lack of character. A piece of furniture, an unexpected colour, an object with a patina or a bold work of art can all be timeless if they belong to the person and the space.
What is authentic does not have to appeal to everyone to be good. Sometimes, it is precisely an imperfection that makes a space feel alive.
Space in the rhythm of life.
The most important part of shaping a space is not its individual elements, but observation: what our daily life is like, where we spend the most time, which elements matter most, and what we need as we move through the day. These questions may not sound exciting when imagining a new home, yet they are what make the concept work. The floor plan, concept sketches, materials, colours and lighting are then no longer separate decorative decisions. Together with observation, they shape the rhythm of a space. Functionality is not just the number of cupboards or the width of a passage. It is the ease with which everyday life unfolds.
Lighting plays a leading role. Natural light changes a space throughout the day, bringing out textures and creating a mood that no colour alone can produce, while artificial lighting sets the scene for everyday life. A space is not the same at noon and in the evening, just as we are not the same throughout the day.
The materials we touch matter equally. Wood, stone, metal, linen, wool and ceramics do more than create a visual impression. They have their own temperature, weight, sound and way of ageing. Well-chosen materials do not always have to look new. They may even improve with time, carrying the traces of use.
When a space gains character.
The character of a space rarely emerges all at once. Instead, it develops in layers, through the relationships between old and new, precise and spontaneous, precious and ordinary. In a memorable space, there is often something that no rule can fully explain. That is exactly what gives it its identity.
That is why I like the idea of leaving some room for the future in an interior. There is no need to finish every last centimetre before we begin to live there. Some things are chosen later, only once we understand how we actually inhabit the space.
Character is not a matter of quantity, either. A space can be rich and layered, or very quiet. Consistency of feeling matters more than consistency of style. When decisions share an atmosphere and respond to real needs, a home need not be a catalogue of a single era. It can be a gallery of pieces and objects connected meaningfully and instinctively.
Form Follows Feeling.
The idea of Form Follows Feeling does not seek to undo the legacy of functionalism. It extends it. Form should still follow purpose, but the purpose of an interior is more than efficient functioning. A space should support a sense of belonging, security and freedom, and allow us to recognise ourselves within it.
This does not mean leaving decisions entirely to intuition. Feeling can be thoughtfully translated into a space: warmth through materials, calm through proportions and organisation, openness through sightlines, closeness through seating arrangements, and personality through art and objects with a story.
Emotion is not the opposite of considered design. It is one of its criteria.
When I think about interiors, I imagine them as beautiful, but above all truthful. They belong not only to the moment in which they are photographed, but to the people who go on living in them, embracing change, a little disorder, a new memory and the passage of time.
And perhaps that is the difference between an interior we admire and one in which we want to stay.