on the burden of caring about tea towels

my career as a visual director ended exactly how you’d expect—with a ‘philosophical disagreement’ about the mineral density of a ceramic glaze and an nda i’m still technically bound by.

i used to spend my tuesdays arguing about the exact shade of ‘bone’ for a catalog that would eventually end up in a landfill. then life happened. julian (my husband, the pragmatist) got a job offer in the suburbs, and suddenly i traded my pre-war walk-up for a ‘luxury’ unit that feels like a high-end dentist’s office.

hearth dweller is my way out.

i’m not here to give you ’10 tips for a tidy home.’ i’m here to deconstruct the materials that make life worth living. i’m looking for the immortal objects—the cast iron that outlives the mortgage, the linen that actually understands the human body, and the games that make us put the phones in a different room.

it’s a rescue mission. i’m building a sanctuary in a world of plastic slop, and i’m taking notes as i go. julian thinks i’m over-invested. i feel like i’m just finally paying attention.

welcome to the reconstruction.