One of the great joys of design is that the most meaningful pieces rarely arrive through a linear process.

Over the years, I've begun to recognize a pattern. At the start of a project, small clues begin to appear. An image. A conversation. A place. An object glimpsed unexpectedly while traveling. Sometimes they seem entirely unrelated to the project at hand, yet they carry a feeling that is unmistakable.

I've come to think of them as breadcrumbs.

When my youngest daughter graduated from college, my dear friend Bryce and I her in Paris. Bryce had lived there before moving to Austin, speaks French fluently, and knows the city intimately. On our first day, we met near our apartment on Île Saint-Louis. Since it was too early to check in, we left our luggage at a nearby restaurant and set out walking.

We wandered past Notre-Dame, still under restoration, and through the market streets overflowing with spring produce. The fraises des bois were in season—tiny wild strawberries whose name translates to "strawberries of the woods." Intensely fragrant and impossibly flavorful, they seemed to contain all of spring in a single bite. We bought a pint and ate them as we went, laughing about how it felt as though we had never really tasted a strawberry before.

Paris has a way of heightening the senses. Everything seemed more vivid.

Later that afternoon, the windows of Zèbres Gallery caught our attention. We stepped inside and spent time with Antonin, the owner, exploring the collection.

One piece immediately stopped me.

It was Monopati, a sculptural piece composed of porcelain and knotted twine—part shell, part vessel, part living form. In an instant, a new client came to mind. The project was located in California, and the piece carried exactly the spirit I had been searching for: organic, unexpected, and deeply connected to place.

I sent photographs and a video.

The answer was yes.

We had only just begun the project, yet something about the piece felt inevitable.

It happens more often than I can explain.

Certain objects arrive with a feeling attached to them. They seem to carry the DNA of a project long before the project itself is fully understood. When that happens, I've learned to pay attention.

I've also learned to pay attention to my goosebumps.

They tend to appear when the pieces begin to align. Sometimes it's a paint color. Sometimes it's a work of art, a material, or a room layout. Sometimes it's the moment a project suddenly starts speaking the same language. I don't fully understand why they happen, but over the years I've learned they are usually worth noticing. More often than not, they signal that we're on the right track.

After more than two decades of practice, I've come to recognize these moments as the Goldilocks moments—the point where a client, a project, and an object align in a way that feels completely right.

Design is often thought of as a process of solving problems, but for me it is equally a process of listening.

The work unfolds through conversations, research, travel, art, architecture, and observation. The pieces that ultimately define a project often appear long before there is any logical reason they should.

The challenge is not finding them.

The challenge is recognizing them when they appear and trusting them enough to follow the next breadcrumb.

*Monopati installed in Sonoma on Sofa Table*

A perfect pairing: Monopati and Velasquez

— Laura

Following the Breadcrumbs

No Separation