ISSUE NO. 59

An October Issue

The story of Basquiat, like many artists before him, is fascinating—not just for the work, but for what the world did with the work. We turned the urgency of his expression into a collectible, the rawness of his life into provenance. His chaos became currency.

Some days I think we’re preserving art because we’ve lost the plot. The museums, the retrospectives, the endless auctions—they all hum with a kind of grief disguised as admiration. We’re not just protecting art from time; we’re protecting ourselves from what time reveals.

Maybe we keep preserving because we don’t know how to keep creating with the same conviction. It’s easier to archive passion than to live it.

ARCHITECTURALLY CURIOUS

Brick and Breath, Work

There’s something meditative about this courtyard—a dialogue between brick and light. The walls, built from locally fired brick, are punctured with geometric precision, letting air and sun weave through in measured rhythm. The shifting shadows transform the static wall into a breathing surface, each brick projecting a quiet rebellion against uniformity. It’s choreography—of materials, temperature, and time.

A Language of Continuity

Four distinct brick volumes rest on the site with grounded clarity. The arrangement follows the terrain’s natural slope, embracing a mature tree as both anchor and witness. Each structure carries its own rhythm—some circular, others rectilinear—yet all speak the same architectural language of repetition, depth, and restraint. The variation in brick coursing catches the sun at different angles, tracing time across the surface. The home feels less constructed and more unearthed, like it’s always belonged to this piece of land.

When Shadow Becomes Structure

The trellised roof filters sunlight into patterned lines that move across the floor, shifting with the hour. Dark and light tiles intersect in a geometric field, creating visual dialogue with the brick façade beyond the glass.

What emerges is an atmosphere of calm complexity—an architecture that teaches stillness through movement. Standing here, you sense that design doesn’t end at form—it continues in the quiet choreography of shadow, wind, and time.

GLOBAL GLIMPSE

The Threshold

Behind a lacquered door studded with oversized wooden spheres, the powder room unfolds like a whispered secret. A sculptural vanity with turned legs stands beneath a wash of bronze-brown walls, painted with silhouettes of flowers that seem to grow in the dim light. The brass fixtures glow softly, and the geometry of the room feels dreamlike—structured yet romantic. Even the floors, arranged in herringbone oak, appear to lead you inward, one deliberate step at a time.

The Room That Breathes

Beyond the door, daylight filters through sheer curtains, pooling gently on parquet floors. Built-in shelves hover like punctuation marks between creamy plaster and warm woodwork. Every object—a terracotta pot, a carved chair, a folded textile—feels intentionally paused, as though the space itself is inhaling. The palette is hushed: clotted cream, soft coral, and honeyed oak, with the kind of quiet luxury that comes from restraint.

Passage of Stillness

In the dressing corridor, arched thresholds frame mirrored reflections wrapped in wooden beads—an echo of the entry’s tactile rhythm. Hand-painted florals climb the panels, subtle and imperfect, like pressed petals in an old book. Lighting is minimal, almost devotional, so the eye drifts toward texture and touch. This is design as memory—intimate, slow, and profoundly human, a reminder that serenity often hides in the details.

VISUAL COMFORT

Language of Stone

Up close, the surface feels alive — mineral veins flowing like rivers trapped in motion. What looks cold reveals warmth in its palette: rose, ivory, and smoke pressed together by time.

Each curve feels intentional, yet untouched, as though the earth itself shaped it mid-breath. Storms allows marble to speak its native language — one of erosion, compression, and pause.

In Storms’ world, weight is not a burden but a question. Standing before it, you start to wonder whether gravity holds the piece — or if the piece holds gravity still.

MUSICAL INTERLUDE

What I'm Listening to in October

If one creative’s genius was born from restlessness, what does it mean that another’s is born from preservation—I’ll see you next week, my friend.

Warmly,
/shane