There was a story on the radio a few years ago about a study at UNC where researchers asked children to draw their homes. Providing no other prompts, the children's drawings often went beyond the typical square house with a triangle roof, incorporating personal details like toys, family members, or unique features of their homes. The researchers studied the connection between what the children drew and their emotional attachment to those spaces. They were able to demonstrate how our living environments shape our sense of identity—an impact that we carry with us into adulthood.

A recent drawing by my son

This makes complete sense. We’re often drawn to certain spaces or housing styles because they feel familiar and comfortable. If I were to draw my childhood home, there would be at least three versions, depending on the season. With divorced parents, my sister and I had a somewhat nomadic childhood, moving between different homes and staying with various family members. This was nothing traumatic; in fact, I now see it as a bonus, having been exposed to different ways of living.

During the week, we stayed with my aunt Helen and uncle Saïd while my mom worked at the hospital. Helen’s house was filled wall to wall with eclectic art, and we spent our days drawing, painting, or playing in her garden. My Moroccan uncle, Saïd, exposed us to French, Islamic, and African cultures. I remember the first time he gave us couscous, explaining how in his childhood home in Casablanca, meals were shared from a communal platter, eaten with hands and bread while sitting on floor cushions. I quickly learned that a dining room doesn’t always involve tables, plates, or silverware.

Summers were spent in Brevard, NC, at my grandparents’ mid-century home, complete with a conversation pit and floating staircase. We attended summer camp, explored nearby trails, and swam in the lake. My grandmother, often found painting on the back porch, kept the windows and doors open to the outdoors, allowing the mountain air (and animals…) to flow in.

Holidays were spent in Southport, Connecticut, with my paternal grandmother, Nonny. A quintessential New England town, Southport had stone walls lining the streets, houses separated by horse pastures, and an undeniable sense of history. We spent days swimming, riding horses, watching sailboat races, and performing skits with our cousins. It was here I learned about my great-grandparents, Cameron and Agnes Clark—an architect and landscape architect duo whose designs shaped many homes and gardens in Fairfield County. Driving around with Nonny, an incredible artist in her own right, she would tell us stories about the buildings and grounds her parents had designed, from a small chapel, the town hall, my Dad’s childhood home to Helen Keller’s home.

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If we weren’t staying at someone’s house, we were traveling. My sister and I joke now that we rarely went on trips meant for kids. Instead, my mom, aunt, and grandmother took us to museums, art galleries, antique stores, and garden tours; whether in Charlotte, D.C., or abroad. It was on our first trip to France that I became drawn to architecture. We visited my great uncle Mark in St. Denis, who lived in an old French farmhouse with a modern glass-and-steel addition. He was a talented landscape designer, known for his work at the Palais Royale and Giverny, his home and extensive gardens are a testament to his talent and creativity. Being there encouraged me to study abroad, where I continued to experience European culture and study architecture.

So, saying I grew up around creative people would be an understatement. Whether it’s genetics or just the environment I was raised in, I hope I have a fraction of their talent. Their influences shaped me tremendously, though I didn’t fully realize it until I began practicing architecture on my own. Whenever I am in doubt of something, it gives me confidence to think of them and trust my instincts and my education.

In grad school, I was introduced to modern architecture, where I learned the importance of a strong concept and intentional design decisions. I thought that to be successful I needed a strong portfolio, which meant working tirelessly in studio. It paid off, I earned the grades, the awards, and jobs at the best firms in town.

However, while modernism dominated my education, I came to realize that a house doesn’t necessarily need to adhere to a specific aesthetic. During the COVID-19 pandemic, as people began reassessing their homes, friends sought my help with design projects. Their tastes leaned more traditional, so I found myself designing in a classical style somewhat organically. I learned quickly that traditional design can be just as thoughtful and intentional as a contemporary one, and now I love to do both.

I often find myself referencing places, memories, or experiences in my work, creating designs that are enriched by the diverse influences that have shaped me, and it is my goal to do the same for my clients. While it may be easier, and cheaper, to purchase a pre-designed floor plan or a spec house, these options often lack the je ne sais quois that makes a home unique, the essence that reflects those who live there. Architects, in many ways, act as therapists; extracting details from clients to understand their needs, and creating spaces that connect to their experiences. If I can design environments that are tailored to each client, rooted in their personal stories, while also making the spaces beautiful and functional, I’d consider that a job well done. Ultimately, I aim to bring an emotional connection to every project, helping clients create homes that resonate with their own memories and lives, much as my own homes and experiences have influenced me. 

Final Thesis Presentation