When I travel, which I do at least a dozen times a year, I’m typically searching. I’m on the hunt for objects and details that might translate into my design work—things I can use to style, collect, or record for inspiration. Travel has shaped my life and my work in fundamental ways—I have lived largely in New York, LA and Malibu, and now partially in Costa Rica, with frequent trips to visit artisans, markets, and craft collectives in the Yucatan, Oaxaca, Morocco, Portugal, and Italy. I don’t take for granted that I’m able to move through the world as often as I do and am very grateful that this is a part of how I get to live.
Over time, though, I’ve noticed that I’ve stopped always rushing from place to place, and have grown more aware that I want to keep a fresh outlook—I want to continue to be amazed, to experience and connect with each place and the people I encounter. I approach my local explorations with respect, conscious of being in another culture, with eyes and heart open. To do this well, I create daily check-ins with myself, practices of awareness and creativity that help me stay rooted while remaining open—allowing space for play, discovery and surprise. It’s a little like my own adaptation of The Artist’s Way, the 1992 book and conscious creativity program by Julia Cameron. Of course, sometimes life and time pressures get in the way of doing these exercises fully, but I have found that regular practice not only makes me a better stylist and designer, but also a better traveler—allowing me to more fully process what I am experiencing, have a more positive impact on my surroundings, and bring home meaningful talismans that remind me of my global journeys.
Daily Grounding
Wherever I am in the world, I do the same 15-minute sequence in the morning to ground my physical body. It begins with a light lymphatic flush and tapping—my dear friend Nadia Narian always has some good tips and techniques, as does Bonnie Crotzer at The Floss, who can be an incredible guide into the fascia. For my own sequence, I incorporate gentle and fluid movements to wake up the body, such as neck rolls, cat-cows, child’s pose to up-dog. Awakening the body, lubricating the joints and preparing for the day.
Give Yourself Prompts
Each morning before heading into a new neighborhood or market, I write myself a note—on hotel stationery, the back of a matchbook, a crumpled receipt pulled from my pocket. The notes are simple: notice the color blue today; pay attention to recurring color pairings or repeating patterns; visit a museum and look closely at only 4 to 6 works of art. I love the idea of editing my own nervous system, filtering the noise, and really being discerning with the intake. For instance, in New York City, where I have just moved back after 7 years in LA, I might count how many feathers I see in a day—not living in the mountains of Malibu like I have been, this allows me to connect in some small way to the animal world.
As I walk and notice these things, I will sometimes take photographs—and then I will typically let it rest and not look at the result until the trip is over and I am home. During that rest, everything settles and finds its place, and insights emerge. That could look like an inspiration for a new design, a color I want to paint a room, a meal I want to recreate, a scent I want to incorporate in my home.
These are small intentions, a way of staying present and receptive. Not directives so much as permissions to fully receive the day—to remain connected to my creative and internal self while moving through places dense with stimulus and motion. To notice and then let it go.
Let Things Find You
Recently on a trip through Spain, Lisbon and Tangier, I had planned to jam a lot into 8 days, and so I consciously decided to walk the local markets without urgency. I resolved that I wouldn’t hunt down that one special thing; rather, I would allow it to find me. What surfaced wasn’t what I would normally have reached for—no perfect ceramic vessel, or stacks of vintage glassware, or woven pieces destined for a particular project or client. What appeared felt more personal, almost like small gifts meant just for me: a vintage necklace with two lion heads facing each other in the markets in Nice, a velvet jacket in the most delicious emerald green, a woven rope belt in the souk of Tangier.
That shift changed the rhythm of my days—I let them take shape on their own. I paid attention to what revealed itself rather than rushing or trying to extract something from every moment. It felt, in a way, like a love letter written inward.
Draw/sketch/write one thing a day
I like to illustrate one thing a day—a sketch, a watercolor, anything. For me it is generally always some sort of abstract flower, a shape or movement, or repetitive patterns that I may have noticed in an iron gate or cobblestones or tiles. I like to use hotel stationery, postcards or notebooks I’ve bought abroad, and I love that they instantly transport me to those places. The sketches are reminders of my ways of seeing the world: just one small thing, doesn’t matter what it is, just draw.
Who are you going to meet today?
Some mornings, before stepping outside, I ask myself, “Who am I going to meet today?” This opens the field so that an interaction with anyone, or the simplest of conversations—on the subway, in a taxi, getting a coffee—can be an opportunity for connection. It can be confronting, calming, surprising, or uncomfortable. It can lead to a sharing of one’s heart, or a great laugh. Regardless, I don’t wait for the opportunity to arise, rather allow whatever will come of the day be an opportunity to connect.
Use a soundtrack
Sometimes in a place, I will walk with music on for the entire day—and see how the playlist or tracks can change the mood or the story of the way I see and notice. I had the new Roaslía album on repeat during an entire afternoon in Madrid while wandering into museums, shops and cafes. The vibrancy and journey this album took me on was powerful, adding another layer to new discoveries while walking around a city. While in Tangier, a friend sent me the music of Imahran, a haunting mix of ancient and modern sounds, and I would listen in my room getting ready for the day, or on travel days in cars and airports. From there I did Spotify radio and discovered so many more vibrant artists from the region. When I play it at home while cooking or walking the streets of NYC, I am instantly transported back.
In a world where information constantly floods our systems, these practices help keep me steady at my core, open yet not overloaded. They create space for travel to reveal something new, not just intellectually, but how it lands in my body, heart, and my imagination. Rather than taking from a place, I try to stay receptive—to preserve the juice, the tenderness, the lasting resonance of discovery.
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