The most intimidating part of creative directing across different brands is the uncertainty — having to commit to a direction before you can prove it works. It’s also the part I love most — the chance to tell stories through a language of glazes and glassware, spatulas and ceramics, and to see what resonates.
Our roster stretches from high trend to opening price points, each brand speaking in its own character — cookware leans one way, dinnerware another, flatware completely in its own lane. But beneath it all, there’s one shared vocabulary: color.
Every spring, the time comes for me to merge style and strategy, piecing together our seasonal palettes. What was once an obligation has evolved into a ritual: I stand at my desk, plucking hues from a booklet, lifting one tone, then another, holding them to the light before setting them aside — until I migrate to the floor and find myself surrounded.
Paper Pantone chips scatter in every direction, sliding against one another, overlapping at the corners, until I’m sitting in the middle of it — a wave of color crashed across the carpet in vibrant disarray.
Hue by hue, each brand begins to take shape. At times, curating color feels like walking in the dark — each strip a step forward without knowing exactly where it leads. But if we stop moving, if we wait for certainty to arrive, we risk standing still — stuck in yesterday’s colors.
This time around, I sifted through cut-outs from home magazines for inspiration. There were photos from the trade show in Frankfurt last February, where next season’s trends begin to reveal themselves. And snapshots from Paris with Tyler — my cousin and business partner, who treats product development like an art form.
We explored every inch of the city, from the smallest boutiques to the grandest department stores — halls of product that felt more like museums or cathedrals than places to shop.
I swiped through my phone under office fluorescents, and with each passing frame, certain hues resurfaced. Textures reemerged. Patterns echoed, conversing with each other — until each palette carried traces of where I’ve been and what I’ve felt. Gradually, they found form.
Then it became impossible to ignore — across the Dutch ovens, terracotta trays, and napkin rings glowing on the screen before me, one color kept surfacing again and again: Sage.
There was a vibrance to its presence — a coy insistence urging me forward. So I followed it, pulling in tones and instinctively placing them among the palettes on the floor. The bits of sage settled beside deeper hues and softer neutrals — and as I moved them around, pieces that once felt dissonant began to connect.
In those same weeks that I developed our trend forecast at work, I found myself checking another forecast just as often at home — the weather.
Throwing a pool party in April in Los Angeles is always a bit of a gamble. The weather here can be even more unpredictable than Pantone’s next Color of the Year reveal. So I rolled the dice and hosted an intimate celebration for my 32nd birthday.
Wet bathing suits glistened, coconut sunscreen and Aperol margaritas flowed between us, and my backyard bloomed to the bass. The sky breathed, and the only clouds in sight were there for decoration.
Down the driveway and through the back gate, friends continued to arrive, carrying pieces of the day with them. Flowers wrapped in paper, bottles tucked beneath arms: Nina came with marigolds. Elan brought mezcal. Lauren surprised me with a cake, candles flickering over a toddler photo of me preserved in frosting.
And tucked at the bottom of Roxy’s wine bag sat a bundle of dried sage. I reached in and pulled it free — the ribbon tied around the leaves came undone, and the sage exhaled into my hand.
I rolled it in my palm before lighting one end. Smoke curled upward, briefly veiling the sun. I walked around and waved the sage through the garden before letting it rest in a bowl on the bar.
In the shade, off-white umbrellas rested on the lawn, and underneath them, we lay — brushing grass from our backs as we rose with the music.
I hung disco balls from my avocado tree last summer and never took them down. And in their glow — somewhere between Britney and the bougainvillea, smoke and sun — we danced under last year’s decision, welcoming whatever came next.
For weeks, sage had existed only as a color, one that I analyzed and forecasted. But here, surrounded by friends at 32, it took on a different life. What had lived in palettes now moved through the air, unbound and alive — no longer something to arrange, but something to follow.
Maybe it starts this way.
Perhaps we have to set fire to what’s already dried at the edges, to let something new begin.
Eventually, night settled in. The DJ unplugged his cords as we made our way inside, leaving remnants of the day behind us: cups and blankets scattered across the lawn, towels draped over chairs, confetti caught between the bushes.
The remaining eight of us drifted into the kitchen for more cake. We stood around my island, forks cutting into the frosting, finishing what was left in the pan.
Just beyond the kitchen, the scenery was different: wood samples rested on the floor, paint swatches spread across the table, and blue masking tape marked new shapes on the walls. I was reworking the room next door, pulling apart my former office to make way for a bar.
The room, once a place for structure — a desk, a schedule, decisions made under bright light — was now peeled back to its core to make space for gathering.
Grey wallpaper had come down in sheets, leaving the walls raw. In its place, a Roman Clay finish would take hold, giving the room a depth it hadn’t carried before.
Walnut cabinets were claiming their place, anchored by marble, grounding the room. Shelves followed, measured to hold vinyl — a space for music and art to live, too.
Bit by bit, the room shed what it once was.
With the walls stripped bare, I knew I needed to give them color again — one that felt familiar. A tone that had already been finding its way into everything around me. A shade of green that didn’t demand attention, but held it quietly once it was there.
I explained it all to my friends in the kitchen — how the ceilings would be painted to match the walls, drenching the room in color. The lights would shift next, becoming lower and warmer — the kind of glow that invites you to stay.
We all stood in the doorway longer than we meant to, discussing what the room would become. Eric leaned against the frame, Arianna still holding a fork, plates half-finished behind us.
We started talking about summer, and all the nights we’d share in that space came alive in conversation — evenings that hadn’t happened yet, songs not yet played, glasses not yet filled or spilled. The room was unfinished, the plans not fully set — and yet, everything felt strangely certain.
In that moment, the ones I had let inside made it all feel closer.
And soon enough, only crumbs were left.
