The Journal

Notes on Design & Living

3/25/26

The Human Scale of Vancouver

There’s a version of city living that feels overwhelming, anonymous, and disconnected, and then there’s the version that feels deeply human. The difference isn’t density itself, it’s how that density is designed. Downtown Vancouver gets this right. At first glance, it’s undeniably vertical. Glass towers rise quickly, stacking homes into the sky, compressing thousands of residents into tight urban footprints. But what’s remarkable isn’t the height, it’s what happens at the ground. Because all of that vertical living funnels life down to the street. More people living within a few blocks means more feet on sidewalks, more eyes on storefronts, more reasons for cafés to open early and stay late. It creates a kind of quiet, constant energy, the sort that doesn’t rely on events or perfect weather to exist. It’s just… there. And that’s the magic trick Vancouver pulls off, especially considering the climate. Grey skies, steady drizzle, and cool air would keep most places indoors. But here, people are still out, walking dogs, grabbing coffee, meeting friends, moving through the city as if the weather is just background noise. Why? Because the scale works. Podium-style buildings keep the lower levels approachable, often lined with shops, patios, and transparent storefronts. Streets feel enclosed, not dwarfed. Sidewalks are active, not empty corridors between towers. There’s a rhythm to it, residential above, human life below, that keeps everything connected. It’s density without disconnection. You don’t feel like you’re living in a machine built for efficiency. You feel like you’re part of something social, walkable, and alive. The proximity creates opportunity, not pressure. A quick walk turns into a coffee stop. A coffee stop turns into a conversation. A conversation turns into a sense of belonging. This is the real upside of dense urban living when it’s done right. It doesn’t just house more people, it creates more life per square foot. And in a world where cities are trying to solve for affordability, sustainability, and community all at once, Vancouver offers a pretty compelling argument. Go up as much as you want. Just make sure everything meaningful happens down below.

3/4/26

The Case for the Sleeping Pod: Rethinking the Modern Bedroom

I believe most bedrooms are larger than they need to be, and that this extra space often works against good sleep rather than supporting it. I didn’t come to this conclusion through theory or design trends. I came to it by sleeping better than I ever have. Why Smaller, Darker Spaces Feel Safer to Sleep In There’s a growing body of research around sleep environments that points to something surprisingly intuitive: humans tend to sleep better in spaces that feel enclosed, dark, and protected. From an evolutionary standpoint, this makes sense. Enclosed sleeping spaces signal safety. Reduced visual stimuli calm the nervous system. Darkness supports melatonin production and deeper sleep cycles. It’s why: People often sleep better in windowless hotel rooms Children gravitate toward bunk beds, tents, and forts Many adults crave heavy blankets, alcoves, and cocoon-like spaces A large, open bedroom, especially one filled with visual noise, can subtly keep the brain on alert. Turning a Closet Into a Sleeping Pod We decided to test this idea in our own home. Our upstairs bedroom was small and awkward, the kind of space that tries to be a bedroom first and fails at everything else. It had a walk-in closet that wasn’t particularly useful and a sleeping area that never quite felt restful. So we tried something unconventional. We moved our mattress into the walk-in closet. We painted the space a dark, moody green. We embraced the enclosure. We stopped thinking of the bed as the room and instead treated it as a sleeping pod. The result was immediate and surprising. We’ve never slept better. When Sleeping Becomes Secondary, the Room Gets Better Once the sleeping function moved into its own contained space, the rest of the room opened up, both literally and psychologically. Our former bedroom became something much more flexible: A comfortable seating area with a sectional couch An open closet system that’s easy to access and maintain Two large dressers with room to move around them A small office tucked into the dormer, filled with natural light Instead of being a room that existed solely to hold a bed, it became an oasis, a place to start and end the day gently. The bed didn’t disappear. It just stopped dominating the space. A New Model for the Bedroom What we discovered is that the traditional bedroom layout may be overdue for a rethink. If sleep benefits from: Darkness Enclosure Reduced visual stimulation Then perhaps the sleeping area doesn’t need to be the largest or most prominent part of the room. By separating sleep from everything else, you can: Reduce the overall bedroom footprint Improve sleep quality Gain more usable living space This approach is especially compelling in smaller homes, urban apartments, ADUs, and future-forward housing where every square foot matters. Designing for How We Actually Live (and Sleep) This isn’t about novelty or austerity. It’s about listening, to our bodies, our routines, and how spaces make us feel. By treating the bed as a function rather than a centerpiece, we allowed the room to support more of our daily life without sacrificing rest. In fact, rest improved. For us, the sleeping pod wasn’t a compromise. It was an upgrade. And it’s a reminder that sometimes the most powerful design move is not adding space, but reassigning it.

1/12/26

Why Human-Scale Homes Feel Better to Live In

I believe human-scale homes feel better to live in, not in theory, but in practice. I know this because our family of four spent a month living in a one-bedroom walk-up apartment in Berlin. By American standards, it was small. By every other measure, it was one of the best homes we’ve lived in. A Month in Berlin Changed How I Think About Space The apartment had: One bedroom A small bathroom A compact European kitchen with a mini refrigerator And one generously sized living room that held a dining table, a couch, an entertainment area, and a small entry that functioned as a mud room There was no excess. No unused rooms. No storage for things we didn’t need. Berlin is a deeply walkable city, so daily life extended beyond the apartment walls. Markets were nearby. Streets felt safe. Errands were part of a rhythm rather than a chore. What surprised me most wasn’t how manageable the space felt, it was how good it felt. We felt grounded. Connected. Calm. Scale, Proportion, and Psychological Comfort The apartment worked because it was designed around human behavior, not square footage. The living space was generous where it mattered, where we gathered, ate, talked, and spent time together. Private spaces were compact but comfortable. Circulation was intuitive. Nothing felt oversized. Nothing felt cramped. Everything felt intentional. That’s the essence of human-scale design: proportion that supports how people actually live, rather than how homes are often marketed. Smaller Spaces, Lower Stress Living in a right-sized home quietly reduces stress. There are fewer decisions to make each day. Fewer spaces to manage. Less visual and mental clutter. In Berlin, daily routines became simpler. Meals were easier. Tidying took minutes, not hours. The home supported life instead of demanding attention. The calm didn’t come from minimalism as an aesthetic, it came from clarity. How Human-Scale Homes Support Connection Something else happened in that apartment: we spent more time together. Shared spaces worked harder, so we used them more. Conversations happened naturally. There was no retreating to distant rooms or unused spaces. And beyond the apartment, the neighborhood became an extension of our home. Walks, markets, cafés, and parks weren’t destinations, they were part of daily life. Human-scale homes don’t just support connection inside the walls. They encourage it beyond them. A Different Definition of Comfort That month in Berlin challenged a lot of assumptions. Comfort wasn’t about size. Luxury wasn’t about excess. Safety and belonging came from proximity, to each other and to the city around us. When homes are designed at a human scale, they don’t ask us to fill them. They meet us where we are. This experience continues to shape how I think about space, proportion, and what it really means to feel at home, especially as we consider new ways of designing and delivering housing that fits naturally into walkable, connected communities.

1/6/26

Old San Juan and the Case for Cities That Choose People

I didn’t go to Old San Juan looking for lessons in architecture or urban planning. I went expecting color, history, and good food. What I didn’t expect was how strongly the city would reinforce something I’ve felt for a long time: we’ve largely forgotten how to design places that help people feel like they belong. Old San Juan doesn’t try to impress you. It doesn’t scale up, smooth out, or over-explain itself. It simply works, because it was built for people first. Walking its narrow, cobblestone streets, everything happens at a human pace. The buildings are close enough to create shade and enclosure. The blocks are short. The doors and windows are tall and proportional. Cars exist, but they’re clearly secondary. As a pedestrian, you never feel like you’re in the way, which is a surprisingly rare feeling in most modern cities. What struck me most is how intentional the architecture feels without being precious. These buildings wear their age openly. Cracks, stains, worn tiles, none of it is hidden. Instead of chasing perfection, Old San Juan embraces continuity. The city values cohesion over novelty, and as a result, it feels calm, confident, and deeply grounded. Balconies are everywhere, and they matter. They’re not decorative flourishes; they’re connective tissue. They allow residents to observe, participate, and engage without leaving their homes. They soften the boundary between public and private life, creating a streetscape that feels inhabited rather than staged. You don’t feel like you’re walking through a museum, you feel like you’re walking through someone’s neighborhood. And that’s the point. Old San Juan succeeds because it understands something we often ignore: community isn’t created through programming, branding, or density alone. It’s created through proximity, repetition, and scale. When you walk everywhere, you see the same faces. You pass the same doors. You begin to recognize patterns. Belonging grows quietly from familiarity. Texture plays a huge role here too. The uneven cobblestones, patterned tiles, thick walls, and deeply set windows all slow you down, physically and mentally. These materials demand presence. They remind you that design doesn’t need to be frictionless to be comfortable. Sometimes a little resistance is what makes a place feel real. What Old San Juan ultimately reinforces for me is that the missing-middle housing conversation isn’t really about unit counts or density targets, it’s about how those homes relate to the street, to each other, and to daily life. The city is full of buildings that would likely be classified today as “too dense” or “out of scale,” yet they feel anything but. That’s because they’re designed with restraint: shared walls, walkable blocks, active edges, and architecture that prioritizes people over vehicles. If we want to create attainable housing that people are proud to live in, and neighborhoods that feel like communities instead of developments, we need to relearn these fundamentals. Old San Juan doesn’t ask you to consume it. It asks you to move through it slowly, pay attention, and take part. And that may be the most opinionated thing architecture can do.

12/16/25

Neptune's Borough Kitchens: When a Kitchen Chooses to Behave Like Furniture

In November of 2024, I traveled to London to work with a client. Between meetings, I did what I always do in cities I love, I walked, wandered, and paid attention to the details that make everyday life feel considered. That’s when I first encountered brand Neptune, and what stood out to me were their thoughtfully designed and unique kitchen cabinetry lines. What struck me immediately was how different they felt. Not trend-driven. Not performative. They felt settled. Calm. Thoughtful. But it was only after spending time with their newest kitchen line, Borough, that I realized something more interesting was happening. A Quiet but Radical Shift Historically, Neptune’s cabinetry has used a baseboard-like plinth, a detail that lends weight, permanence, and architectural grounding. It’s a move that makes kitchens feel built-in, intentional, and lasting. Borough does the opposite. This collection completely steps away from that baseboard language and instead places cabinetry on slender legs, allowing the pieces to float lightly within the space. The result is subtle but profound: the kitchen no longer reads as fixed millwork. It reads as furniture. And that distinction matters. By removing visual permanence, Borough suggests that a kitchen is not a static installation, but a collection of well-made pieces that support daily life; adaptable, inhabitable, and human in scale. From Installation to Inhabitation When cabinetry behaves like furniture, the room changes. You see the floor plane. You feel lightness. You understand the kitchen as part of the living space, not a utility zone carved out of it. This approach makes particular sense in: Guest houses ADUs Pieds-à-terre Smaller primary homes In these environments, permanence isn’t about weight, it’s about fit. Borough kitchens don’t dominate a room. They participate in it. Integrated Appliances, Disappearing Utility Borough continues Neptune’s commitment to fully integrated appliances, refrigerators, freezers, and dishwashers tucked quietly behind oak fronts. But here, the integration feels different. Rather than reinforcing the idea of a “built-in system,” the appliances disappear so the furniture form can take precedence. What remains is a kitchen that feels calm, legible, and unburdened by technology. The effect is a quieter backdrop for daily rituals; cooking, gathering, lingering. Designed for Human-Scale Living This way of thinking aligns naturally with how many European homes, and cities, function. Smaller refrigerators. Less bulk storage. More frequent engagement with food, markets, and neighbors. When your neighborhood is walkable, there’s no need to warehouse groceries. Kitchens become spaces of daily interaction rather than logistical hubs. Borough feels designed for that rhythm, one rooted in proximity, routine, and restraint. A Kitchen That Knows Its Place What I appreciate most about the Borough collection is its confidence. It doesn’t try to prove permanence through mass. It doesn’t rely on architectural heaviness to feel important. Instead, it acknowledges that kitchens, like the lives lived around them, evolve. By behaving like furniture rather than fixtures, Borough creates space for adaptability, and for belonging. For us at Studio Faverty, that idea resonates deeply. We believe homes, and kitchens especially, should feel: Calm rather than commanding Considered rather than oversized Part of daily life, not set apart from it Borough captures that philosophy beautifully. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most meaningful design choice is knowing when not to anchor something forever.