Travel is more than an escape for me—it is a means of refining perspective. As a designer, my role is toshape how people experience space, and few things expand that capacity quite like cultural immersion.
Whether walking the streets of Paris, studying the vibrancy of Jaipur, or quietly observing life in Little Havana, I’m reminded that inspiration does not always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it reveals itself in the most unassuming moments: a passerby’s effortless elegance, the fading patina on a historic façade, the hum of conversation in a neighborhood café. These encounters invite a kind of recalibration. They shift how we see, feel, and process the world around us. For anyone engaged in creative or sensory-driven work, that shift is vital.
You may recognize my work for its bold, forward-thinking aesthetic—one that balances drama with restraint, and opulence with precision. But design, at its best, is not just a personal signature. It’s a translation. No matter how refined a creative voice becomes, it must remain elastic. Because great design doesn’t begin with the designer—it begins with the person or story the space is meant to reflect. That’s why it’s essential to cultivate the ability to step outside of our own preferences and see through someone else’s lens.
Travel fosters this. It expands creative fluency, sharpens cultural literacy, and enriches your ability to listen with more than your ears. Whether you’re a designer working across borders or a client with global perspective, this kind of openness leads to deeper, more resonant work.
If you’ve ever returned from a journey and found yourself seeing your surroundings with fresh eyes, you know this feeling. Inspiration doesn’t always come from iconic monuments or Michelin-starred experiences—it often lives in the margins. In Milan, I’ve found it in the proportion of a doorway or the way shadow pools along an aging wall. In Dubai, it’s in the theatricality of scale and the uncompromising push toward the future.
And in Miami’s Little Havana, it lives in moments that are quietly electric: a café counter stained with time, the syncopated rhythm of dominos in Domino Park, the way two languages mix in a single breath. These impressions may not be quantifiable, but they are powerful. They teach us to appreciate rhythm, patina, and imperfection—and to consider how atmosphere is built through sensory layers.
One of the most valuable things travel teaches us is how to observe. Not passively, but with intention. When you move through unfamiliar environments, you start noticing things you might otherwise overlook. A tension between old and new. A surprising mix of materials. The pace of a neighborhood. These observations aren’t just for artists or designers. Anyone can benefit from the practice of looking more closely. Whether you’re sourcing pieces for a home, walking through a gallery, or choosing a hotel, understanding how to identify beauty—in contrast, in culture, in context—elevates your choices.
Luxury, too, begins to take on new meaning. It’s not just about material or brand. True luxury is contextual. It reflects place, story, and intention. In New York, that might mean the interplay of grit and glamor. In San Francisco, it could be serene minimalism warmed by natural light. The takeaway? Contrast doesn’t dilute design, it enriches it. Embracing duality, rather than avoiding it, opens the door to more sophisticated, emotionally layered spaces.
And for those who lead creative teams or work closely with clients, travel cultivates something essential: empathy. The more you engage with different ways of life, the more nuanced your understanding becomes. You begin to design not just for what’s seen, but for what’s felt. You start to anticipate needs, decode preferences, and find new ways to honor culture and identity without cliché. This level of intentionality is what elevates good design to great.
The most impactful spaces, I believe, are not the ones that impress at first glance. They’re the ones that linger. That quietly reveal themselves over time. And the ability to design for that type of experience comes from continually exposing yourself to the unexpected. Not just the celebrated or curated, but the beautifully ordinary. The things most people overlook. These aren’t simply visual references—they’re emotional cues. They shape how a room moves you.
“Every journey offers something of value. Not just inspiration, but realignment. A reminder to stay open. To seek out what’s unfamiliar. To build not from ego, but from experience. If you’re looking to cultivate a more intuitive sense of beauty—or design with greater emotional depth—start by observing how you move through the world. Let travel be more than a destination. Let it be a teacher.”
Because in the end, the goal isn’t just to design spaces that are visually compelling. It’s to create spaces that feel deeply considered, that hold memory, energy, and soul. And for that, there is no greater muse than the world itself.
