Volume 03 — Materials

Pif. Archives | Studio Journal

March, 2026

I do not know exactly when I first started noticing materials.

I know that as a child I noticed them constantly.

I remember being very young and walking through houses with my parents in Massachusetts when they were looking for their first home purchase. There was one house in particular with a large central staircase leading up to a second-story primary suite. The stairs were carpeted. At the top of the staircase sat a freestanding tub, and the carpet wrapped all the way around it.

Even then, I remember noticing it.

I remember wondering why someone would do that. Why they would bring carpeting so close to water. Why it felt wrong.

I also spent a lot of time on airplanes as a child. We went back to Russia every summer until I was around ten years old. I usually sat in the window seat, and I remember looking at the walls of the plane. I would trace the repeating texture with my eyes and wonder why they chose that particular finish. Why that pattern. Why that material.

I remember bowling alleys too. Those laminated tables that would look one way under normal light and another way when the blacklights came on. I remember noticing how strange and exciting that felt.

And then there was Russia.

The churches, the museums, the theaters, the stone streets, the worn steps.

My grandmother lived in a five-story walk-up on the outskirts of Moscow, and I remember paying attention to the stairs in that building. The worn edges of the steps. The way the stone had softened over time. The way thousands of footsteps had left evidence behind.

I think that is part of what I still respond to most strongly now.

Evidence.

Proof that something is real.

The materials that make me feel calm, grounded, and emotionally safe are almost always rooted in the natural world. Concrete with visible aggregate. Real wood with grain you can actually see and feel. Stone with variation and movement. Linen. Wool. Limewash. Brass.

When I see and touch these materials, there is a sense that they are telling the truth.

They are not pretending to be something else.

That matters more than people realize.

Any time I am in a home and I notice that the flooring is not actually what it is pretending to be, something in my body immediately goes on alert. Luxury vinyl plank that is trying to impersonate wood. Laminate that is trying to impersonate stone. Polyester that is trying to impersonate linen.

You know it is fake even if you cannot explain why.

Luxury vinyl plank may visually resemble wood from a distance, but it does not sound like wood when you walk across it. It does not feel like wood underfoot. It does not age like wood. It does not respond to light like wood. It does not smell like wood.

Your body knows that.

People do not have to be especially tuned in or design-conscious to feel that something is off. Most people just have not been taught to trust that feeling.

The same thing happens with polyester.

There have been so many times I have stayed in a hotel, an Airbnb, or a friend’s house and ended up under one of those polyester-filled comforters. They are always strangely thin, but somehow unbearably hot. You wake up sweating without even realizing you were overheating in the first place.

Then the second you throw the blanket off, the rest of the air hits your skin and you realize your body was uncomfortable the entire night.

A down comforter would not do that.

Linen would not do that.

Natural materials breathe. They regulate. They respond.

Synthetic materials often trap.

That is why real materials matter emotionally.

Because we interact with them every single day.

We touch them. Walk on them. Sleep in them. Lean against them. Open them. Hold them.

People have become more aware of plastics in food packaging and water bottles, but far fewer people are paying attention to the materials they are living inside of.

They should.

The materials in a home shape the way that home feels.

A material can be beautiful without being good to live with.

There are plenty of beautiful materials that are static, flat, and emotionally empty. A material that feels good to live with has stages. It changes. It softens. It patinas. It collects wear in a way that makes it feel more alive.

Nothing in life stays perfectly constant, and materials should not either.

The best materials age with us.

Wood becomes softer around the edges. Brass loses its shine. Stone develops wear patterns. Leather darkens. Linen wrinkles.

Those changes are not flaws.

They are evidence of life.

That’s why I am so drawn to real stone, real wood, real wallpaper made from natural fibers, limewash, plaster, linen, wool.

They all have texture.

Texture is one of the most important parts of how we experience a space.

Texture gives the eye somewhere to land.

It gives the brain something to process.

For neurodivergent people especially, there can be something very calming about seeing the grain pattern in wood or the variation in stone. It gives your mind something understandable to anchor onto.

That is very different from glossy drywall, plastic laminate, or perfectly smooth synthetic surfaces.

Those materials often feel blank. Or worse, performative.

There are so many homes now that are filled with materials pretending to be something else. Part of that is budget. Part of that is manufacturing. Part of that is capitalism and the pressure to keep up appearances.

And not every manufactured material is bad.

There are products I like. There are products that make sense. There are products that perform well.

But natural materials are still my first choice whenever possible.

Because when a material is fake, something gets lost.

There is a truth that disappears.

There is an honesty that disappears.

And there is often friction.

That friction shows up in small ways.

It shows up when a glossy tile floor reflects every strip of LED lighting throughout the room.

It shows up when sunlight bounces harshly off a polished surface.

It shows up when two materials meet awkwardly and your eye gets stuck at the transition.

It shows up when you walk through a luxury home full of expensive finishes and somehow it still feels hollow.

The homes are often beautiful in theory. The materials are expensive. The details are impressive.

But they are not resonant.

Yet again, they are designed from concept boards and spec sheets instead of from the perspective of the person living there.

There are too many transitions. Too many moments where materials crash into one another. Too many surfaces screaming for attention.

Nothing settles.

The body never relaxes.

That is why quiet luxury is often less about the visual and more about the feeling.

Real brass door hardware is quiet luxury.

You feel the weight of it in your hand when you open the door.

A real wood floor is quiet luxury.

Linen curtains moving with the breeze are quiet luxury.

Stone worn smooth by years of use is quiet luxury.

Wood-look tile is not quiet luxury.

It is performative.

Imperfect materials make spaces feel more human.

Humans are not perfect.

We dent. We scratch. We soften. We age.

Our homes should be allowed to do the same.

The materials we surround ourselves with should feel honest.

They should feel tactile, and they should tell the truth.

Because the body knows when something is real.

And it knows when something is pretending.