Today, I look back on those early projects and see the emergence of a voice that had started when I was a child playing in the hay barns of my home, Hushpuckena in the Mississippi Delta. I was amazed watching shafts of light cut through the dust forming what appeared as actual columns. That voice was sharpened at university under the demanding eye of Professor Malcolm, a staunch British modernist, and then refined through years working with the late great Frank Welch, who could make a minimalist house feel like a beautiful memory. Decades of listening live in every space I craft, every material I choose.

Over these 25 years, so many thoughtful clients have taken my thinking to places I never imagined. We’ve taught each other that real design happens when both sides are fully invested. The real joy is when a client invites you to understand not just what they want, but why they want it. They challenge me to give form to ideas they haven’t quite found words for yet.

At its best, architecture doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t shout. It holds. A house that holds memory is quiet, thoughtful, and confident enough to step aside—so that life can fill the space. The projects I’m most proud of are the ones where, years later, clients tell me they still feel something special every time they walk in the door. That’s the measure of success; not the awards or square footage, but that feeling a client has every time they come home.