Interior: A Corner of the Cosmos
Sometimes, all it takes is a corner. Just one little space carved out with care—one corner that becomes an escape, a landing place, a world of its own.
That’s how this project began. A single corner in a small room, no more than a bed’s worth of space. But the request wasn’t small at all. The client—a dreamer with stardust in her spirit—knew exactly what she wanted, even if she didn’t quite know how to bring it to life. Her instructions were simple, and repeated like a refrain: “It’s like the night sky. It has to feel like the night sky.”
And so, we began there—with midnight.
The room was tight, and I could feel the frustration she must’ve felt. How do you make something this small feel cozy without becoming cramped? How do you dream big in a space that feels so…boxed in?
The answer, as it turned out, was to soften the box entirely.
We started by hanging long, gauzy curtains from the ceiling, letting them pool gently to the floor. They surrounded the bed like a canopy of clouds, draping the walls in a sense of softness that immediately changed everything. Suddenly the room didn’t feel like four walls. It felt like the inside of a wish.
The bed, tucked right against the window, became her place to stargaze. The wall behind it—painted that same deep, celestial blue—held the treasures of someone who lives between pages and planets. A hand-painted “man in the moon” watched over her sleep, flanked by her books and a weathered, beachy candleholder. It was quiet magic—nothing loud, just enough to feel like someone had told a story and left it lingering in the air.
Lighting became a language here. I wove string lights through the curtain fabric and across the wooden headboard, casting a warm, sleepy glow. Glass lanterns in the shape of stars dangled near the window—light enough to read by, but dim enough not to disturb a single dream. Hanging just inside the curtain was my favorite touch: delicate moon phase pendants, a soft tribute to her witchy heart.
The bedding, dyed to match the deep blue of the walls, seemed to disappear into the room. That illusion of space made everything feel a bit calmer, like a sky stretching out in all directions. And tucked among the covers was a small plush owl—her companion for the quiet hours—and a single nautical compass pillow, always pointing her home.
This wasn’t just a bed space. It was a little galaxy, made just for her.
And maybe that’s what I love most about design—not the big builds, or even the perfectly balanced rooms. But the corners. The ones filled with personality and hope and quiet wonder. The ones that feel like someone’s heart made visible.
