I’ve spent what feels like lifetimes in project meetings. Endless hours at tables surrounded by developers, architects, designers, structural and mechanical engineers, attorneys, bankers, PR pros, branding gurus, and real estate agents. The cast of characters changes, but the agendas? Those rarely do. The developer and banker? They’re laser-focused on profits. The architect? A statement piece. The agent? Homes that sell fast. And me? I’m the one trying to align it all—herding egos that range from barely there to Mount Everest. Some decisions crawl out of long, soul-sucking committee debates. These are rarely the good ones. Then there are the moments of brilliance—monumental calls made in mere minutes by a single person—that shape entire projects and, often, entire lives. Those moments are maddening, exhilarating, and sometimes downright magical.
One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned in all these hours came from the brilliant architect Anabelle Selldorf. In a meeting, she once said:When I design a building, I start with this question: What is the experience of arriving home, before you ever step inside? It’s a simple thought. Yet, it’s transformative. That one question can define a project more than the layout, renderings, or even the fanciest finishes. We spend hours obsessing over stone types, amenity lists, and where the light hits the lobby, but how often do we really stop to consider how it feels just to arrive? Not enough.
Coming Home
I’ve lived in gritty urban neighborhoods and quiet suburban enclaves, and I’ve seen firsthand how much the arrival experience shapes daily life. Right now, few things make me happier than pulling into my gravel driveway and seeing our sprawling magnolia tree come into view. The crazy grasshopper weather vane atop my barn (yes, barns exist 16 miles outside of New York City—who knew?) welcomes me home.
In spring and summer, my wife’s massive vegetable garden greets me as I climb the steps into our 138-year-old home. By the time I’ve opened the door, I’m already happy to be there.Sometimes, the streetscape elevates everything. I used to love turning onto West 9th St from Fifth Avenue and enjoying the leafy block before climbing the brownstone steps. Other times, the house is simply a refuge from what’s outside. This would describe some of the apartments my mom and I lived in around Johannesburg. And the kicker? The value of this experience isn’t always tied to the price of the home.
Building Back
What’s happening in Southern California right now—entire communities devastated—is a stark reminder of how fragile and precious our environments are. The people there will rebuild—they always do. But here’s the thing about Angelenos: they understand that a home isn’t just about what’s inside its walls. It’s about the feeling of the neighborhood, the care and attention to the beauty and peace surrounding it.
This is a city built by dreamers and storytellers, and I have no doubt they’ll rebuild in ways we can’t yet imagine. They’ll create spaces that are not only more beautiful but more valuable—not just in dollars but in how they make people feel. Because here’s the truth: a little money and a lot of care can create beauty. And that beauty, when nurtured with thought and intention, can create value far beyond the numbers. Home is the whole picture, not just what's inside. That’s the lesson we should carry forward.
Side Bar
Next week, the world will look entirely different. I feel that way most weeks because change is constant, but this one seems bigger. A new and very different government will take the reins of our country. TikTok—the $50 billion algorithm—might disappear in a flash. And in Israel and Gaza, there’s hope that hostages could be freed, even if only for a pause in the conflict. Weeks like this call for perspective. Questlove posted a tribute to David Lynch today, reflecting on his emphasis on self-care. Maybe that’s the key when everything feels like it’s shifting beneath us—taking a moment to reset, to breathe, and to remember that the picture isn’t just about the frame—it’s about the space it hangs in, too.
Let's do this,
Shaun