Crows, Windows & Other Things I Noticed

Hej, Design Lovers!

I just returned from Denmark, inspired, slightly jet-lagged, and still sorting through hundreds of photos while diving back into all the projects that carried on while I was away.

It was my first trip to Denmark, and I am resolved that it will not be my last. There was so much to see and, as always, far too little time to see it.

Travel has a way of sharpening the eye. Sometimes it introduces an entirely new idea. Other times, it helps me recognize a design principle I have been using for years.

This edition has a little of both, beginning with the giant crows I mentioned in the last Curated Edit.

Design Dispatch: Follow the Pattern

Last edition, I hinted at the giant crows I encountered while walking through downtown Portland. Not one to make promises lightly, here is the story.

​Wildwood: Follow the Crows is a public art trail featuring 30 identical six-foot crow forms, each interpreted by a different artist. The finished crows could not be more different in color, pattern, subject, and personality, yet their shared form makes them instantly recognizable as part of the same collection.

They are installed at key locations throughout Portland, giving people a reason to explore parts of the city they might otherwise pass by. The day I went searching for them, I ran into several school groups doing exactly the same thing. The sculptures will ultimately be auctioned, with proceeds benefiting OHSU Doernbecher Children’s Hospital.

I loved this project on several levels: the public art, the philanthropy, the citywide treasure hunt, and the way it demonstrates one of the principles behind a cohesive home.

What does a flock of giant painted crows have to do with interiors?

Glad you asked.

Repetition creates consistency and recognition. Variation creates interest.

Every crow begins with the same silhouette, but each artist tells a completely different story with it. Rather than making the collection feel disjointed, those differences make the repeated form even more apparent. There is cohesion without sameness.

A well-designed home works in much the same way. A recognizable thread might appear through repeated colors, shapes, materials, finishes, or patterns. The individual pieces do not need to match, but they do need something that allows them to speak to one another.

Some clients do this naturally without realizing it. More often, I need to identify and establish that connecting thread because it is the invisible thing that makes a space feel considered and cohesive rather than simply filled with individually beautiful things.

That same principle appears throughout Portland’s architecture: rows of windows, masonry details, structural grids, railings, paving, and signage.

Ignore my less-than-professional blue arrows for a minute.

This library building is a great example of pattern and repetition at work. Across the façade, the architectural elements are ordered and consistently repeated. But look at what happens above the doors. The established pattern changes, signaling to your eye that this part of the building is different.

You may not consciously register why, but the break interrupts the long façade and draws your eye directly to the entrance.

That is intentional design.

A repeated shape can connect furnishings from different periods. A consistent finish can carry the eye from one room to another. A recurring color can make an entire house feel related without making every space look the same.

Once that visual rhythm has been established, a thoughtful departure from it can create emphasis, establish a focal point, or distinguish one space from another.

That is the difference between something that feels intentionally distinctive and something that simply feels out of place.

Whether it’s crows or rows, repetition is one of the ways great design turns individual elements into a cohesive whole.

In the Mix: Built for the Light

Having just returned from Denmark (sigh), you know you are going to hear about it.

One of the things I noticed almost immediately was the light.

Or, more accurately, how much attention is paid to getting every bit of available natural light into a building.

I saw it everywhere: at the airport, in museums, in libraries, at the hospital we visited for my son’s follow-up study, and even at Finn Juhl’s home. Juhl was a Danish architect, but more notably, one of the country’s most celebrated furniture designers.

The buildings could not have been more different, but the approach was remarkably consistent: generous windows, long sightlines, views to the outdoors, and interiors positioned to take advantage of the available daylight.

Dokk1, the enormous public library and cultural center in Aarhus, was one of the more striking examples. This is not a hushed little library tucked into an old building. It is a large, multilevel public complex designed around people actually spending time there. And in a complete side note: has the largest automated parking underground structure in Europe- I saw it in action: drive in a stall, get out of your car, punch in your info then your car swiftly disappears underground in some very complex filing system. Very cool.

There are gathering spaces, areas for children and families, and multiple outdoor playgrounds that allow kids to move between inside and out when the weather cooperates.

The connection between indoors and outdoors is not incidental. It is part of how the building works.

Long before terms such as biophilic design entered the conversation, the best architecture responded to its environment.

And in Denmark, you really cannot ignore the environment.

I asked one of our guides about Seasonal Affective Disorder.

“Oh, seasonal depression. We all get it.”

He said it with approximately the same gravity you might use to say, “It rains here in the winter.”

Other Danes responded with much the same nonchalance. They do not deny it or spend much time dwelling on it. It is simply a fact of life.

Denmark sits far enough north that winter daylight is both limited and precious. When natural light becomes a scarce resource for part of every year, maximizing it is not merely an aesthetic preference. It affects how buildings are oriented, where windows are placed, how rooms relate to one another, and how easily people remain connected to the outdoors.

You see that thinking even at a much smaller scale.

Finn Juhl’s home, now preserved as part of the Ordrupgaard museum in the outskirts of Copenhagen, was completed in 1942. And looking at it from the outside, there is nothing that overtly screams architecture masterpiece. The house itself is relatively modest, particularly compared with the scale of his furniture’s reputation.

My boys thought it felt cold and stark.

I could see why they thought so. But look closer.

The windows are not simply openings in the walls. They frame the garden. The rooms are positioned in relationship to those views. Daylight moves through the house, while the landscape becomes part of what you see from inside it.

The architecture provides a restrained backdrop, but Juhl brings warmth and personality through wood, artwork, sculptural furniture, upholstery, painted surfaces, and deliberate uses of color.

There is considerably more happening than “minimal.”

And that distinction matters.

A successful home does not need to appeal equally to everyone who enters it. It does need to be deeply considered, internally consistent, and right for the people who live there.

Living in California, access to sunlight is a luxury I think we sometimes take for granted. We do not have the same climatic pressure forcing us to consider every available hour of daylight.

But the principle is no less valuable.

When I am evaluating a home, natural light is one of the first things I study, ideally before plans are finalized. Where does it enter? How does it change throughout the day? Which rooms receive it, and which architectural decisions are blocking it?

Furniture placement matters. Window treatments matter. Wall color and finish matter. Sightlines matter. Even allowing the eye to travel through a room toward a window can change how that room feels.

Before adding another lamp, recessed light, or decorative fixture, there is a more fundamental question:

Are we making the most of the light we already have?

Denmark’s stakes are higher.

When daylight is limited, you do not squander it.

Off the Clock: A Few Things I Learned in Denmark

If you missed the deeply personal reason that originally brought us to Denmark, I shared that story here.

Before leaving, my mom passed along The Year of Living DanishlyI read about two-thirds of it before the trip and finished the rest while I was there.

I have to admit that I am embarrassingly behind on any books that have come out in the last eight to ten years. I know this one came out more than a minute ago, so many of you may have already read it.

Most of my reading has been design related. When I go into something, I go ALL in.

Because I had very little concept of Danish culture before this trip, I was glad I read it. The book gave me a framework for starting conversations and asking questions, particularly because some of what I read seemed slightly unrealistic or exaggerated.

Turns out, not so much.

I found it surprisingly accurate, at least based on what I observed and the people I spoke with.

Here are a few decidedly non-design things I learned in Denmark:

1. The Danes love potatoes.

2. They also love hot dogs. Joe has just polished is off in this pic 😁

3. They like rules, politeness, and, apparently, clubs.

And I am not talking about dance clubs.

Physical fitness, support groups, singing, gardening, sports, hobbies: literally anything and everything. From what I could tell, everyone belongs to a few.

On my flight home, I sat next to a Danish man whom I quizzed about this, among other things. He excitedly told me that he is very involved in his tennis group. They even vacation together.

His wife belongs to a swim club that meets in the Baltic Sea every Saturday, even when it is frozen over.

Umm, no thank you.

But it confirmed what I had heard and seen throughout the trip: the Danes are purposeful about maintaining their social lives.

We saw groups gathering everywhere in the evenings as we walked through the cities. You could actually see them because, as previously discussed, windows- which are often floor to ceiling.

4. It is, on the whole, a very safe place.

We stayed in Denmark’s three largest cities: Copenhagen, Aarhus, and Odense. Aarhus and Odense are relatively small as “major cities” go, but Copenhagen is a proper capital city.

I was struck by how comfortable I felt walking around all three, including at night. There was plenty of activity, but I never felt uneasy.

Did having two strapping 6'4" sons with me contribute to that sense of security? Possibly. But I believe I would have felt safe just the same. Though perhaps a little more vigilant.

5. Danish wind is no joke.

Aarhus was particularly determined to make this point while we were there, but eventually I stopped pretending my hair and I were going to win.

Slicked back, put up, or under a hat.

Every. Single. Day.

Some battles are just not worth fighting.

If you are looking for a great book and want to learn more about the people in that part of Northern Europe, I highly recommend The Year of Living Danishly.

If you have already read it, let me know what you thought.

Until next time,

🤍

Lisa

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