I have always loved the houses of ex pats and travellers, even as a young child. Far from the white-washed instagram-perfect houses of the modern age, travellers houses always had things that to me exemplified life. Imperfect, cluttered, sometimes messy, sometimes clean, they always embodied the owners eclectic mix of items gathered throughout the world. Whether it be a chair bought in a flea market in Paris, a mask bought somewhere in Indonesia or Africa, or textiles from just about anywhere; these ‘things’ were often gathered up around the world and would then become a part of the lives and the memories of the ex-pats and travellers so that no matter where they lived reminders of their past lives, whether big or small carried with them. As a once quite peripatetic person myself my own aspirations towards a certain kind of minimalism get thrown out the door if it means getting rid of any of these parts of my past lives and wanderings. Home simply doesn’t feel like home without small sculptures and handmade machetes carried in my surf bags from Indonesia, a painting bought in Essaouira, Morocco for 25 dollars, or any number of other masks and textiles bought during my travels. While these things are certainly great catalysts for conversations or reminders of the places I’ve been, they are also things that make my place feel mine, and not simply some soul-less monochrome manse.