Taste is survival.

In a world designed by committees and algorithms, having taste means having an immune system. It protects you from mediocrity. It keeps your spaces human.

Good taste isn’t about matching throw pillows or quoting mid-century saints but rather, paying attention. It’s about curiosity and nerve. You see something, you feel something, you decide whether it belongs. That’s it.

The problem is that we’ve outsourced taste. We let the scroll decide. We confuse exposure for discernment. Suddenly every home looks like a search result.

In the studio we’re consciously trying to rehabilitate the word. Taste should be personal, opinionated, even a little reckless and the difference between living with things that move you and living in a mood board.

We like when people break their own rules intelligently. A rough concrete wall next to a silk curtain. A lowbrow print in a perfect frame. Those collisions are alive. They’re proof that someone cared enough to make a choice.

We see having taste functioning as being willing to make mistakes on purpose. The most memorable rooms have flaws that reveal intent, such as a visible patch, a mismatch that sings.

Taste also has a moral component. It rejects waste. It respects the maker. It values longevity over novelty. When you pick a piece that will still matter in twenty years, you’re saying you believe in continuity. That belief is cultural glue.

So really, the opposite of taste isn’t bad taste. It’s indifference.

We encourage clients to use their taste the way artists use instinct: to filter, to commit, to sign their work. Every home, every studio, every restaurant with a soul has fingerprints all over it. That’s what makes it alive.

You don’t need permission to have taste. You just need attention, humility, and a point of view.

So yes, use your taste. Loudly. Badly. Brilliantly. Whatever it takes to keep the world interesting.

Use Your Taste

Beauty Deserves Better