Can You Hear the Walls?
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Why do you always leave your clothes on the dining chair?
Why do you keep piling books on the sofa? Where are we supposed to sit?
This isn’t an argument, just the everyday mechanics of two people sharing an apartment.
A couple rarely divides a room evenly.
One takes over the kitchen, the other the bedroom. One turns the living room into a second office, the other fills the study with boxes.
Even the balcony becomes contested ground: plants versus chairs, solitude against company.
Every setting develops its own temperament.
Every corner demands compromise.
It is in these small exchanges that a space acquires its character, a layering of habits, needs, and personalities pressed into its fabric.
Do you wish it were more minimal?
Sometimes, but then it would feel like a hotel. Perfect. And empty.
That is the paradox.
Time passes. Children arrive. Adjustments multiply.
Toys creep under tables. Posters climb partitions. Shoes pile up.
You think you will sort it out later, repaint, reorganize, restore balance. But you don’t.
Because somewhere you know these details are not flaws. They are proof of life moving forward.
Then the kids leave. Sleeping quarters grow quieter but not bare.
They hold the memory of slammed doors, whispered secrets, homework abandoned, music too loud, beds left unmade.
The rooms remember.
But not everything endures.
Some things fade or are deliberately removed: toys donated, ceilings repainted, shelves finally cleared.
Others resist every attempt at erasure: a scratch on the dining table, a dent in the wall, a drawer that never closes properly.
A dwelling becomes a blend of what we preserve and what we release, and that tension gives it depth.
Later, you return to your parents’ house.
One of them is gone, but both remain.
In the stack of letters never sorted. In the cake tin that still carries a scent no one can reproduce. In the gestures you suddenly recognize in yourself.
What once looked like disorder reveals itself as continuity, habits and echoes that shape the way we inhabit our environments.
Interiors are never still.
Even when we plan every detail, life interrupts. A new job. A child. A sudden absence.
Good design does not resist these shifts, it absorbs them. It allows the framework to move with us without losing strength.
This is where design becomes essential.
Not by erasing evidence. Not by imposing order.
But by making space for it and ensuring the architecture can endure.
A thoughtful approach accepts difference, anticipates change, and adapts while retaining clarity.
At Reno, this principle guides us.
We see living environments not as static images but as evolving systems, resilient enough to sustain gestures, objects, and stories across generations.
Our work balances permanence with adaptability, creating worlds that last yet remain open to transformation.
Design, at its best, is a dialogue between past, present, and future.
What defines a place is not its initial precision, but its ability to support the lives unfolding inside it, turning it into a vessel for both permanence and possibility.
Homes remember. And so do we.
