Hello.

I'll start with the name, because people ask.

When I was working in marketing at Coty Beauty in New York, the office address was One Park Avenue. I always loved that — something about the simplicity of it stuck with me. Years later, when I was thinking about what to call my studio, I knew I didn't want to use my own name. I'm not great at talking about myself. But I remembered that address, and I thought — what if I did something like that, but rooted it here?

One Park Avenue in NYC

Madrona trees are everywhere in the Pacific Northwest. They're distinctive — peeling bark, that deep rusty terracotta color, the way they twist. I've always loved them. So One Madrona felt right. A little bit New York, a little bit very specifically here.

That tension — between the places I've been and the place I'm from — is probably a good way to introduce myself.

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, then went to New Hampshire for college and later for my MBA, lived in New York, spent time in Buenos Aires, moved around. Along the way I worked in banking, then in fragrance marketing at L'Oréal and Coty Beauty, then spent a long run at Nordstrom where I eventually ran shoe marketing for the whole company. Those were good careers. I learned a lot from all of them — about taste, about quality, about understanding what people actually need rather than just what they ask for.

But design was always the thing running underneath. When I was in New York I'd spend weekends in the wholesale fabric and upholstery districts just because I liked being around good material. I sketched for fun. I have always had strong feelings about rooms.

So when I went back to school and got my master's certificate in interior design — color theory, space planning, kitchen and bath — and then started One Madrona, it wasn't a surprise to anyone who knew me. It was more like — oh, right. Of course.

A few things I believe about design, for what it's worth:

• It should fit how you actually live, not how a room looks on a screen. The most beautiful room that doesn't work for your life isn't good design.

• Good design doesn't always require spending a lot. IKEA has its place. So does a well-made piece you keep for twenty years. The job is knowing where it makes sense to put the money and where it doesn't.

• Sometimes the best thing you can do to a room is take something out of it. More isn't always more.

• And the work of a good designer is really editing — doing the work of narrowing things down so you're making real decisions, not drowning in options.

The places I've lived have all left something. New England taught me to appreciate things that are built to last — classic, unpretentious, better with age. New York taught me about scale and confidence in a space. Buenos Aires has a real design culture — Haussmann-influenced architecture and European elegance, but grounded by something more organic that comes from the landscape and the way people live there. I carry all of that into how I see a room.

I'm based in Olympia, and most of my work is here in the South Puget Sound. I grew up around the mid-century ramblers, the Craftsmans, the simple ranch houses that have character and good bones. I love working with homes that have a history, and I love helping people figure out how to make a space finally feel like theirs.

If any of this resonates and you're thinking about a renovation, a room, or just a home that isn't quite working — I'd love to talk. No pressure, just a conversation.