This is the first in a new blog series I’ve been building toward for a while. Think of it as a creative sketchbook—where I collect the images, textures, and materials that resonate with me and begin to unpack why. It’s inspired by the ideas in Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon, especially the reminder that inspiration isn’t theft—it’s transformation. The way you interpret a shape, a texture, a tone… that becomes the start of your own voice.
This Swipe File series is where I begin that translation: pulling in references, looking closely, and imagining how they could ripple into something of my own—as a designer, a homeowner, and a creative working across different mediums.
Here’s what’s been catching my eye this season—and what it’s opening up for me.
1. Typography That Speaks Without Explaining
This family print is deceptively simple. Just numbers—birth years stacked in soft, clear type—but it holds the entire emotional weight of a lineage. It doesn’t shout “sentimentality,” but it feels personal, grounded, and proud. I love the restraint: no icons, no quotes, no embellishment. Just time, and space.
What really excites me is the potential to translate this into a different medium. I keep imagining it as an embroidered wall hanging—stitched in thick, tonal thread on raw linen, the numbers barely contrasting but clearly present. Or etched into a slab of clay, kiln-fired to imperfection. It reminds me that design can honor memory in quiet, lasting ways—and that typography, when given enough room, is art.
As a designer, it’s also making me think differently about wall decor for clients: what if timelines, addresses, or family details were integrated into surfaces or textiles—not framed separately, but embedded in the architecture of a space?
2. Composition as Atmosphere: The Botanical Wall
This image of a wall of botanical illustrations is a masterclass in layout. Each piece is modest on its own—a single leaf or plant, rendered softly—but the arrangement elevates them. It’s not rigid, not symmetrical, but it breathes. The negative space becomes part of the experience. There’s rhythm, intention, stillness.
It makes me want to reimagine what a gallery wall could be. Not just as a place to display art, but as a composition of quiet moments. I’m thinking about how this structure could be translated using different mediums—perhaps a series of embroidered hoops, or paper relief sculptures, arranged with that same airy spacing. Or pressed leaves layered between linen and glass.
There’s also a styling idea here I want to bring into client spaces: arranging grouped elements in a way that reads more like a visual pause than a design statement.
3. Stained Glass as a Modern Material
This stained glass panel feels like a breakthrough. It keeps the soul of traditional glasswork—color, curve, luminosity—but strips away the excess. There’s no religious symbolism, no ornate framing. Just warm amber tones, smooth geometry, and light filtered through modern shapes.
It made me stop thinking of stained glass as “too much” for contemporary spaces. Now I’m imagining where it could live in my own home: a bathroom window where privacy and light meet, or a hallway panel that glows like honey in the afternoon.
The most exciting design question it raises is this: how can I work with light not just as something functional, but as something expressive? This stained glass doesn’t just sit in a window—it changes the room around it. And that’s a quality I’d love to build into the spaces I design.
4. Embroidery on Denim: Toughness Softened
There’s a raw, beautiful honesty to this image—white daisies stitched into worn, charcoal denim. It doesn’t feel like embellishment. It feels like repair, like intention, like care. The softness of the stitch against the strength of the fabric is what holds the power.
It’s made me want to lean more into the contrast between material and meaning. I’m imagining ways to bring this idea into interiors: heavy canvas cushion covers with delicate embroidery; fluted timber paired with soft, hand-dyed fabrics; a headboard stitched like mending on denim. There’s also a conceptual pull here—how spaces (and objects) can be visibly lived-in, and still beautiful.
On a personal level, I’ve pulled out a denim jeans I’ve nearly gotten rid of three times. Now I want to mark it—thread by thread—reclaiming it again as something artistic.
5. A Frame That Completes the Work
This piece made me rethink something I usually treat as an afterthought: the frame. The artwork—a quirky dog, drawn in a charmingly loose style—is delightful. But what makes it linger is the way the blue frame echoes the lines in the illustration. It becomes a part of the art. It doesn’t contain it—it finishes it.
It’s such a small move, but it’s profound. I’m now looking at the act of framing as a continuation of design thinking, not just a practical step. What happens when the frame color mirrors the mood of the work? When texture, shape, and scale of the frame reinforce the message of the piece inside?
For future client projects, this opens up a world of possibility: using colored framing as a design tool, not just for art, but for mirrors, shelving, even windows. The idea is simple, but the effect is striking: form and context, speaking the same language.
6. A Room Built on Material Language
This space doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. Every surface—veined marble, fluted wood, soft-toned plaster—has a voice, and together they hum. It’s a quiet room, but not a silent one. And it proves that materials, when chosen carefully, can carry all the narrative a room needs.
As a designer, I want to work more like this. Letting texture do the storytelling. Letting warmth come from wood grain and wall finish, not accessories. I’ve started sketching a concept for a guest bathroom that borrows this tone: a palette of soft, sculptural materials—think handmade tile, burnished metal, raw clay, brass that’s been touched by time.
It’s also a reminder to pause before adding. To ask: is this room complete without anything on the walls? Sometimes the surface is the story.
Looking Forward
What unites all these references is restraint. Nothing here is trying too hard. Instead, each image invites you to look again—at layout, at material, at meaning. They’ve reminded me that the best design doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives slowly. Sometimes it lingers.
This swipe file isn’t just a visual archive—it’s a study in potential. A way of turning passive inspiration into active intention.
Some of these ideas will grow into projects. Some will quietly reshape how I see. But all of them are shaping something. And that’s where creativity always begins.
Until the next one—
—Monica