As a child, I wanted to be an architect. Though some dreams and interests change, I am still fascinated by space and place and how it defines life. What happens inside apartments I can only glimpse through the window? What does the city look like from 30 stories in the air? What treasures do people keep, what paint colors do they choose? J can attest to my constant stumbling around the city, barely dodging other pedestrians as I crane my neck to look at the built-ins of a brownstone as we pass by. In Venice, the mystery was compounded. Some of the most decrepit facades concealed elegant palaces, homes that have stood for centuries, outfitted by aristocracy both modern and ancient. I love the way the water ages the wood, the way it strips back layers of paint, the way it feeds the moss and mold that reach up from below. Riotous, unintentional color. What is going on inside—ruin or renewal, mystery or normalcy?