(Ode to an Empty Frame)

The frame measured about six by six inches, its walnut wood darkened by time. Carvings incised across its surface, intricate and organic, like the branches of a tree. Small, hand-carved, unsigned, undated. I wondered what to place inside it—an etching, a photograph—but nothing felt right. One day, I realized it didn’t need to hold anything. I propped it on a shelf, next to some of my grandmother’s clothbound books. And in its emptiness, it seemed complete as it was. The curve of the carving, the grain of the wood—they stood on their own.

This is the quiet power of natural materials. Walnut, linen, stone—each complete in its own right. Their textures and imperfections draw the eye, commanding attention with a presence that requires no embellishment. Plastic or synthetic materials cannot replicate this. Natural materials carry their own authority, through the depth of their story.

The frame remains there on the shelf, as it is. When the right solution comes along, it will come at the right time. Until then, its story is open and waiting.

Spaces, like the frame, can embrace this same intentionality. A bare wall illuminated by late afternoon light. A corner left unfilled, waiting for something yet unknown. A single object on a shelf, with no counterpart to complement its unusual form. These moments allow a room to breathe, its stages of life unfolding naturally.

I try to think of a home as a portrait in motion. Every room, every corner, every object carries echoes of what was, what is, and what will be. Living with the unfinished or incomplete reveals a beauty in this suspended state—a place that is still becoming itself, much like the people who inhabit it.

Sometimes there’s a quiet dignity in an empty corner when you live with it as it is, not forcing a solution. Perhaps it will stay empty a while longer, simply gathering light in the late afternoon. Or maybe, one day, it will surprise you with a completely unforeseen solution. Things have a way of arriving when we leave the question open. 

I had wanted a dedicated drawing and drafting table and needed it to be a specific size for the small space it would need to fit into. I couldn’t find anything. Then, through a turn of unrelated events, I got rid of a larger piece that I had held onto thinking I needed it. It was then I found the perfect drafting table and it was much larger than I thought I “could” have, which made all the difference. 

Shelves that wait to be filled, frames without images, and gaps left unresolved are open invitations. They offer freedom—to let life and time fill them naturally when the right moment or object arrives. 

What we leave unfinished has a way of surprising us. A shelf might hold a single object for years until one day it becomes home to an unexpected treasure. A blank wall might seem like an absence, but over time, it becomes a canvas for light and shadow, the subtle changes of the day.

It’s a presence. It’s the quiet tension of what is still unfolding, of potential not yet realized. And that is its power. It mirrors how we live—imperfect, unresolved, but always in progress.

It can be liberating to realize that not everything in our homes has to serve a purpose or be complete. A plaster wall left raw and chalky white can sometimes be more refined than one perfectly painted. 

This approach relies on beautiful materials that hold their own—wood, linen, stone, cotton, terracotta. These natural elements don’t need ornamentation. Lime plaster, with its velvety texture and depth, absorbs light in ways that many modern finishes simply cannot. Faint cracks, uneven patches, and layers of repair create a visual history—a dialogue between past and present. 

Some things—spaces, objects, even moments—don’t call for resolution. Their value is in how they invite us to live with them, to see them, to let them unfold. It’s like a good conversation: you don’t rush to the conclusion. You savor it as it happens.

In the unfinished, we find presence. In the imperfect, beauty. And in the waiting, our story is still unfolding.

Begin to Live With the Unfinished

1. Pause

Before you act, pause. Look at the space, the object, or the moment without an agenda. Let it be what it is. A bare shelf, an empty wall, a question unresolved—resist the urge to fill or fix it.

2. Notice

Pay attention to the details. The curve of a grain, the weight of shadow, the way light moves through the room. Imperfection has its own quiet rhythm. Notice what draws you in, and let your gaze linger there.

3. Wait

Allow time to work. What feels incomplete today may reveal itself tomorrow, or the day after. Solutions often arrive not through searching but through stillness. Trust that what belongs will come.

4. Listen

Every space and object speaks, if you let it. What does this corner ask for? What does it resist? Rather than imposing your will, listen for what the space seems to want.

5. Choose Less

When the moment comes to decide, choose simplicity. A single object, a natural material, an unfinished surface—let these hold their own without embellishment.

6. Return

Revisit the unfinished. Return with new eyes, after time has passed. Often, what felt incomplete reveals a surprising wholeness.

A Note on Attention

Simone Weil wrote, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”

When you live with the unfinished, you offer it your attention, your patience, and your care. In return, it offers you the possibility of discovery—the freedom to let things unfold.