Lessons from My Grandmother: The Art of Gathering

I grew up with grandparents who knew how to have a good time. Always out with friends, always dressed sharp. My grandpa with his vodka tonic, my grandma with her glass of white wine—they made everyday life feel like an occasion. But my grandma? She didn’t just go to parties. She threw them. She had five sisters, which meant five partners-in-crime for their annual themed sleepovers. Vegas night. Elvis. Harleys. They went all in—costumes, games, food, the works. By the time I was old enough, I was her assistant-in-training. Folding napkins, lining up glassware, arranging trays and little gifts. Watching her prep felt less like “hosting” and more like directing an opening night performance. And then there were the Longaberger basket parties. If you know, you know. The house would be packed shoulder to shoulder, the noise level enough to raise the roof. Forget nightclubs—in the 90s, this was the hot ticket. My sister and I helped decorate.

My grandpa stood behind his giant camcorder, documenting everything like he was the family news crew. Somewhere in the VHS archive is my great Uncle Jack mooning the camera, the women doubled over laughing, card games rolling on into the night. It was chaos. It was hilarious. And it was unforgettable.

Here’s what my grandma taught me: gatherings don’t need to be flawless. They need to be thoughtful. A theme. A playlist. A detail or two that makes people feel seen. And plenty of room for laughter—the kind that takes over the night. I’m bringing back that 90s camcorder energy (minus the VHS rewind). Because the art of gathering isn’t gone. It just needs hosts willing to put in the effort—and not take themselves too seriously.

These days, I approach gatherings the same way I approach interiors—or even wardrobes. Begin with a neutral foundation: natural textures, layered textiles, timeless tones. Pieces that feel good in your hands and hold their own in any setting. From there, add personality—the glassware with a bit of history, the playlist that sets the pace, the scent that lingers just long enough to feel familiar.

It’s a quiet kind of luxury—intentional, lived-in, and never too perfect. A mix of vintage and modern, linen and brass, candlelight and conversation. The same rhythm I bring to every design project and every dinner table: start with balance, build with intention.

For my latest gathering, I pulled together a few favorite pieces—simple, sculptural, and quietly functional. The Louis Poulsen portables have become a staple on my tables; their soft, diffused light creates an atmosphere that feels both intimate and modern. I’ve long admired Tom Dixon’s work—the Press collection in particular, with its weighty glass forms and timeless restraint. His stem vase and glassware line have followed me from project to project, proof that good design doesn’t need reinvention, just recontextualization.

I’ve been collecting vintage glassware for over two decades—pieces found at markets, on travels, and occasionally from Italy in the ’70s, when design walked that perfect line between utility and art. Lately, I’ve been drawn to Helle Mardahl’s candy-colored glass objects for the same reason: they feel alive in the light. Playful without being precious.

With my health in mind, I’ve also shifted toward aperitif-style drinks without the alcohol. Aplós and Ghia are two I reach for often—each layered, botanical, and made for that golden hour before dinner.

For me, the art of gathering sits at that intersection—useful, beautiful pieces meant to last, to be used often, and to carry memory. The setting should invite conversation, not compete with it.

Outlaw, always.