When I was writing my debut novel, The Ones We Loved (out May 6 from Park Row/Harper Collins), I spent quite a long time helping each character pick out their house and choose what furniture to place inside. These spaces would mirror the characters’ states of rest and unrest, so they had to be familiar and malleable. Shaping them showed me that designing a home is about much more than picking the right colors for walls and placing your plants in the right corners for the best light—it’s an act of self-creation.

My novel is a love story, and it’s also about the connections we nurture with the people who live next door. Because we notice each other, we decide to care for one another. That is the binding thread shared by the inhabitants of The Ones We Loved. Some of their homes were constructed with the aid of neighbors who helped dig foundations and lay bricks; others were made by new arrivals who preferred to work on their projects alone; a few were inherited from older relatives who had built them with the hopes that these houses would always be filled with kin. What made them homes—places to seek out refuge, return to and run from—was different for each one. For a widow and her daughter, a particular stool made their home both blessed and ordinary because of how it had been delivered to their door after a prayer; an elderly couple shared their home with an evergreen mulberry tree that shaded their greatest loves; and one boy carefully wove and dyed the mats that lined the floors he walked over with his two closest friends.

During the four years that I wandered in and out of my characters’ lives, helping them move furniture around and clear out the weeds in their yards, I started to think of the homes in some of my favorite books and what they told me about the tensions that define what it means to live in a certain place. I thought of the young woman in Noor Naga’s If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English, whose seventh-floor Cairo unit came with four balconies from where she could see “a canopy of bat-infested trees.” I believe you can never have too many balconies, however, as someone who sees bats primarily as rodents with wings, the idea of them infesting trees is so awful it makes me want to never step outside. Yet from her apartment, Naga’s character seeks out the bats and makes a routine of listening to them shriek as the sun starts to set. Away from this nightmare symphony, I was drawn to the character’s love affair with the random delights that littered her apartment: the hardbacks that rested on her shelves, “which, when opened, reveal ribbons and leaves pressed into their hearts,” the furniture that was positioned “as though for a portrait,” and the hidden orchids that she “feeds with an eyedropper.” The home’s scents and fabrics transmitted so much of the character’s way of life that while reading, it was difficult to imagine her ever leaving such soft familiarity. And yet she does. And I wondered what she took with her as a reminder and what she left behind.  

In literature, the home is a place that shelters and reveals, and now that I’ve finished my novel, I am wondering what every home in a book can also say about the writer.

I have at times wished that my own home, a New York City apartment, was an object that I could easily reach for, something that I could fold up and carry with me. In the same way that I collect my skincare essentials into a palm-size purse and squeeze them into the smallest part of my suitcase when traveling, I have wanted to do the same with my home essentials: my roomy, velvet sofa that sparkles yellow when hit by sunlight and turns green when I close the blinds; the low, circular table covered in green and white square tiles that feel smooth when I brush them with my fingertips and become an ASMR dream when I brush over their ridges with my nails; my whole kitchen because it knows my mess; my apartment door with its old-fashioned lock and blueish patina. I have made this place my own not only because it’s my address and I pay for the utilities, but because a lot of the objects that enamored me while traveling are placed in different spots and shelves. As are the gifts from friends (sweetly personalized ceramics and knitted table mats) and my collection of teapots, along with the Oliver Mtukudzi vinyls from my capital-letter Home: Zimbabwe. Though the structure of the apartment encloses me, it is the memories within that keep me here and remind me of everywhere I’ve been and the places I left. This little gem in Harlem is my permanent place for my itinerant life.

In literature, the home is a place that shelters and reveals, and now that I’ve finished my novel, I am wondering what every home in a book can also say about the writer. Do authors construct their own concrete visions of home via the characters that we create, ones that we will inevitably leave behind once the book is finished? I have moved several times in my life, across continents and borders, and that’s likely why home is something I’ve always wanted to pack up with little trouble. But is it the only reason? In The Ones We Loved, although the characters’ homes were lived in and assiduously maintained, the characters’ love for the structures they built was somewhat hesitant. It was as though by fully claiming their homes as their own, their bodies would become fixed to their walls and unable to break away if the time called for departure. My characters are all prepared to leave, even when they’ve been somewhere for decades. Did this latent desire to look further speak of their interiority or mine?

In Morrison’s work, the home, whether a building, a country, or a person, is often able to transform even after seemingly insurmountable destruction. We can rebuild, and that is the sweetest part.  

Many writers’ lives appear to split between their private interiors and their literary ones. F. Scott Fitzgerald stands as a curious example. In The Great Gatsby, the novel’s namesake has a magnificent home that is excessive both in its opulence and its absence of warmth. It’s so grand that it needs to be filled, and so grand that it will always feel empty. Fitzgerald only became rich in adulthood as his career expanded, and from his work it’s apparent he found the wealthy fascinating and pitiful. After he joined their ranks it must have been difficult to perceive himself as equal parts Jay Gatsby and Nick Carraway, chasing decadence and searching for a certain modesty. In his debut novel, This Side of Paradise, he observed the rituals of Jazz Age youth and their desires to be different from their parents while still enjoying similar comforts and freedoms. In thinking about home, a character says, “With people like us our home is where we are not.” Fitzgerald seemed to suggest that home was not a place but a constant longing, something fused to nostalgia and distance.

In Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Sweet Home is the name of the plantation where the main characters were once enslaved, and the site was a witness to their horrors and a place where they also shared laughter, memorable meals, and lifelong friendships. How does sweetness exist alongside the perverse brutality of being enslaved? On Christmas Day of 1993, Morrison’s upstate New York home burned down, with the only things remaining somewhat unscathed being her manuscripts and papers, which had been stored in a “special study”—a home within a home. The New York Times reported that the author was “upset over the loss of the house, but immensely relieved that her papers had been recovered.” There is a strange sweetness in that relief where one grieves a lost home and also celebrates a recovered treasure. In Morrison’s work, the home, whether a building, a country, or a person, is often able to transform even after seemingly insurmountable destruction. We can rebuild, and that is the sweetest part.

Toward the end of If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English, the canopy of trees infested by bats becomes the witness to a deadly event, and the geography guards the memory of a city and a young woman. In The Ones We Loved, a mango tree and a guava tree frame the characters’ choices regarding new beginnings and secrecy. In all the places I’ve lived, the flora in the city is what remembers me and keeps me there. It’s what pulls me close when I’m away—this constant renewal of life and the nature of belonging in places that you will always leave behind. Sometimes this quiet promise of recollection can falter when the trees and flowers that used to line your daily walks are replaced with parking lots and multiuse buildings, making it almost impossible to stake a presence in the places you love. I have slowly realized that my body is the only constant home, the place I will always sink into no matter which border I’ve crossed, and what I’ve gathered along the way. In writing and finishing my book I saw my characters returning to themselves and holding their bodies tightly, recognizing that belonging wasn’t something made possible by a location, but by how their bodies felt when they arrived, when they decided to finally rest, and when they began again.

Related Reading:

Home Renovation Shows Meet Cute with Romance Novels

A Love Letter to “Material World,” a ’90s Photo Book of Families With All of Their Possessions

Location: 1685 Skyline Boulevard, Eugene, Oregon

Price: $1,350,000

Year Built: 1959

Architects: DeLou and John Lauren Reynolds

Footprint: 4,134 square feet (3 bedrooms, 3 baths)

Lot Size: 0.49 acres

From the Agent: “This midcentury-modern marvel is steps from the entrance to Hendricks Park, overlooking the University of Oregon campus and beyond. The living room serves as the hub of the home, with its massive floor-to-ceiling rose quartz fireplace, vaulted ceiling with wood beams, mahogany built-ins, east and west–facing walls of glass, and double-opening doors for maximum indoor/outdoor connection. A dining space, fit for large gatherings, flows into the living space and is accented by aa mahogany buffet and built-in storage. The kitchen has original stainless and butcher block prep counters, a copper-encased hood, original chinquapin cabinetry, a pass-through pantry, and dedicated bar space. A secondary dining area off the kitchen shares space with a cozy sitting area with a copper-clad woodburning fireplace.”

In a particular San Antonio, Texas, neighborhood, one home has long stood out. Surrounded by towering, traditional-style homes in neutral colors, it has a low-slung profile, metal roof, and red brick exterior.

“It’s an iconic house in the neighborhood,” says architect Vicki Yuan of Lake|Flato Architects, who isn’t necessarily referring to its appearance. Built in 1949, the midcentury-modern home was designed by “Texas’s godfather of modern design,” O’Neil Ford. His interest in the English Arts and Crafts Movement was flavored with an appreciation for International Style, which resulted in homes that combined local handicraft, a connection with the landscape, and streamlined detailing. He was also an enthusiastic preservationist, and was recognized as such by actually being named a National Historic Landmark himself in 1974, an honor only he has achieved to this day.

Yet in spite of Ford’s stature, this home “was being marketed as a teardown,” says its newest owner, reflecting on the first time he and his wife walked through the property in 2021.

Before: Exterior Front

After: Exterior Front

By that point, the home had been tweaked substantially. The attached carport had been turned into additional living space, the front door had been moved, and a sunken den with several awkwardly angled walls was added toward the rear. There was plenty of square footage, but the bedrooms and kitchen were small, while the living rooms—including a formal one, the sunken space, and the converted carport—were large and redundant.

Before: Living Room

• Hawaii is raising its hotel tax to nearly 19 percent, with plans to use the estimated extra $100 million a year it would bring in to fight climate change—from wildfire prevention to beach restoration. Think of it as a leave-no-trace surcharge: if you love Hawaii’s beauty, you’ll help pay to protect it. (NPR)

• A massive blackout plunged Spain, Portugal, and parts of France into chaos, with trains halted, airports delayed, and water pumps failing. Engineers now face a “black start” as they reconnect the grid piece by piece like “assembling some hellishly complicated Ikea furniture.” (Wired)

• NYC’s Rent Guidelines Board voted preliminarily to raise rents on nearly one million rent-stabilized apartments—up to 4.75 percent for one-year leases, and up to 7.75 percent for two-year leases. Tenant advocates blasted the move as an attack on affordability, while landlords said even the highest proposed hikes won’t cover their maintenance costs. (The New York Times)

• Uber is planning to roll out thousands of Volkswagen’s self-driving electric vans, starting in Los Angeles by 2026. The ID. Buzz fleet will show up in the Uber app, but only after regulators give the company the go-ahead. (Design Boom)

• Former NFL player Kevin Jones reworked USM’s famous Haller shelving with magnetic, reversible felt panels that snap on to metal frames. Here’s how his radical update aims to bring a warmer, more human feel to the modular classic. (Dwell)

Top image courtesy of Smith Collection/Gado/Getty Images.

Welcome to Tiny Home Profiles, an interview series with people pushing the limits of living small. From space-saving hacks to flexible floor plans, here’s what they say makes for the best tiny homes on the planet. Know of a builder we should talk to? Reach out.

Founded in 2002, Amsterdam studio i29 architects initially focused on bringing its minimalist aesthetic to projects in the hospitality, residential, retail, public, and office domains. More recently, the team has set its sights on creating tiny homes meant to be easily added to a property. “[The Netherlands] has a real need for flexible design options with a small footprint,” say i29’s founders.

The new collection, called Cȃpsula, features three cabins ranging from 107 to 538 square feet. Each structure bears the same key elements: lightweight materials, a neutral color palette that includes an all-black wood exterior, and a simple layout that’s meant to blur the boundaries between the indoors and out. Here, the firm’s founding partners, Jeroen Dellensen, Jaspar Jansen, and Chris Collaris, share how they created the collection.

What’s the most exciting project you’ve realized to date?

The first series of tiny homes have already been installed at a beautiful location in The Netherlands, and people can book a stay in one by contacting us if they want to try them out.

What does your base model cost and what does that pricing include?

We have three different models:

• The Writer’s Block Hut is 107 square feet and starts at €24,500 ($27,986.89 USD)
• Soft Lodge is 270 square feet and starts at €98,000 ($111,947.54 USD)
• Patio Home is 538 square feet and starts at €195,000 ($222,738.75 USD)

These prices don’t include taxes, transport costs, screw pile foundations, interior fit outs, site preparation, or installation. There’s also additional fees for panelized forms to fit into a shipping container for worldwide shipping. All base models include the facades you see here. These prices also exclude options such as a skylight in the bathroom, an outdoor bed, or additional windows.

Location: Lot 34, Big Sky Ranch, Escamequita, Nicaragua

Price: $820,000

Year Built: 2020

Designer: Karin Eigner

Footprint: 6,500 square feet (3 bedrooms, 4.5 baths)

Lot Size: 2 Acres

From the Agent: “Big Sky Ranch is a 320-acre equestrian community perched above the Pacific Ocean in southern Nicaragua, where solar-powered homes rest on breezy ridgelines with panoramic views. Horseback trails wind through open pastureland, leading to some of the region’s most untouched surf beaches. With generously sized lots and thoughtful land planning, privacy comes naturally. The ranch is part of the local community of Escamequita—an emerging area known for organic farming, yoga retreats, and creative living. For those seeking privacy, connection, and a slower, off-grid lifestyle, Casa G&G is a standout—offering contemporary design with soul in a place where nature takes the lead.”

As a part of our 25th-anniversary celebration, we’re republishing formative magazine stories from before our website launched. This story previously appeared in Dwell’s July/August 2004 issue.

Eighty-three-year-old architect Mark Mills is as free-spirited and prickly today as he was when he and kindred spirit Paolo Soleri were banished from Taliesin West in 1947. “Frank Lloyd Wright got the idea we were stealing his clients and he said, “Scram!” recalls Mills, who now lives in Carmel, California, where he still practices architecture. “Paolo and I were thrown out at the same time,” Mills continues, describing how the two young architects found their way to a desert hideout on the north slope of Camelback Mountain near Scottsdale, Arizona.

Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, they lived in the open among the sagebrush and cactus for the next year. “We were living up with the squirrels,” says Mills. “We scrounged dates from the date trees and then the skunks came along. The skunks sprayed on the dates and we ate skunk dates.”

Their encampment consisted of little more than a tent, but eventually they built a more permanent shelter. “It was a little demonstration cone with a hexagonal base made from concrete block and a roof made from triangular pieces of plywood,” explains Mills, who has had a passion for hands-on building since childhood.

Mills and Soleri’s exile on Camelback Mountain had all the elements of biblical legend: fleeing society, breaking ranks with the deity-like Wright, living with the animals in a desert wilderness, taking time for reflection, and returning to the world with a visionary message. Soleri would sit quietly on a rock and draw imaginary structures by stenciling ephemeral veils of watercolor onto paper. “It was the landscape that penetrated my semi-impermeable wrapper,” observed Soleri. Then, in 1948, the outlaw architects came down from their mountain and rustled up a client.

Nora Wood hired Mills and Soleri to design a small desert getaway in Cave Creek, Arizona. For a little extra, they agreed to build the structure themselves. “We told her that if she bought us $300 worth of tools, we would go out and build her house and she agreed,” recalls Mills.

The concept for the house was based on a drawing by Soleri called “Turnsole,” which depicted a domed structure embedded in the desert floor. Its glass roof could rotate to follow the sun’s path across the sky. “The idea was already in Paolo’s head,” says Mills. “And when Paolo got an idea, it didn’t leave his head until he had built it.” Mills is characteristically humble about his contribution to the project. “I mainly did the grunt work,” he says. “I couldn’t change any of Paolo’s ideas so I just grunted.”

The pair excavated the entire foundation by hand, using only shovels, pickaxes, and an old wheelbarrow. Mills and Soleri got occasional help from the client’s attractive daughter, Colly (whom Soleri moved in with soon after).

While it’s easy to see Wright’s imprint, the Dome House suggests a more personal and sensual interpretation of Wright’s “organic design”: a one-to-one communion with nature; a place for reflection and personal transformation. At once a cave, spiderweb, and sky dome, the house combines eclectic influences from the Southwest, like Native American kivas, with an offbeat kind of sci-fi imagery. (The region was experiencing a high level of UFO sightings at the time.)

Such anomalous sensibilities—outer space and back-to-the-land—would be reconciled in the alternative architecture of the 1960s, helped along in part by the cosmic parity provided by LSD. The Dome House was published in Architectural Forum in 1961 and, along with R. Buckminster Fuller’s geodesic domes and Friedrich Kiesler’s Endless House, became a touchstone for young designers wishing to break from the soul-withering grid of corporate modernism. Mills and Soleri were, in a sense, proto-hippie architects, two of the pioneering fathers of the hands-on, design/build movement that swept North America in the following decade.

After finishing work on the Dome House, Soleri went back to his native Italy—he would return to Arizona in 1956 and start the alternative communities of Cosanti and Arcosanti—while Mills moved west to California and settled in Carmel. The Big Sur area was already established as a bohemian outpost. Henry Miller was there and so was Ansel Adams, along with a colorful mix of artists, poets, vegetarians, and back-to-nature eccentrics. Miller used to come to dinner regularly at the house of Mills’s mother-in-law, Louisa Jenkins, a mosaic artist who, Mills remembers, “used to stand on her head naked.” It was in this setting of fog and beatnik glory that Mills established his own independent practice and designed a series of more than 30 one-of-a-kind houses for an equally free-spirited group of clients.

One of Mills’s first projects was for Nathaniel Owings, a partner in the architecture firm of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill, who needed a place to escape his high-pressure career. He bought a property in Big Sur where the rocky outcroppings of the Santa Lucia mountain range cascade into the Pacific Ocean. “We wanted to build a house that would become part of this rugged shoreline,” Mills recalls. “Our aim was to disturb as little as possible.” They chose to position the house on a seemingly unbuildable precipice that dropped 600 feet into the ocean. “We fitted the house into the windswept line of bay trees, which were clustered on the extreme end of the point,” said Owings in 1961. Two-thirds of the structure was cantilevered out over the cliffside. The Owings family chose an appropriately poetic name, Wild Bird, for their aerie.

It was such an intimidating, windswept site that Mills made the entry sequence low and cavelike so as to embrace the visitor upon arrival. A narrow footpath leads down terraced stone steps and between rough, rustic rubble walls. This tight, subterranean effect is a preparation for the explosion of panoramic views that follow.

While the sloping roof of Wild Bird was meant to evoke an elemental sense of shelter, the Farrar House (1966) was more suggestive of living. biomorphic forms. The site for Far-A-Way (a play on the client’s name) was as sea-washed as the Owings’ site, but even closer to the ocean’s fury, nestled in among the jagged rocks of the Carmel shoreline. Mills designed it to be as tough as a barnacle, with 9.5-inch-thick steel-reinforced concrete walls that sloped outward at a slight angle and gave the structure a bunker-like profile. Odd, trapezoidal windows and doors added further to the pillbox effect. “If there is another war,” said Betty Farrar in 1967, “I suppose we can just knock out the windows and stick some big guns in.” Every opening offered close-up views of ocean and rocky shore.