I once worked with a client who was determined to squeeze every single family heirloom into her new floor plan.

“I have a corner chair that goes back to the Civil War.” She said. “I have a painting that goes back to King Henry VIII.” The list went on and on.

I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to tell her, “Ma’am, I have a truck that goes back to Ford if we don’t finalize these plans.”

But that tension highlights the true essence of human-centric design. Great design isn’t necessarily defined by extravagance; it is defined by intimacy.

It requires a designer who listens intently enough to uncover a client’s quirks, habits, and curiosities, eventually translating those personal threads into architectural poetry.

As a designer, you have the rare opportunity of giving shape to emotion.

Every line drawn and every texture selected has the potential to tell a story far greater than the sum of its parts.

More on that later, but first, the reason why this comes to mind.

Today is Albert Charles Ledner’s birthday (January 28, 1924 – November 14, 2017), not someone I was familiar with, but very glad I found.

Ledner started his career in 1951, spending most of it in New Orleans, and was known for his organic and modernist style.

He followed the “design-build” approach, in which the architect remains involved throughout the project’s construction phase. In this approach, Ledner devised uncommon approaches to structure and the use of materials.

At times, his designs were characterized as quirky. Here’s one example of that.

In 1961, Ledner designed and built a residence on Park Island in New Orleans for Mr. and Mrs. A.C. Sunkel. The couple were avid chain smokers.

You might expect the story to be about some elaborate, state-of-the-art ventilation system. Perhaps there was one, though no record confirms it.

What I do know is that Ledner chose a more creative and personal approach to honor his clients’ lifestyle.

To celebrate the homeowners’ personalities, he incorporated 1,200 amber-colored glass ashtrays into the home’s exterior cornice.

The house soon became famously known as the “Ashtray House.”

The ashtrays are the kind you’d find everywhere, from people’s homes to Denny’s restaurants.

It’s hard not to wonder whether Ledner was subtly poking fun at his clients, although reports suggest the Sunkels fully embraced the design, seeing it as a unique way to personalize their home.

Two decades ago, I attempted a similar artistic gesture. As part of a community entryway beautification project, I contributed the design for a new neighborhood sign.

My vision involved a personal touch: I sent Plaster-of-Paris kits to each member of the Beautification Committee, asking them to create a cast of their right hand. These imprinted discs were intended to be embedded into the stucco, forming a unique, human-centric decorative frieze.

However, when I drove by that evening to see the progress, the stucco work was already complete. The handprints lay untouched at the base of the sign.

Perhaps the contractor never received the instructions, or perhaps someone behind the scenes quietly vetoed the concept.

Regardless of the reason, the sign was finished with a flat, perfectly serviceable yet forgettable frieze—but I digress.

Another (more successful) example that comes to mind is the Chrysalis Awards 2005 entry, “Hotel Vibe,” by Fisher Group, LLC (VA). I was one of the judges that year, and I fell in love with this story.

The project is a bath remodel that commemorates Harvard and Boston’s Fenway Park with a single red tile in the shower wall.

This design choice mirrors a piece of baseball history.

In Fenway Park’s right-field bleachers, a single red seat—Section 42, Row 37, Seat 21—marks the landing spot of Ted Williams’ legendary 502-foot home run on June 9, 1946, the longest ever hit in the stadium.

The homeowner, a Harvard alumnus and devoted Red Sox fan, originally approved a design featuring blue tile “dots” scattered throughout the bathroom. While the designer always intended to include a single red tile as a private nod to the client’s passion, the surprise was carefully guarded.

The construction crew masterfully kept the secret until the morning of the final walk-through. Only then was one blue tile removed and replaced with the red one.

The client’s reaction upon discovering this thoughtful, last-minute addition was nothing short of remarkable.

Can you imagine what it must feel like to come home to that? To live in a home that doesn’t just reflect your lifestyle, but your story?

As a designer, you stand at the threshold between utility and emotion.

But creativity isn’t just for the naturally inspired. For those who sometimes feel their imagination needs a nudge, consider a few practices I’ve adopted (by watching detective shows) that keep the creative spark alive:

• Hunt for clues, not just take orders. Clients rarely walk in saying, “Please commemorate Ted Williams’ 502-foot home run in my shower tile.” They talk about teams they love, places they’ve lived, grandma’s chair, and the painting from “way back.” The designer-as-detective listens for the clues behind those comments—the emotional evidence.
• Read between the lines. A detective doesn’t just record what witnesses say; they look for what they mean. Likewise, when a client says, “We entertain a lot,” the detective-designer asks, “Formal or casual? Big crowds or just a few close friends? What’s the moment you enjoy most?” You’re after the underlying motive: belonging, pride, comfort, status, nostalgia.
• Corroborate the story. Detectives cross-check stories with physical evidence. Designers do something similar: you compare what clients say they want with how they actually live. The stuffed garage, the well-worn armchair, the stack of cookbooks on the counter—all of that either confirms or complicates the narrative.
• Look for the one telling detail. In any good mystery, one small overlooked clue cracks the case. In design, that’s the single handprint, the one red tile, the row of ashtrays, the Civil War chair placed in the perfect corner. Most of the house may be “normal,” but the one intentional detail can carry disproportionate emotional weight.

You can choose to stop at “Does it fit?” or press on to “What does it say about the people who live here?”

That extra question—the one that takes a little more time, curiosity, and courage—is where homes begin to feel unmistakably personal.

If creativity comes naturally to you, consider this a gentle nudge to be even more audacious on behalf of your clients. Look for the ashtrays, the single red tile, the handprints in plaster—the details that might seem odd at first, but ultimately become unforgettable.

And if you don’t see yourself as particularly creative, start smaller.

Ask your clients one extra question about what they love. Notice one ordinary object that matters to them and explore how it might quietly influence a detail. Creativity isn’t a lightning bolt; it’s a habit of paying attention, then acting on what you notice.

The next time you sit across from a client with a list of heirlooms, collections, memories, or even guilty pleasures, remember: you’re not just wrangling furniture into a floor plan. You’re helping someone translate their life into a place they get to come home to every day.

Somewhere in that conversation, there is a single “red tile” waiting to be discovered.

Your job—and your privilege—is to find it, fight for it, and place it exactly where it will mean the most.