Italian light and salty air with Colin King

I travel so often for work that summer, ironically, becomes my season to stay. There’s something romantic about a quiet New York in July—when the city thins out and you’re left with its bare rhythm. On weekends, I find refuge in getaways to Amagansett or Fire Island, where I’m surrounded by friends, salty air, and slowness.

I try to carve out one longer trip each summer, aiming for destinations that balance the cerebral and the sensual—usually some mix of art and sea. Think: a day trip to Fondation Maeght in Vence after jumping in the water from the wharf in Saint-Tropez. The South of France has that rare quality—sunlight that softens the eye, and enough art to keep the mind stirred. It’s a kind of reset that nourishes both sides of my creative mind.

Terry is a favorite for its purity and ease. The subtle shifts in stripe weight give it a sense of movement without noise—like sunlight passing through a linen curtain. I imagine it as a runner in a long hallway or kitchen, paired with pale oak, creamy plaster, and a single bold object—a red lacquered stool or a brass sconce that catches the afternoon light.

Rhomer is grounded and graphic, but softened by its palette. There’s a tempo to it—structured, but never severe. I see it in a living room layered with natural textures: rough linen, waxed wood, maybe a floating low table in travertine. It holds space, but with restraint.

Iberville feels like a warm whisper. The tonal variation between the stripes makes it incredibly versatile—it could disappear or declare itself, depending on what you place around it. I picture it in a quiet bedroom with thick cotton bedding, a stack of worn books on the floor, and sunlight filtering through sheer drapery.

Stripes have a quiet discipline to them. They create rhythm, enforce pause, and carry cultural weight—whether it’s a classic Breton shirt in 1960s Saint Laurent, the shadows cast through a Venetian blind, or the measured calm of a Bauhaus weaving. I’ve always been drawn to their order, their honesty.

In nature, I think of sedimentary rock or the tide line on a beach—markings of time and memory. In art, Agnes Martin comes to mind, of course, for how she used stripes to express emotion without gesture. And Anni Albers, for the way she wove structure into softness. Interiors like Aalto’s Villa Mairea, where wood slats and shadows create striped symphonies, have deeply shaped how I think about pattern in space.

With Chroma I, I wanted to keep the integrity of the stripe but disrupt it—with thin lines of saturation that feel like sudden gestures. The color choices are deliberate and direct. They bring contrast, not calm. They sharpen the graphic quality of the stripe and push it somewhere more contemporary, more awake.