The New York Loft through the eyes of Colin King

I’ve learned that if you sit still long enough, truly still, the space eventually starts whispering what it wants to be. When I was beginning to move out, knowing Robert was coming in, I found myself imagining what the space wanted to become next. At first I tried to impose ideas on it, the same way you try to give good advice to someone who hasn’t asked for it. But the room kept insisting on being itself.

What surprised me most was that out of that slow, slightly meditative watching came something as anchoring as the fireplace. The moment it went in, the loft suddenly had a heartbeat. The whole footprint shifted, almost like the room cleared its throat and said, Here I am, finally.

Working with Robert and his team helped me understand what the space needed to do for them and for the people coming to experience these rugs. It became its own kind of conversation, part architecture, part intuition, part Beni’s craft nudging me in the ribs and saying, pay attention.

The light showed me where stillness should live, where possibility could stretch, and where an object needed a little personal space. So the process became less about designing and more about listening, letting the place exhale, then following its lead.

The light also told me where the darker, grounding pieces should sit and where the working areas should tuck themselves, like the round table in the corner. And painting the interior structure a cola color rooted the whole space in the spirit of Beni. It made everything feel steadier, more honest, like it finally had its feet on the ground.

Balancing all of this felt a bit like cooking for people you love, which I absolutely do not know how to do, so this is coming from imagination rather than expertise. But I imagine you want to nourish people, impress them a little, and make sure the whole thing adds up to a story that tastes right.

The loft had to hold three identities: home, gallery, homage—and none of them could sulk in the corner. So I sourced with a soft gaze, almost like wandering a beach and picking up things that feel right in your hand. I wasn’t hunting; I was gathering, which I find is generally a more compassionate way to approach anything.

Pieces that were human enough to live with, quiet enough to let the rugs speak, and rooted enough to honor the ancient lineage of Moroccan weaving. When everything came together, the interior settled into itself the way a person does when the public self, private self, and inherited self finally learn to sit together without rolling their eyes at one another.

And because the loft had to function, I carved out small pockets where people could experience the rugs in different contexts. These little atmospheric corners talk to one another but never compete. That harmony felt essential. Not a home, not a showroom, but a place that could carry both roles with a kind of graceful shrug.

I’ve always believed objects find each other the same way people do, through shared history, temperament, timing, and the occasional cosmic joke.

Some of the vintage pieces have the same softness the rugs do, the patient wear of time, the lingering warmth of old hands, the kind of patina you can’t fake unless you are very patient, or very lucky. There are chairs so worn they feel tender, sitting near rugs whose fibers have absorbed more stories than I have. They do not match, but they understand each other in that quiet, sympathetic way old souls do.

The Josef Hoffmann cabinet carries itself with the calm elegance of someone who has survived many lives and refuses to brag. It feels timeless, as if it walked in already knowing where it wanted to stand. Well, technically it arrived balanced on top of the elevator, but it had that dignified attitude anyway. It pairs naturally with the rugs, which have their own kind of grounded poetry.

I am never really chasing coordination. I am chasing kinship. Objects that share a soul, even when they come from different worlds.

Light is the oldest storyteller we have. In this loft, it performs differently every day, depending on the season, the hour, or its temperament, which sometimes feels suspiciously aligned with mine. It washes over the vintage pieces, and they seem to wake up under it, as if someone finally switched on their memory.

The drapery gives the space a kind of soft and forgiving embrace, which keeps the height and volume from drifting into cathedral territory. We made the drape pool dramatically, on purpose, because I wanted the room to feel lived in, relaxed, slightly undone in a way that feels human.

All of that makes the loft feel like a place where time doesn’t shove you forward but stretches out its hand and says, Take your time.

Mood, for me, is the whole point of interiors. It is the emotional weather of a room. If you get the mood right, people breathe differently, shoulders drop, and something in the nervous system loosens its grip. A good room helps you feel more like yourself, just a little more accepting of your own edges.

Interiors should age the way people do, gathering laugh lines, stories, softness, and the occasional bruise of real life. A space that never changes feels a bit like someone pretending nothing has ever happened to them, which is usually untrue and almost always uninteresting.

This loft has been many things to me, and I let it evolve the way a good conversation evolves, subtly, unpredictably, and often without asking permission. Places remember us. They hold on to the dinners, the quiet mornings, the heartbreaks, the small joys, and every version of ourselves that passed through.

Imperfection is where the soul lives. A scratch or worn edge isn’t a problem, it is an admission that the room has lived. These marks are the heartbeat of the space.

I truly believe that interiors, like people, become most beautiful when they stop trying to present a perfect face and instead become honest about where they have been. That is where all the poetry and grace settle in.