with Hyun

Some places don’t ask to be visited. They stay with you from afar—through an image, a texture, a color that lingers.  In the southwest of Iceland, where steam rises from lava fields and the land breathes warmth, a structure disappears into the earth. It’s warmed by geothermal water, shaped by volcanic rock, and surrounded by water the color of moonstone.  For me, it was one of them—The Retreat Hotel at Blue Lagoon. The southwest of Iceland is unlike anywhere else. The land feels alive, warmed from beneath, and shaped by ancient forces. This is the Reykjanes Peninsula, a UNESCO Global Geopark, and home to one of the country’s most iconic natural phenomena: the Blue Lagoon. Fed by geothermal seawater enriched with silica, algae, and minerals, the lagoon stretches across the rugged landscape like a sheet of pale blue glass. Long believed to have healing properties, the water feels soft and steady—inviting pause. It’s here, settled into this raw landscape, that The Retreat was bui...

Long before I ever stepped inside a Gagosian gallery, I was already orbiting its influence. Not physically, but through images: James Turrell’s glowing chambers, Urs Fischer’s melting wax sculptures, Basquiat’s frantic collage energy. I came across them online, in books, in passing mentions. I didn’t realize it then, but many of these artists were drawn into the same center—a gallery that didn’t just show their work, but reshaped how it was seen. That gallery was Gagosian. And by the time I finally stood inside one of its spaces, I realized I’d been absorbing its language for years. This post is for anyone who's ever wondered how one gallery could become something larger: a system that shapes how art moves in the world.   (Gagosian, 555 West 24th Street, New York.  Courtesy Gagosian ) How Value Gets Built Larry Gagosian didn’t enter the art world through academia or collecting. He came in sideways—through instinct. Born into a middle-class family in Los Angeles, he was bri...

What if a building didn’t try to stand out—but disappear? In Botswana’s Okavango Delta, one lodge does just that. Not dramatically, but quietly—like something grown from the land itself. It sits deep in Botswana’s Okavango Delta, where the forest leans low and the floodwaters arrive months late. Here,  seasons don’t shout. They seep. The land breathes on a delayed cycle—and so does the lodge. Even from afar, it felt built not to stand out, but to step back. Perhaps that’s what made it linger. The lodge rests on a 22,500-hectare private concession that it manages exclusively. No convoys of vehicles. No need to rush toward a sighting. Just space—open, shared, undisturbed. The kind that lets things happen on their own terms: a lion emerging from the grass, a bird lifting soundlessly into the sky. What first drew me in wasn’t the wildlife, but the architecture. The main lodge echoes the form of a resting pangolin—scaled, curved, low to the ground. Twelve guest suites are lifted slightl...

It looked unreal at first—white geometric volumes floating on still water, caught between shifting light and sea. The caption mentioned that the architect had intended to create a space deliberately detached from reality—a place designed to feel like a dream. That idea stayed with me. What does it mean to build something that feels imagined rather than inhabited? The question lingered, leading me to learn more about this unusual meeting of land and sea. Located at the southern tip of Mexico’s Baja California Peninsula, Los Cabos is a region where arid landscapes and ocean horizons coexist—a tension that defines much of its scenery, even if not every shoreline bears their immediate trace. In San José del Cabo, the quieter of the twin towns that make up Los Cabos, Viceroy Los Cabos reveals itself not so much as a hotel, but as a spatial experience suspended between elements. Designed by Mexican architect Miguel Ángel Aragonés, the resort is arranged as a series of minimalist white volume...

I first discovered Amangiri, a luxury desert hotel in Utah, through an image — one that made me stop scrolling mid-feed. A narrow stone bridge stretched across a silent, reflective pool — not between walls, but between elements. On one side, the pale concrete mass of the building; on the other, a sheer sandstone cliff anchoring the edge of the space. The walkway didn’t just lead somewhere. It led the eye — toward two dark structures and the quiet, imposing face of the canyon. Everything about the scene felt intentional: the quiet geometry, the symmetry, the contrast between surface and depth. I didn’t know where this was. But the clarity of the lines, the stillness of the water, and the way the built form yielded to the monumental desert landscape — it stayed with me. I hadn’t written about hotels or architecture before. But that desert image shifted something. It made me want to begin. Amangiri became the first place I ever wrote about — and the one that changed how I see design. Not ...