with Hyun

I’ve written about art. I’ve written about architecture.  But I never really thought about the buildings that hold the art—the museums themselves. It hit me one day, quietly: what does it mean to design a space for looking?  Not just any space, but one that invites pause, attention, and maybe even awe. I started digging. One name kept coming up—The Whitney Museum of American Art.  I’d heard of it before, somewhere between a press release and a passing mention. Designed by Renzo Piano. Set against the High Line in New York. That was enough to get me curious.  So I looked closer—and the architecture was just as interesting as the art inside. Architecture in Harmony with the City The Whitney sits quietly at the edge of the Meatpacking District, between the start of the High Line and the slow, wide movement of the Hudson River. From some angles, it looks industrial—paneled in pale steel and slightly off balance. From others, it feels like a stack of terraces op...

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...