As a part of our 25th-anniversary celebration, we’re republishing formative magazine stories from before our website launched. This story previously appeared in Dwell’s April 2001 issue.

In a London gripped by a feverish surge of lottery-funded, bread-and-circus building that has given the city everything from the ill-fated Millennium Dome to the Tate Modern, and against a background of an economic boom whose imminent end is now clearly being signaled by a deluge of ultra-high-rise skyscrapers, Murray Grove is so modest as to be almost invisible.

It’s a simple L-shaped block of flats, just five stories high, in a scuffed and worn-out neighborhood near London’s financial district. The flats are not large; the smallest are no more than a couple of rooms totaling less than 600 square feet. And yet Murray Grove, in the year since it was completed, continues to collect awards of every description. It has turned into an essential stop on the London architectural tourist trail. It is the subject of a raft of studies and evaluations to determine just why it has been such a success, and how its lessons can be applied to affordable new housing elsewhere. And, most importantly, it is a place in which people who can afford no more than the modest rent of $225 a week actually want to live. With its heavy concentration of twentysomethings, it would make a perfect set for a British version of Friends. 

Under the direction of a 140-year-old housing charity, Murray Grove is a project that has attempted to tackle all the great sacred cows of English housing. And remarkably, it has somehow contrived to kill them off, one by one, with a deftness that borders on ruthlessness. England’s housing, it should be understood, is still at the stage that English food was at not so long ago, before the country discovered green vegetables and extra-virgin olive oil. For the most part, it is the architectural equivalent of Spam. It doesn’t have to be this way, and certainly Murray Grove offers richer flavors. 

In the 1960s, many of the best and most idealistic of Britain’s architects devoted their careers to designing high-minded contemporary housing for the welfare state. Precisely because of their efforts, good design found itself fatally tainted with the stigma of welfare housing. Public housing was linked with modernism and so-called good design. So the private sector set out deliberately to make its housing look as un-architect-designed as possible. That meant fake Tudor, Kentucky Fried Georgian, and tacky layouts. Nobody, it seems, ever lost money underestimating the taste of the British public.

It’s a legacy that has persisted. To this day, there is a belief in Britain that when it comes to designing crowd-pleasing homes, high kitsch is a better bet than high tech.

There is an equally pervasive preconception that no self-respecting Englishman is going to opt for a flat when he can live in a house with a garden. Then there is the belief that the British want their homes built using so-called traditional building methods, preferably involving bricks laid by hand. The conviction that a prefab is not a proper home runs deep. In Britain the very word “prefab” is indelibly marked with the distant memory of wartime austerity, when returning servicemen were expected to start civilian life with their families in prefabricated houses erected on bomb sites. These homes, then, are about as welcome in the more prosperous Britain of today as wartime recipes using powdered milk.

Murray Grove has set out to demolish all of these myths. Architecturally it may not quite be Zaha Hadid, but it has clearly been designed by an architect with ability. James Pickard is a 38-year-old partner in the recently established firm of Cartwright Pickard. Interestingly, he had never designed a house of any kind before he entered the competition to build the Murray Grove Apartments. For 15 years, though, he had been convinced that Britain was not going about building houses the right way. “The northern Europeans make us look primitive,” he says. Murray Grove is the result of his personal crusade to show that there is a better way of doing things.

Location: 1455 La Mesa Street, Colorado Springs, Colorado

Price: $1,200,000

Year Built: 1951

Architect: Elizabeth Wright Ingraham

Footprint: 3,045 square feet (4 bedrooms, 3 baths)

Lot Size: 1.54 Acres

From the Agent: “Welcome to the Wood-Peterson House! This iconic 1951 midcentury-modern masterpiece is a one-of-a-kind home designed by renowned architect Elizabeth Wright Ingraham (granddaughter of famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright), nestled on an incredibly private 1.5+ acre lot with inspiring Pikes Peak views. The residence has a sprawling multilevel floor plan with multiple living spaces, four bedrooms, and three baths. Recent upgrades include a new roof (2022), gas line (2017), septic system (2015), and furnace (2016). This property has only been for sale once before, which makes this truly a rare opportunity to own a piece of Colorado Springs architectural history.”

Houses We Love: Every day we feature a remarkable space submitted by our community of architects, designers, builders, and homeowners. Have one to share? Post it here.

Project Details:

Location: Valldal, Norway

Architect: Office Inainn / @inainn.eu

Footprint: 1,367 square feet

Builder and Sound Engineer: Sunmørsalpar AS

Structural and Civil Engineer: Norconsult AS

Cabinetry Design: Limstrand Interiør AS

Photography: ONI Studio / @onistories

From the Architect: “Built without leveling the land, this hillside residence redefines what it means to build with—rather than on—the landscape. On Norway’s dramatic western coast, a new private residence by Office Inainn completes a quiet yet striking conversation between architecture and nature. Designed in collaboration with the client and completed in April 2025, the home is perched high above a fjord on a steep, rocky slope—where building is always a negotiation with the terrain.

“From the start, the team chose not to level the steep, rocky terrain—preserving its character instead of reshaping it. This decision defined the entire project. Two subtly shifted volumes follow the slope, creating natural variations in height, guiding light, and eliminating the need for added walls. Rooms emerge from the geometry itself, forming a structure that feels grown rather than built.

“Visitors approach the house along a narrow path between rock and building—a movement that continues inside as a tall, linear corridor. It’s a gentle transition from wild landscape to warm interior. Light filters in through wooden walls that reflect the changing tones of the coast, until finally the view opens wide to the fjord. Each room frames this view differently, responding to trees, terrain, and shifting light.

“Materials were locally sourced or chosen to feel native to the site—simple, tactile, and quiet. Their purpose: to enhance the atmosphere, not distract from it.”

Five years ago, architect and hotelier Chris Pardo, cofounder of the boutique ARRIVE hospitality brand (now part of the popular Palisociety hotel group), found himself knee-deep in several design projects on St. Croix. “I’ve always loved the island,” says Chris, who first learned about the tropical locale through a real estate brochure when he was just 12 years old. “As I was flipping through, I found this property for sale called the King Christian Hotel. It was forty rooms on the waterfront in St. Croix and selling for $700,000.”

Even at that young age, something drew Chris to the hotel—and the island at large—and nearly three decades later he purchased the property with plans to renovate. “I’d been in the hotel business for a while,” he says, noting that by the time the pandemic hit, he had two major hospitality projects underway on St. Croix (with plans for more) and was spending at least 50 percent of the year on the island, often crashing long-term at a buddy’s place. “That’s when I started looking for a permanent house,” Chris says. “I couldn’t just keep staying with my friend for the rest of my life. At a certain point you’re like, Okay, I’m too old to be couch surfing.”

Chris kicked off his search one night while browsing real estate listings—a hobby he admits to indulging when insomnia hits. “I was looking on auction.com,” he remembers, “and I saw this house. It was one of only three properties for sale in the U.S. Virgin Islands, and I couldn’t believe I didn’t recognize it.”

Punching the address into his phone, Chris saw that the house was perched on a cliff overlooking St. Croix’s main town, Christiansted. The image on the listing had been taken from an odd angle, making it nearly unrecognizable as the landmark villa just up from the bay, visible from the main highway. “I realized that I see this house every single day,” he says, “so I just drove up there. It was completely abandoned. The fences were all falling down, so I climbed inside and walked through it. The house wasn’t in great shape—it had plants growing through the floors, old furniture everywhere, and it needed a lot of repairs and updates.”

Despite the derelict conditions, Chris saw through the mess and knew the property had potential. “First I saw the view,” he says, noting the unobstructed sight lines to the lush green hills and bright-blue harbor. “Then, there was the swimming pool. Even though it was broken up and in bad shape, the fact that it was already there meant I could fix it.” The structure’s distinctive footprint—two round towers connected by a breezeway—and original terrazzo floors were an added bonus.

After his late-night scouting session, Chris started digging for the house’s history, sifting through Google for mentions of the property. His search led to articles about midcentury Hollywood actress Maureen O’Hara and her third husband, Charles F. Blair Jr., who moved to the island in the 1970s. Blair, an aviation pioneer made famous by his 1951 solo flight over the North Pole, had launched a commuter airline, Antilles Air Boats, in Christiansted Harbor in 1963. (“It ended up being the largest seaplane company in the world in its time,” says Chris.) The couple hired Wisconsin architect John Randal McDonald—who, in the 1940s studied under the likes of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Richard Neutra, and Louis Kahn at Yale—to design their St. Croix villa, from which O’Hara could watch her husband take off and land from the port below.

On a compact plot in the Eravipuram neighborhood of Kollam, Kerala, India, an unusual home by No Architects presents a radical new vision for social housing. Designed for a single mother and her two children, the 700-square-foot home features a vaulted roof inset with brick jaalis (latticed screens), a landscaped border, and a warm, earthen palette—offering a sense of light and space rarely found in houses of this scale and typology.

Built as a pro bono project, Koodu—which translates to “Nest”—was realized through a combination of government funding, donated materials, and, most importantly, No Architects’ commitment to making good design accessible to all.

“This project was done on a very small plot—around two cents [871 square feet] in total,” says Neenu Elizabeth, who cofounded No Architects with Harikrishnan Sasidharan. “The house itself has a footprint of just one cent. It’s really an example of small-space living.” Despite these limitations, the client needed three bedrooms, a living area, dining space, and a kitchen. 

Location: 403 Golden Gate Ave, Richmond, California

Price: $875,000

Year Built: 1980

Architect: John Nance

Renovation Date: 2025

Renovation Architect: Chad DeWitt of Framestudio

Footprint: 1,184 square feet (2 bedrooms, 1 bath)

From the Agent: “Framestudio has comprehensively redesigned the interior of unit 403 and created an architectural space that feels authentically of the period and encompasses unobtrusive contemporary technology. The Third Bay style is characterized by an interest in verticalism that architect Charles Moore once described as an ‘instant tradition of shed-roofed, free-windows, sliced cubistic forms.’ The style favored asymmetry and austere, almost brutal forms. The austerity was tempered by the domestic scale and luminous interiors, which sometimes, as with this townhouse, featured double volumes and high-level windows, which are carefully positioned to take maximum advantage of animated sunlight and shadow play. The property is within easy reach of Point Richmond, a community of creatives, artists, writers, and architects. It’s also a five-minute walk to a Bayside Beach.”

Houses We Love: Every day we feature a remarkable space submitted by our community of architects, designers, builders, and homeowners. Have one to share? Post it here.

Project Details:

Location: Point Lookout, Queensland, Australia

Architect: Blok Modular / @blokmod

Architect: Vokes and Peters

Footprint: 6,450 square feet

Builder: Blok Modular

Builder: Pagewood Projects

Structural Engineer: Optimum Structures

Civil Engineer: HCE Engineers

Hydraulic Consultant: CWA

Certifier: BCA Certifiers

Town Planner: Survey Mark

Photographer: Christopher Frederick Jones / @christopherfrederickjones

From the Architect: “Blok Three Sisters is a new multifamily modular project composed of three coastal terrace houses, constructed in the Blok Modular factory in Brisbane, Australia, and assembled on-site on Minjerribah (Stradbroke Island) by the same team. Designed for three sisters who had spent their family holidays as children in a house on the same site, the terrace houses enable their shared vacations to continue with their own children and extended families. Individually the houses are designed with agility and flexibility in mind, in anticipation of the adapting and evolving household population and demands on them to accommodate change in family dynamic.

“This project sets a benchmark for lightweight, medium-density housing on the island, providing an adaptable and resilient solution to environmental changes and challenges. Its modular design enables the structures to be elevated, relocated, or repositioned in response to potential threats such as flooding, storm surges, or rising sea levels. Each dwelling can be occupied in a number of ways to accommodate changing dynamics in each family: they can be configured as a one-bedroom apartment on ground level with two bedroom and bathroom and living above, as living downstairs with three bedrooms above, or as a four-bedroom house.Central gardens bring light, airflow, and new vegetation into the center of a long skinny plan. Glazing systems stack away to promote cross-ventilation throughout.

“At the rear of each terrace a generous double-height portico immerses the occupants in the dune vegetation and views of the Pacific Ocean and is overlooked by an elevated living room. At the upper level, a further two bedrooms are colocated with a bathroom, accommodating adult children, friends, or grandchildren. One bedroom draws its amenity from the central garden, the other looks over the street to a vegetated hillside. A defended breezeway connects all rooms of the terrace and terminates at the generous volume of the central garden.”

“The project prioritizes pedestrian and bicycle transportation by including bike storage, and not car accommodation. The master plan arranges three dwellings with direct and equal access to the dunes, providing unhindered pedestrian access to the beach.”

Welcome to Sofa Sagas—stories about the circuitous search for a very important and occasionally fraught piece of furniture.

For five years I lived in a New York apartment with furniture that had been bought to furnish a single-family home in Northern California in the early 1990s. The deal was that when my parents got divorced, they offered me a love seat that was way too big for my apartment, along with an eight-seater dining table and a bench to go with it. I guess they preferred to pay to ship the furniture 3,000 miles to a neutral party than to fight over it, and I was young, broke, and sad that my parents were getting divorced, so I said sure, what the hell. The scale of everything was off and so were the vibes.

Once it got to my place, my elderly dog—who had also recently relocated from California—peed all over the sofa twice in her final years, and instead of reupholstering it, I bought a stretchy sofa cover from Bed Bath & Beyond that was a little too small for the cushion, making it look like a giant khaki pinto bean. Not long after that, a cat I was watching for a friend did the same thing. Against the advice of all of my loved ones, I adopted a puppy, who sent the sofa to its grave, aesthetically speaking. What I’m saying is that my first couch and I began our relationship in rancid territory, emotionally and actually, and there it stayed for five years.

The one that never materialized 

Recently, my mom—the same one who shipped me her divorce couch in 2012—claimed to be a big believer that you have to be careful about the provenance of used furniture because energy “clings” to it in a way it doesn’t to other used items. So maybe it was the wack juju attached to my hand-me-down love seat that moved me finally to spring for a couch of my own. I offered to buy two friends a beer if they’d go with me to the Red Hook Ikea, and they, like me, said sure, what the hell. After we were three rounds deep, they helped me try out and subsequently order a Karlstad two-seater in a gray that I would hesitate to call life-affirming. Whatever. It would do the trick.

Of course, if that had been the end of it, you wouldn’t be reading this and I wouldn’t have spent the summer of 2018 watching The Americans on the floor. I foolishly scheduled a curbside bulk item disposal for the old couch before the new one arrived, a move not unlike quitting a job without another lined up. Thus, when I missed the delivery window of my Karlstad, I was left couchless. Then I missed the next delivery window, and the third.

When I say “missed,” I’m using Ikea’s term. Did I stay home, vigilant, for the entirety of all the designated windows? Yes. Was I on lookout for a delivery worker nigh constantly? Also yes. I barely recall blinking. Did I have my phone on me, the ringer turned up as high as it would go, in case of logistical snafu? Of course. Did I use the bathroom several times over the course of the three days in question? I’ll admit that I did, and that must have been when I “missed” the delivery of my Karlstad. I had a vacation planned that I didn’t want to skip just for my Karlstad, so I paid another friend, again in beer, to hang out at my apartment during the fourth alleged delivery window. Not wanting to take any chances, I budgeted for adult diapers.

Yet, as I pulled away from my apartment in a summer downpour, a feeling came over me as deep and as certain as love: I would never rest my butt on the Karlstad.

And lo, it came to pass. The friend texted me to say it never showed. I gave up and called Ikea to cancel my order and request a refund, feeling silly for allowing myself to be stood up by a couch I hadn’t even been that attracted to in the first place.

The one that over-promised  

After that vacation I began to see the Karlstad as a necessary detour on my road to a modular sofa system made by the direct-to-consumer brand Burrow. As one does, I saw the couch late at night, advertised to me on Instagram. At $825.27, it was much more expensive than the one I’d tried to buy from Ikea, but if I’d learned anything from l’affaire Karlstad it was that you get what you pay for. Burrow promised that the sofa would grow with me—that I could buy a love seat now and then get a middle piece to make it a three-seater later when I upgraded to a bigger place. Burrow was hopeful for my future, believing I wouldn’t live in a rathole forever. It promised to stay with me not just for now, but for years to come. More than that, even—it was willing to change itself alongside me. On September 11, I ordered a love seat in charcoal.

A week later, a Burrow customer service ambassador named David emailed me to apologize for what he anticipated to be a shipping delay of several days caused by the landfall of Hurricane Florence, and offering me a $50 refund for my trouble. I assured him it was no problem and conveyed my hope that the Burrow team was staying safe.

When it arrived, the Burrow love seat felt easy immediately, and finally, I could rest my weary ass. I was so thrilled, in fact, that I emailed Burrow customer service ambassador David to let him know it had arrived, something I’d never done before and haven’t done since. I wrote:

Hi David,

God bless burrow[sic]! Our order arrived today, earlier than expected, and was a snap to put together. After two months and one refund from a company I will not name other than to say it rhymes with shmi-shmea, I am so glad we bought a couch from you guys.

Kelly

David did not write back. He had either died in Hurricane Florence or been rendered speechless by the depth of my sentiment. Instead, someone named Tara responded:

Hi Kelly,

Thank you for your email!

We are so happy you are enjoying your Burrow couch! If there is anything at all we can assist you with, please let us know.

Best,
Tara

As it turned out, I would need Tara’s assistance sooner than either of us could have known.

With my Burrow couch beneath my butt and the wind at my back, life started looking up. So much so that within a few months of purchase, my husband and I did, indeed, move to a bigger apartment. (I got a great job that my Burrow couch believed I deserved, so now I could afford it.) To celebrate, we navigated to Burrow’s homepage with the intention of buying an additional module for the sofa we had been assured repeatedly was modular.

But there was a problem. Although it had been less than a year since we’d bought (the initial two thirds of) the couch of our dreams, Burrow had since stopped manufacturing the model we had. In its place was something called the Nomad. The Nomad looked basically the same as the sofa we’d bought fewer than 365 calendar days earlier, so it felt like a good bet that a Nomad part would be compatible with our existing love seat. This was not, it turned out, a good bet. In our subsequent dealings with two different customer service ambassadors, neither of whom was my beloved David, we discovered the following:  

It looks like you have our original version of the sofa which has sold out in the past month. We have switched to our Nomad collection which is not backwards compatible so seats would not be able to be added into your existing piece.

I sat on my existing piece, a humbled woman. I didn’t know what “not backwards compatible” meant but I considered reassuring Burrow that maybe it could be that if it just tried. I thought about buying the Nomad middle piece anyway, even though it wasn’t backwards compatible, and then forcing it into the middle of the old love seat, and hoping for the best. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that is no way to live. I burned with embarrassment. I was a cliché. How quickly summer’s promises of lifelong love had fizzled the moment one party actually asked for what the other had promised in the heat of passion.

The one that f*cked me

I lived with my stumpy little Burrow couch for two more non-mind-blowing years without complaint. But in May 2020, it started to look like I was going to be sitting on this thing indefinitely, and I began to seriously consider a sofa that I could settle down with—for good. I put the word out that I needed a new couch, and a friend who lived in a fancy downtown building came through within days. A woman in her building—whom I’ll call Susan—needed to get rid of a West Elm sleeper sofa in the lightest shade of gray the mind can conjure because she decided she actually wanted it in white. If I could pay in advance, be there by Friday, and move it myself, it could be mine for a mere $300.

Susan lived in the kind of building where you have to email the doorman to alert him that you’re coming and request permission to use the service elevator. My husband and I rented a cargo van, and we showed up in the Financial District on a record-breakingly rainy day, in full personal protective equipment (also required by the building). Susan had assured us that two able-bodied adults could for sure lift the couch, and since this was pre-vaccine Covid, we didn’t want to dragoon anyone else into the project. It was just us.

When Susan answered the door to her apartment, it was immediately clear that she’d never lifted anything in her life. Not to mention, she was clutching her stomach, informing us that she’d recently had a hysterectomy so she couldn’t help us move it. Fine fine fine! We waved her away. Put your feet up, Susan, we’ll take it from here. Can we get you anything? 

The apartment was outfitted in the kind of textiles that made me wonder if Eileen Fisher makes rugs (she doesn’t). It had a terrace that wrapped around generous, clean windows. A beige French bulldog I suspected had been chosen for his color waddled around, growling unconvincingly. Despite the presence of the widest crystal wine glasses known to man hanging in the kitchen, it wouldn’t have shocked me to learn that red wine wasn’t permitted on the premises. All of this filled me with great joy. I was about to get a basically free couch from the world’s most tasteful, anal-retentive owner.

And then my husband went to lift it. Not to brag, but this is a guy who spent 10 years working in a trade profession that required hours a day of heavy lifting, and he was good at it. And yet, he could not move this thing even a centimeter off the floor. Susan apologized again for her hysterectomy getting in the way of offering help, but also warned us to be careful not to “scratch”(???) the rug under the couch in a tone I wouldn’t personally use with someone I liked. We regrouped. Susan’s wince deepened. The couch needed to be out that day, she reminded us, because the white(r) one was scheduled to be dropped off in the afternoon. I called the doorman wondering if there was any chance he could help us. No, but he could lend us his little hand truck. We took him up on it, preferring not to think about the three flights of stairs that awaited us once we got back to our apartment.

I probably don’t need to tell you that the hand truck did nothing. The couch appeared to be getting heavier each time we tried to lift it. We had to give up. We apologized to Susan for bothering her, and asked if she might refund us our $300, which Susan (naturally) refused. Her argument was that she now had to go to the trouble of getting the new couch delivery people to take the old couch out, too, and that was easily worth like a grand. Plus, we’d probably exposed her to Covid and scratched her rug. We had no choice but to return to our cargo van, out $300—plus the cost of the van rental—for a couch we’d never have the pleasure of sitting on. I forwarded my correspondence with Susan to a lawyer friend who was sympathetic, but not that sympathetic. “You never pay in advance,” she wrote, before reminding me that although she was a lawyer, she was not my lawyer.

Life keeps going 

I’ll cut to the chase: after three failed attempts at getting a big, luxurious couch without shelling out for a big, luxurious couch, we finally shelled out for a big, luxurious couch. For a few weeks running I’d been flirting with a sofa called the Sofa, manufactured by a company called Floyd. Based in Detroit, Floyd makes beds and end tables and bookshelves and sofas that theoretically you can put together yourself and feel like the kind of person who could, if she were just a little bit cooler or more artsy, live in Detroit herself.

Although the Sofa promised me it was stain-resistant, I ordered swatches of every fabric color they offered and rubbed them all over my dog, Louise, to see which picked up her black hair most easily. Blue seemed to be the most Louise-resistant, so I went for that. The actual Sofa took forever to arrive because it was 2021 and the global supply chain was in tatters, but once it did, it was easy to put together. It tucked perfectly into a little corner of my living room under the window. It was elevated above the floor on little steel legs so it gave an airy impression, even as it looked cozy snuggled up under a reading light. I was delighted. It had been so long since I’d sat on a couch other than my own that I had no point of reference for whether it was comfortable or not. At this point in my saga, that felt beside the point anyway. I owned a couch.

Given my history with couches, I doubt you’ll be shocked to learn that I didn’t really like the Sofa in the end. It turned out not to be all that comfortable, it didn’t fold out into a bed, and it didn’t have storage. Blue or not, Lou made it disgusting. But it was ours, and over the next five years, our whole life happened there. I longed for a baby on that couch, and I sat on it to give myself IVF shots when the longing didn’t work. I got good news on that couch and bad. I lost a job on that couch and got another. When I brought the baby home from the hospital, it was the first place we plunked ourselves down. I dropped a spring roll on the baby’s head while sitting on that couch. The baby rolled off it once. Every time the baby met a member of her family, it was on that couch. Her uncle slept there for a week to help us out, and both my husband’s mom and mine slept there more nights than I can count. As I type this, my mom is convalescing from a broken shoulder on that couch. (She would never have fit on the love seat she sent me in 2012.) When the baby, who is no longer a baby, gets home from preschool this evening, it will be the only place in our apartment where she will ever hold her body still. I don’t really like the couch, but I do love it. I doubt I’ll ever get rid of it.

More Sofa Sagas:

It Took Three Moves in Three Years to Find the Right Couch For Me

My Dream Sofa, the Couch Doctor, and Me

Location: 3107 Colyar Drive, Chattanooga, Tennessee

Price: $1,077,000

Year Built: 1968

Renovation Date: 2025

Renovation Designers: Gary & Jennifer Crowe

Footprint: 2,268 square feet (4 bedrooms, 3 baths)

Lot Size: 0.25 Acres

From the Agent: “Perched on scenic Missionary Ridge, this architectural jewel has been meticulously rebuilt from the studs up and is fully renovated and move-in ready. Bossa honors the soul and history of the era while seamlessly integrating elevated amenities. The striking facade—with clean, minimalist lines cantilevered over native stone—sets the tone for what lies within: four spacious bedrooms, three luxury baths, and two large living spaces offering functionality and elegance. At the heart of the home lies an open-concept kitchen with designer appliances, custom cabinetry, and a layout that inspires connection. Walls of glass frame sweeping, unobstructed views of Lookout Mountain. Every element, from curated lighting to bespoke finishes, speaks to enduring style and contemporary artistry.”