Before I start designing your remodel, I need to do something that might seem like overkill to some people:
I need to really, deeply understand your house.
Not just measure it. Not just walk through it once and take some notes. I need to visit multiple times. I need to absorb what the architecture is trying to express. I need to see how you actually live in the space. I need to figure out what's working, what's failing, and what the house is trying to be.
This discovery process isn't busywork. It's not me padding my hours. It's the foundation that makes everything else possible.
Here's what it looks like and why it matters.
The First Site Visit: Discovery and Observation
The first time I visit your property, I'm not there to design anything. I'm there to listen.
I'm listening to what the architecture is saying. I'm observing how light moves through the space. I'm noticing circulation patterns—how you move from room to room, where things feel awkward, where the flow works.
But just as importantly, I'm watching how you live in the house.
If it's a house you currently live in, I want to see you in your space. I want to understand your routines, your habits, your lifestyle. I want to see the mismatch between how you want to live and how the house is forcing you to live.
Even if it's a new purchase and you're not living there yet, I want to visit your current home. Because how you live now tells me a lot about what you'll need in the future.
This is all discovery. I'm absorbing. I'm immersing myself. I'm starting to build a mental picture of what needs to happen.
The 3D Scan: Building the Foundation
After that initial visit, I'll typically have the house scanned.
Sometimes clients have existing floor plans and drawings from when the house was originally built. That's great—we can use those as a starting point.
But most of the time, they don't. So I bring in a 3D scanner and capture the entire house—interior and exterior—so I have accurate dimensions to work with.
This gives me a base to start playing with. I can start sketching over the floor plans, testing ideas, seeing what's feasible within the existing footprint.
But the scan is just data. It doesn't tell me what the house wants to be. That takes more time.
The Follow-Up Visit: Feeling the Space
Shortly after the scan, I'll come back to the property again. This time, I'm spending longer. I'm walking through every room—multiple times. I'm standing in corners. I'm looking out windows. I'm feeling the wind. I'm watching how light and shadow move through the space.
I'm asking myself questions:
Why does this room feel off?
Is it the size? The proportions? The light?
How does circulation flow—or not flow?
What's the relationship between inside and outside?
Where are the moments of delight, and where are the pain points?
It usually takes a couple of visits before I really get a house. There's too much complexity to absorb in one go.
I think about it like how filmmaker Quentin Tarantino watches movies. He sees every movie twice in the theater. The first time, he goes alone—just to experience the movie in a pure, direct sense. The second time, he goes with friends and colleagues for a more social, analytical experience.
Houses are the same way. You need multiple passes before you truly understand what you're working with.
Why This Matters
You might be thinking, "This seems like a lot of effort just to start designing."
And you're right—it is a lot of effort. But here's why it's worth it:
This analysis is what leads to interesting solutions and smart design.
If I skip this phase and just start drawing based on your wish list, I'm guessing. I'm throwing darts in the dark. I might get lucky, but I probably won't.
But if I do the work upfront—if I understand the house, the site, the light, the flow, and your lifestyle—then I'm designing from a solid foundation of real information.
That makes the design process faster, more efficient, and more effective. It also leads to solutions that actually solve the problem instead of just checking boxes off a list.
The Three Types of Houses
Through this discovery process, I'm also trying to figure out what kind of house I'm working with.
In my experience, houses fall into one of three categories:
Type 1: Houses with Strong Architectural Identity
Some houses have a very clear, very strong architectural character. You can tell an architect designed it. Every corner, every detail, every gesture is intentional.
When I encounter a house like this, my responsibility is to honor and respect what's there.
I'm not going to come in and ignore the existing identity. I'm going to enhance it. I'm going to make it feel more contemporary where needed, update finishes, improve functionality—but I'm going to do it in a way that feels like the house was always meant to be this way.
I had a project like this recently. The clients loved their house—they'd been living there for years. It had been designed by an architect, and you could tell. It was special.
But some finishes were outdated. Some elements felt incomplete. It didn't quite fit their lifestyle anymore.
My job wasn't to redesign the house. It was to finish the story.
I added the missing pieces—the right light fixtures, the right materials, the right spatial tweaks—so the house felt complete. When we were done, the clients said it felt like we'd found the last pieces of a puzzle they didn't even know were missing.
And no one could tell which elements were original and which were new. That's the goal.
Type 2: Houses with Confused Identity
The second type of house is one that's trying to have an architectural identity, but it's not quite there.
These houses have shadows or slivers of interesting ideas. There are three or four or five different design gestures happening at once—white rotated boxes on one side, a completely different thing on the front facade, another thing on the back patio, and a kitchen that doesn't relate to any of it.
It's unclear. It doesn't feel cohesive. And when you live in a space like that, you feel it. You can't always articulate what's wrong, but something's off.
When I encounter a house like this, my job is to act like an archaeologist. I'm digging through the layers, figuring out which gestures are the strongest, which ones align with the client's vision, and which ones we need to let go of.
Sometimes I push one of those languages forward and make it stronger. Sometimes I reject most of them and focus on the one that makes the most sense.
The goal is clarity. A house—like a story—needs a clear thesis. It needs a beginning, middle, and end. Everything should serve the larger narrative.
Most houses that feel "off" don't have that clarity. They're trying to do too many things at once.
Type 3: Houses with No Identity
The third type—and honestly the most common—is the house with no architectural identity at all.
These are the generic, vanilla, market-ready houses. The ones that were renovated before being sold. Fresh paint, updated kitchen, new bathroom. Clean. Neutral. Appealing to the widest possible audience.
And that's the point—they're designed to appeal to anyone, which means they don't have a personality.
There's nothing wrong with these houses. But if you're someone who wants your home to feel personal, to reflect who you are, you're going to have to give it an identity.
In these cases, I'm starting almost from scratch. I'm creating a vision. But even then, I'm not pulling ideas out of thin air. I'm still looking at the site, the views, the client's lifestyle, and weaving all of that into a larger narrative.
Understanding Comes Before Creating
Here's the thing: I can't design a good remodel without understanding the house first.
I need to know what it's trying to be. I need to know where it's succeeding and where it's failing. I need to know how you live and what you need.
All of that takes time. It takes multiple visits. It takes careful observation.
But it's worth it. Because when the design process starts, I'm not guessing. I'm working from a deep well of understanding.
And that's what leads to transformations that actually work.