Kelly and I met when were working together at KPMB. Kelly was at the time an interior designer and I was an intern architect. Kelly had already worked for Gensler doing interiors in New York, and after KPMB she ended up moving onto Yabu Pushelberg. Afterwards, she gradually started doing small-interiors commissions and working on her projects — just out of the apartment at first. Then, Kelly became really inspired to become an architect, and so she went to do her master’s degree at UBC, where she enjoyed being in studios with Patricia Patkau. It was a really great design education.

In the meantime, I was still at KPMB, which was a really great learning experience for me. But then, I had some losses in the family. First, my parents in the early 2000s, and then my sister. I felt suddenly orphaned in my 30s, and it was a lot to take in. I wanted to recalibrate my life, so I took myself out of architectural practice for a while. During all that, Kelly still had some small jobs going in Toronto while she was in school out west. At that point, I said, “Well, I’m not really doing anything right now? Maybe I can help you with these projects?” So I started to do a little bit of work in residential architecture, which was completely new to me, coming from a background of doing large institutional projects with KPMB.

When Kelly was back in Toronto, we were working together out of my family home. And it was just the two of us. And then you start dealing with invoices and claiming taxes, One night, I realized — I think we have to make this into a business. And then we both asked: How does that work? I don’t know. I think we have to incorporate. What does that mean? I’m not sure, but I think it’ll be better for us. It was very much off the cuff. Neither of us knew much about the business side of things.

So we just started by incorporating the company, naming it with our initials, and going from there. But right around that time, one of Kelly’s clients, who were doing some interior renovation work for, was living in a gorgeous Shim-Sutcliffe house. And for Kelly, working on a really respectful renovation of that project offered a great introduction to get our work out there, and to get to know a really design-savvy local clientele. It eventually led to our first ground-up project, the Alpine Chalet.

Of the two of us, I was probably the more impatient one about getting new work, and creating a viable business. And Kelly was really committed to being disciplined about doing the right type of projects — and looking for unique opportunities, even if they were really small or something we had little experience in.  And sometimes the smallest project can end up bringing you the most attention, which was the case with the Story Pod pop-up.

It’s Kelly that really leads with the design vision — and she’s a wonderful designer and design teacher, with great attention to detail. Whereas I have a strong aptitude for the hands-on technical side of things, understanding the construction processes and how things fit together. I’m there to support the design, and to make things look easy and seamless. If something is supposed to float, how can I make it float?

So I think the combination of these things gives our work a signature — and a level of detailing that perhaps distinguishes our homes from most of what’s built in Toronto and across North America. There’s also a robustness in how we shelter buildings from the elements, and a care in how we respond to the local climate, which maybe has more similarities with Scandinavian design than American houses.

So we often get this comment that our work looks like “It’s not from here.” From the style or the level of detail, people assume that the architects who designed this house came from Denmark or Sweden, or something like that. When people will ask where we’re from, they’re surprised when I tell them “Actually, we live just down the street.”

Another thing that really struck me about residential work is the level of intimacy that goes into it — which is something we always try to focus on. The details and the design approach draw from the deeply personal exercise of knowing your clients as people and understanding what kind of space they need. It’s something that was new to me, coming from a background working in large-scale institutional projects. There’s no user group or committee or bureaucracy here. You’re just sitting and listening to people, paying attention. I think a lot of good residential design comes out of that.

Of course, you never think you’re going to get sick, or get diagnosed with something like this. And it was hard to sit and dwell in those feelings. You know, I lost my parents and my sister relatively early on, and I always channelled those energies into something else. In a way starting the studio — which happened during that time — was part of that process. I thought, “Okay. We forge forward.”

And then a lot of really busy and wonderful years came out of that. We had a family, and when you have kids it’s easy to attribute a lot of feelings to being burned out or tired. But I’d be moving slower, my back felt stiff, and I was feeling really fatigued. And, I guess I had a typically dismissive male response to it, like a lot of guys would. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” Stuff like that. Then, at one point Kelly noticed that my left arm wasn’t swinging at all when I walked. It was just completely stiff.

Still, I denied it for years. But the symptoms persisted. I was always tired. And it doesn’t help that Parkinson’s is pretty elusive to diagnose, because there’s no definitive test for it. There’s a cluster of symptoms that typically characterize it — there’s seven or eight boxes that you have to check. You do a whole series of appointments. And then they give you a dopamine pill. “Does that work?”  If it works, you have Parkinson’s. And in the last appointment, that’s what all the doctors said. “You have Parkinson’s.”

In that moment, a strange sort of silence fills the room. It’s kind of like in the movies, where everyone’s voices disappear into a muffled buzz somewhere in the background, and you’re left sitting there completely alone in your thoughts, trying to process it all. Fuck. Parkinson’s. I didn’t even really know what it is. And I didn’t have anyone in the family who’d had it, so I felt even more alone in it. But I didn’t feel alone for long — Kelly is my partner in business and in life, and I’m surrounded by a loving family and friends.

Well, as time went on, my symptoms became more obvious. While I’m really lucky that I don’t have tremors, like a lot of people with Parkinson’s do, it was becoming more obvious that something’s happening. Like I’m in a meeting where I’m bobbing my head all the time. So people start wondering: “Are you paying attention?” As that type of stuff started happening more, at a certain point I started opening up about it and explaining it. “Yeah, I’m paying attention. It’s not a neurological disease — it’s a movement disorder.” And first it was just friends and family,  but last year I started telling more people, and telling our clients — all of whom have been really good about it. And a weight lifted as I did that.

And then, just by happenstance, one day this year I was playing football with my eight-year-old son, his friend and his friend’s father in the park. And I tripped and fell, and I said “damn Parkinson’s.” And the other dad said “Parkinson’s.” And I said “Oh I’m sorry, I though you already knew.” By that point I’d talked to most of the other parents at school, but I guess I’d just forgotten to tell him. Well, turns out he’s a casting director, and he’s actually looking for a guy somewhere around the ages of 40 or 50 to star in a commercial about Parkinson’s disease. But I didn’t think too much of it at the time, we finished playing football and went home.

Anyway, a couple of weeks later I get a text: Could I make an audition tape? And I thought “Well, okay.” And sort of on a whim I asked my daughter to film me walking to some music. She’s 13 and TikTok savvy, and she did a really impressive job of editing it. I told her I’d give her $100 if I got the part. But in my head, I’m thinking “No way she’s getting that $100.” Two days later I get a phone call asking if I can come down for wardrobe that Friday. Then all of a sudden we’re making a video, right here in the west end of Toronto. And the next thing I know, a few months later it’s playing on TV during the Olympics.

As a business owner, I’m really lucky to be able to adjust my schedule and my responsibilities in a way that meets my needs and makes me comfortable. And I’m still able to work. But there’s lots of people in my Parkinson’s support group, which I go to every month, who don’t have that luxury. A lot of people are really hesitant to tell their colleagues or bosses, so they try to conceal it as much as they can. And it makes sense, because once you say you have Parkinson’s, it’s very easy to be overlooked. For others to think that they can’t perform their functions and meet their responsibilities. And there’s still a lack of ways to deal with it proactively in a workplace setting. So unfortunately, the stigma remains a reality, especially for people with early onset Parkinson’s. It’s one thing to have it when you’re 80 – it’s another thing entirely to get diagnosed at 40 or 50.

Well, I don’t know if we’re thinking differently about design per se — or that we necessarily have different values. But it does change things. The most obvious example is our new house, which we’re designing with the progression of the disease in mind. We’re building an elevator and thinking about what my accessibility needs may be down the line.

But there are also certain principles we’ve always had as designers, which maybe take on a deeper meaning now. Kelly and I have always believed in generous spaces. We’re always looking for more light, more openness. And that’s based in an idea of human comfort that has nothing to with meeting code minimums. It’s about human minimums. And it’s about spaces that people can feel comfortable in. And that sense of comfort — that generosity — also means accommodating different levels of ability and embracing accessibility.

We’re very mindful of creating spaces that are free of bumps and jogs, door jambs that can snag your shoulder. And that here’s no kicks in the furniture, stuff like that. These are ergonomic issues, but it’s also a matter of inclusivity. So part of why you’d make the hallway a little bit wider, for example, is because you accommodate people more easily. And part of why you design interiors with a strong relationship to nature — and an open view of the trees and the landscape — is because not everyone is able to spend a lot of time outdoors.

There are people in my Parkinson’s support group whose range of mobility is close to zero. They have to live their lives lying down. So when we create generous spaces in bedrooms, bathrooms or hallways, it’s not just a matter of luxury or opulence — it’s about making room for people. I think that’s what generosity really means.