Nature has a way of producing perfect moments—when the light is just so, the temperature impeccable, and a feeling of calm envelops you. At such times, it seems as though the universe has stopped what it’s doing to grant you a moment of simple, serene existance. I don’t know what the science says about it, but I’ve always felt that if you’re in such a moment in nature, that place somehow holds a space for your reverie. It’s the same with creating moments in biophilic interiors. The reverie is the goal, and the interior just acts as a stage for it.
The magic of biophilic design goes beyond just adding plants to a room. It’s a multi-sensory experience that envelops you like a big hug. One of my favorite projects that embodies this is a wellness retreat that I visited in the countryside. The main building and the meadow behind it were as close to freed as I could imagine anything being in our highly controlled society—freed from bound pathways, freed from the expectation of a set viewing tour. It sounds like an invitation to total random access, but what I experienced was much more like wandering in nature.
Designing biophilic spaces is about creating the sensation of freedom, both mentally and physically. When we’re living life under a constant barrage of to-dos and deadlines, our daily retreat into the places we call home should provide us the kind of mental reprieve that nature can offer. . . . I think my work might mean more now that I consider it through this lens. I want people to feel the kind of liberation my designs aspire to elicit. . . . Freedom in design doesn’t mean a lone rocking chair in a corner with no possibility of freedom of movement.
It means chairs that can be turned to face different light sources, to serve different purposes at different times of day. It means a nook that feels cozy and potentially private but is open to the possibility of serving as any number of really comfortable places to be.
One home I worked on stands out in my memory because the homeowner was so enamored with water. The couple had a small garden that was undergoing a renovation, and we decided to introduce a water feature that didn’t resemble a typical fountain. Instead, we chose to create a naturalistic stream that curves through the garden in such a way that it looks and sounds like water moving over rocks and logs in a river. The gentle sound of the water, the way light plays on its surface—it looks like a model for “the fountain of calm” rather than a grandiose “top-down” fountain that you might find in an Italian Renaissance garden.
One of the things about biophilic design that people often overlook is water—unless it happens to be a breath-taking installation—yet water is undeniably grounding. Take, for instance, the effect of a simple tabletop fountain. In an office, I’ve seen a shallow tray filled with pebbles and a few drips of water, there to provide some auditory ambiance. Curiously, the human brain seems to respond to the sound of water in a way that connects us to the natural world, reminding us of its rhythms without bombarding our senses.
Next is light—perhaps the most critical element of biophilic design. I’ve always been captivated by the way light behaves in the natural world. Sunlight filtered through trees creates a patchy brilliance that is hard to describe. The setting sun casts gleaming, elongated shadows that ripple and dance as one walks through them. On an overcast day, the soft, diffused light seems to mute colors but actually also creates an unusual richness of tone. Light indoors doesn’t have to be directly sunlight to be effective—just as long as it achieves a similar quality. And what means-to-an-end type of lighting achieves that?
Luminaires (light fixtures) that use light-emitting diodes (LEDs).
One specific installation that comes to mind is a co-working space I worked on. The goal was to create a place that promoted not just productivity but also a sense of well-being. We installed large skylights that let in an ample amount of sunlight and let it shift and change throughout the day. The light bounced off various surfaces—wood, stone, glass—and created a constantly evolving interplay of shadows and reflections. Employees would often comment that they felt even more energized, revved-up, and in sync with the passing of time compared to working in other spaces that relied solely on artificial lighting.
And it wasn’t just about the sunlight—the artificial lighting was also carefully designed to mimic natural cycles, dimming in the late afternoon to create a softer, more relaxing atmosphere.
Biophilic design, of course, has plants as its most recognizable feature, but it’s not just the presence of greenery that counts. It’s how greenery is integrated into a space that makes such a difference to both biology and psychology. During my time in the restaurant business, when we engaged a designer to help create a “biophilic” vibe, it wasn’t enough to simply place a few potted plants around. The plants were given a purpose, to lead the eye in a certain direction (upward, to the softened edges of an acoustic ceiling) or to frame a certain view (the door to the walk-in cooler with a slatted, reclaimed wooden door).
Each plant was chosen with great care and felt as if it belonged there (some even have the permits to prove it).
I find it fascinating that various plants can trigger diverse feelings in people, particularly the types of feelings associated with certain species when they are employed in particular ways. For instance, a tall, A slender tree like a fiddle leaf fig or a dracaena, gives a room a certain kind of finesse, while a trailing plant—like a pothos or a philodendron—gives a space a softer, cozier, more intimate vibe. One of my favorite things to do with plants is to let the vining kind trail off from a high shelf or ledge, which brings to mind a cliff-dwelling vine and adds a certain touch of untamed beauty in a place that is otherwise very much a controlled environment.
What makes biophilic reverie particularly intriguing to me is that it taps into something deep and instinctual within humans. Whether it’s the natural texture of materials like wood or stone, the sound of the wind weaving through our homes, or the light that dances in and out of our spaces, I believe these primal elements evoke in us a response that is virtually impossible to articulate. We’re not just attracted to “natural light” for its energy-saving potential, nor to houseplants simply for their ability to detoxify. Such features bring a room alive in ways we barely comprehend because the way we “prospect” and “refuge” in a space echoes how we’ve evolved to take in and find respite in our environments, both natural and constructed.
Biophilic design seeks to reintegrate humans with their natural environment. But what is biophilic design? One definition is that it “aims to increase the incorporation of natural elements into a built environment.” This initiative ranges from building structures that incorporate diverse natural elements—like a living wall, for example—to designs in which the way a space is used emulates “nature’s rhythms.” Spaces in which we exist shape our thoughts, feelings, and even the quality of our dreams.
