The Things We Make Space For
The Art of Noticing
A journal of travel, observation, and creative practice
Last fall, I signed up for my first art retreat in Vietnam. I was excited to paint, meet other artists, and spend a week making things. I didn't realize I was about to rediscover something I'd been missing.
Sometimes the best discoveries are just one turn away.
Leaving the busy plaza behind, we wandered into a quiet street where trees stretched overhead, plants spilled from balconies, and everyday life unfolded beneath a canopy of color. It's these unexpected moments that stay with me long after a trip ends.
After spending the afternoon exploring Hanoi, most of our group headed back to the hotel.
Jacqui decided to walk.
“I’ll walk too,” I said.
I love walking.
A few minutes later, we turned down a side street beside the basilica, and everything changed.
The busy plaza gave way to quiet conversation. Trees stretched overhead, plants spilled from balconies and old walls, and layers of color softened the buildings around us. It felt like someone had tucked an urban secret garden into the middle of the city.
I stopped. I usually do.
I have a habit of slowing down and then speeding up again. I’ll stop for a shadow, a storefront painted just the right shade of peacock green, or a row of motorbikes lined up in perfect rhythm. I’ll stand there for another minute, take a photo, and then jog a few steps to catch up.
Some places ask you to slow down.
A weathered wall becomes a gallery. Empty frames become sculpture. Motorbikes line up in perfect rhythm, while plants and faded paint soften every edge. I wasn't looking for a landmark. I was collecting ingredients.
My camera roll is probably really boring to anyone else scrolling through it. Tiny plants growing through concrete. A pink bicycle because it perfectly matched the storefront behind it. Empty picture frames hanging on an old brick wall. My mom has teased me for years about stopping to photograph sidewalk cracks.
She’s not wrong.
I’ve always been drawn to the details that quietly transform ordinary places into something memorable.
Meanwhile, life was full. My career in interior design grew, leadership responsibilities expanded, and every year seemed to move a little faster than the one before. I never stopped noticing. But somewhere along the way, I stopped lingering long enough to see where those observations might lead.
Around that same time, I found myself making things again. One watercolor became another. Sketchbooks started filling up. Then I stumbled into surface pattern design and immediately recognized something familiar. Pattern had always been a part of my world. As an interior designer, I’d spent years thinking about rhythm, scale, materiality, and how people experience space.
It wasn't a new way of seeing. It was a new willingness to follow where my curiosity wanted to go.
The best souvenirs are the ones you make yourself.
This spread began as a quick stop on a quiet side street in Hanoi and became something I could return to long after I came home. Painting it wasn't about recreating every detail. It was about holding onto the feeling of the place. The weathered wall, the rhythm of the motorbikes, the bright frames, and the little moments that made me stop and look a little longer.
I've started thinking about travel differently. Instead of trying to see everything, I'm more interested in slowing down long enough to notice what most people walk past.
A trip to Japan this past spring expanded that idea even further. Wandering neighborhoods, learning mokuhanga, and spending time with local artists reminded me that inspiration isn’t something you find once. It’s something you practice noticing.
I’ve started thinking of these moments as ingredients.
Not destinations. Ingredients for whatever comes next.
The color of weathered concrete.
The rhythm of parked scooters.
The way vines soften old brick.
The quiet that exists just one street away from the noise.
I’m not trying to document a place exactly. I’m trying to remember what it felt like to be there.
Sometimes those ingredients become a watercolor. Sometimes a pattern. Sometimes a journal page. Sometimes they simply become part of the way I see.
That’s why I love travel journals. They’re less about recording every detail and more about holding onto a feeling. Looking back through those pages feels like taking the walk all over again.
Some memories stay with me because of the places. Others stay because of the colors.
A quiet meal carefully arranged on a tray. Buckets overflowing with flowers in every direction at the train station. These pages aren't meant to document a trip. They're a way of slowing down long enough to notice the small details that make a place feel alive.
The funny thing is that I don't think I've changed all that much. I've always noticed color, rhythm, texture, and the quiet places tucked between the busy ones. I've just started giving those moments somewhere to go.
Sketching instead of only snapping photos.
Wandering instead of following the shortest route.
Learning something new simply because it sounds interesting.
Staying curious.
And somewhere along the way, I realized that the more space I make for creativity, the more deeply I experience the world around me.
These days, I still stop for sidewalk cracks. I still notice shadows. I still take too many photos of worn surfaces and tiny plants. The difference is that I’ve started making space for what comes after the noticing.
A sketch, a journal page, a pattern, a block print, a watercolor. A walk that takes a little longer than expected.
If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll slow down once in a while, too.
You never know what you’ll find just around the corner.
♥ Rebekah
