A collection is rarely about the cars.

It's usually about where someone was standing when they bought the first one — a paddock, a showroom floor, a father's driveway. I start every project by asking what the collection means before I ask what it needs. The room that comes out of that conversation is different from the one that comes out of a square-footage discussion.

Most collections live in storage with good lighting.

I spent years designing museum exhibitions, and the discipline transfers directly. Dark surfaces recede so an object advances. Sightlines get composed rather than inherited. A room can be painted light and still be lit dark, which is how a car ends up looking like the only thing in it. This is a craft with rules, and most garages are built without knowing they exist.

Reverence without warmth is a tomb.

A space that only worships its contents is unpleasant to spend time in, and collectors don't want a mausoleum. They want somewhere to go. So the gallery gets a bar. The showroom gets a sofa deep enough to lose a Sunday in. The best rooms I've built are the ones people stay in after they've finished looking.

Luxury isn't softness.

It's how well something was made. A garage that hides its ladders behind full-height drapery is more luxurious than one with an expensive floor, because someone thought about the problem. I'd rather solve something invisible than specify something expensive.

These rooms should still be right in fifteen years.

I take a small number of projects a year, which is the only way to work at this depth. These aren't trend-driven interiors. They're environments built to hold up as the collection changes and the person doesn't.