Clouded Towels

There’s something quietly grounding about a stack of towels—ordinary, useful, waiting. In this moment they feel less like linens and more like weather: deep teal piled into soft hills, with a window beyond them holding its own muted greens.

The palette is simple, but it doesn’t feel empty. Dark blue like shade under trees. A calm, worn teal. A pale wash of light that could be sky or steam. Even the smallest strip of off-white reads like a pause—breath between seasons.

“Clouded Towels” makes me think of the way everyday things collect atmosphere. You don’t notice it while you’re moving through your day, but it’s there: the damp quiet after a shower, the hush of a room before anyone wakes, the soft persistence of fabric that’s been washed and used and folded again.

Outside the glass, the world looks slightly distant, as if it’s being remembered instead of watched. Inside, the colors settle into each other, not trying to be bright, just trying to be true.

If you’re building a space—home, studio, routine—this is a gentle reminder that design doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s a stack of towels and the light that falls across them, and the feeling that something ordinary can still hold a little mystery.