I still remember the feeling of dread washing over me like a tidal wave whenever I replay that phone call in my mind. The clock read 8:37 PM on a Wednesday, after a hectic day I relaxed with a glass of wine and Netflix when suddenly my clients name popped on the phone screen. Sarah never called past working hours unless there was some kind of emergency.
“Um, David? We have a situation with the accent wall,” she said, her voice tense. “Ben just sliced his arm open on it. We’re in the ER getting stitches.”
The accent wall, all done in vibrant reclaimed barn wood, volcanic stone fragments, and unpolished slate that I had painstakingly foraged from a quarry outside of Portland. It was a stunning textural masterpiece, and a testament of my creativity that I ever so adored.
Goodness, those slate pieces. What was going on in my mind?
Defending myself (not that I possess a strong defense), I remember being fixated in the creation of a tactile experience, concerned with stimulating each of Sarah and Ben’s five senses as if they were literally transported into the nature-inspired living room surrounding them, enabling them to virtually caress the mountainsides. I simply zeroed in on the sensory experience to the extent of completely ignoring fundamental safety considerations.
That blunder (which, thank goodness, only culminated in seven stitches and an painfully awkward discussion about professional liability insurance) has reframed entirely how I consider tactile elements in my biophilic design disasters. And quite frankly? It showed me more than the real essence of texture in design that I acquired from my elaborate degree or elaborate design workshops.
Allow me to rewind for a moment. For as long as I can remember, how things feel has been a step above important to me. My mom loves sharing the story about how they would take me shopping, and I wouldn’t stop trying to touch every piece of clothing available. Not looking, but actually touch. I have a vivid memory of being 5 years old and spending about 45 minutes just feeling different kinds of sweaters until the store manager very diplomatically urged them to “perhaps shop elsewhere.”
This intrigue with texture followed me to adulthood and, much later, my design career. It felt as though I uncovered a professional home when I stumbled upon biophilic design 7 years ago. There was this entire philosophy built around connecting humans to nature through constructing buildings and…oh boy, texture was a mandatory part of that connection!
What I had not quite understood until, The Great Slate Incident of 2022 (which my team has started calling it so humorously), is that texture in biophilic design is not so much about exact nature replication. It’s more about creating sensory experiences that foster our connections to the natural world while still addressing some very practical human requirements—such as, you know, avoiding the emergency room.
While getting coffee with Tina, my coworker who is far more experienced in this field, tried to help me understand what went through my mind during the incident. “Tina, I couldn’t stop looking at the texture,” I said, “and it ruined everything for me.” “You were thinking like a sculptor, not a designer,” she remarked as she stirred her latte. “It’s not about creating a replica of nature; it’s about reconstructing the environment with elements that will trigger the same psychological and physiological reactions within us as in nature.”
My brain wasn’t working correctly as I needed it to. Triggers like the rough bark of a tree, smooth river stones or soft moss, are part of nature’s plethora of textures, and all lead our body to respond in some way. Calmness, energy, feeling grounded, a sense of presence, these are all tones of reactions that can be evoked, but not a perfectly pristine version of what is found in nature. That’s the nature of biophilic texture.
Ever since my blunder in design, I have been extremely rigorous with how I incorporate texture into my plans, and every element has to do with touch. Firstly, safety, emotional response, complementary contrasts and maintenance. The most important thing is how these actually relate to real projects.
I’ve worked on many projects but a law office renovation in Portland stands out. Right in the center of the city, I was tasked with incorporating “nature-inspired designs not commonly found in law firms,” on the lines of what the managing partner wanted. The basic challenge was to evoke nature while still achieving a professional look and feel appropriate for a high volume commercial space.
To achieve this goal, I proposed a design that featured polished concrete floors made of Oregon oak while using wool felt for the reception desks and moss wall accents. The reception desks and conference tables were strategically placed to soften the transition into reception and waiting areas, allowing easy maneuverability, preserving tactile engagement, and protecting against inadvertent bumps. Hiding what I considered to be the last vestige of law in reception—imposing oak chairs—I replaced them with Patricia Urquiola’s glass gondolas which perch above the floor on brushed stainless steel stalks, shifting in form and feeling with movement.
Now the illusions of nature were far removed from the space with maintenance issues nowhere to be found. A video I recorded of some of the emotional responses the space has induced were truly jaw dropping. To my fascination and delight, James, one of the associate attorneys, informed me how clients tend to soften when they reach for the oak conference table during meetings—fascinating, isn’t it?
“There’s this almost imperceptible moment where they are rhythmically tapping their fingers, and then they go full palm splay onto the table. You can, quite literally, see their shoulders dropping,” he noted. “I swear we have easier conversations regarding settlements these days.”
This touches on something that’s deeply woven into biophilic design that has been a little too consuming for me: its impact on the brain. It is really fascinating and changing simply how different types of textures interact with our nervous systems.
Natural wood, for instance, has been proven in numerous studies to alleviate systolic blood pressure and stress hormone levels through the simple act of touching. The greater the effect is for unfinished wood where the grain pattern is highly tactile, but even soft finished wood with grains is soothing to the effects on one’s psyche.
My friend Miguel, a neuroscientist at OHSU, explained it to me this way: “When we come into contact with natural materials like wood or stone, the patterns imbedded within these materials do not follow a set order. Furthermore, our brains interprets this stimulus differently in comparison to touching synthetic materials where patterns are perfectly arranged and uniform. The brain regions linked to positive emotions and relaxation are activated by touch of natural materials.”
This is the reason why I am personally invested in the search for what I refer to as “honest textures”; surfaces and materials that, in their tactile qualities, reveal their true natures. Synthetic attempts trying to imitate what nature provides but feeling different, such as wood-patterned laminates devoid of any texture, do not produce the desired effect.
Consider the project I just completed for Elena, a therapist who wished her home office to be “grounding and calming” for clients. For her, we selected cork tiles as flooring, which underfoot provides gentle cushioning, wool throws and pillows in undyed natural shades, a desk crafted from a single piece of live-edge maple, and these extraordinary wall tiles made from clay by a local artist, which have subtle tactile variations, that she can hug and feel.
Elena sent me a text that read: “Had a client who was having a panic attack, and I suggested she feel the wall tiles while practicing her breathing. She later told me focusing on the texture helped her ground herself faster than her usual techniques. Design as therapy!”
Hearing that made me feel like crying. I believe that is the exact response biophilic texture is meant to evoke: enabling us to transcend ourselves in a more nurturing manner.
All biophilic design does not aim to provide calm. Not all textures serve the purpose of bringing tranquillity. Some are designed to energize or invoke inquisitiveness. I did a project last year for a children’s museum exhibit where we designed a “Forest Floor” sensory wall featuring numerous elements for active engagement. These include smooth river stones, rough tree bark sections, soft kid-safe preserved moss, along with these fascinating pieces of real fallen logs containing visible insect tunnels.
The contrasting textures were strategically placed in an order that narratively guided the audience, starting with rougher, more challenging textures and stimulating feelings, then leading toward the end with smoother, calmer textures. The goal was to first spark children’s curiosity and energy, and then assist them in transitioning to a calmer state. This, in general, mimics the natural arc of excitement and then peaceful reflection that often occurs during outdoor immersion.
Anika, the exhibit designer, shared with me that they have witnessed this textural journey assisting with behavior management as children navigate through the museum. “We used to have a lot of meltdowns in this area because kids would come in all wound up. Now the textural progression seems to help them regulate naturally,” she said.
This is something I never would have thought about in my earlier days designing spaces, and off in my mind I threw every possible natural texture that came to mind without consideration for the overall sensory experience.
Another huge lessons learned since my slate wall disaster is about complementary contrast. In nature, textures rarely exist in isolation. Rough tree bark grows next to smooth leaves, jagged rocks sit in silky sand, thorny bushes produce velvety berries. This kind of contrast is what makes the natural world so rich in experiencing.
Now in my residential undertakings, I make it a point to juxtapose opposing textures, such as rough with smooth, hard with soft, and matte with glossy. In Maya and Thomas’s living room makeover, we incorporated a rough stone fireplace alongside an ultra-plush wool rug, concrete side tables paired with nubby linen throw pillows, and matte clay planters with plants that had glossy leaves.
I remember the first time I saw the space fully realized, Maya walked around the room touching literally everything and then saying something that encapsulated exactly what I’ve tried to do: “It feels like a hike through all my favorite natural places, but without the bugs.”
However, the most humbling lesson I’ve learned about texture in biophilic design is concerning maintenance. We constantly think of nature as changing: weathering, growing, dying, renewing. Our designed spaces, on the other hand, need to sustain their function and aesthetics for years without the capable self-regulating forest ecosystem.
I seem to learn most things the hard way, and this was no different when I was working on a restaurant project where I selected these beautiful unfinished cedar panels for the dining area walls. Once installed, they had an incredible aesthetic and tactile appeal. The wood grain was so detailed that running a hand across the panel produced a tactile experience of ridges and valleys, and as the space warmed from body heat, it released a subtle cedar scent.
Fast forward six months later, and those same panels became a disaster. They were stained from hand contact, with deep crevices thoroughly capturing dirt, rendering cleaning practically impossible. Even worse, some of them warped due to the kitchen’s humidity. In my eyes, the worst part was that we had to replace these gorgeous panels. My client had to bear the brunt of the costs, and as a designer, it was terribly embarrassing to me.
Now, I rigorously assess how architectural textural elements age over time and how maintenance will be performed. For commercial spaces, hand touch surfaces require different considerations. Here, my priority is natural materials that allow curing while maintaining tactile qualities. In residential spaces, I assess the different textures that can be used in the space and have candid discussions with clients regarding the maintenance involved.At the moment, my preferred choice is coming up with what I refer to as “texture zones”—designated areas for tactile engagement that can be cared for and replaced on a more flexible basis. For instance, in a recent hotel lobby design, we fabricated a feature wall with removable textural panels which are easily replaceable for the maintenance staff. The guests receive the full sensory engagement and the client is not left with a maintenance problem.
Whatever these factors are, my goal is not to overlook the most important aspect of texture in a biophilic design: it’s ability to evoke emotional and physical responses which cannot be triggered by words or visuals.
My client Leila, who happens to be blind, has given me perhaps the most profound feedback I’ve ever received on a project. After I remodeled her home office into a rich biophilic space incorporating textures she can engage with tactilely, she said to me: “For the very first time, I can ‘see’ what you designers are always talking about when you describe nature-inspired spaces because I can feel the story of the space through her hands.”
Those are the moments, not the accolades or the perfect Instagram worthy designs, that reignite my passion for creating spaces with texture that ground us to nature.
And sure, I sometimes go overboard with my enthusiasm for texture. My partner likes to joke that our own home is like “living inside a chic petting zoo” because of all the pettable surfaces I’ve added. Though at least none of them have sent anyone to the emergency room. Yet.
What I’ve learned from my embarrassing slate wall mistake, and what I hope other designers take away from it, is that in biophilic design, texture is not simply about adding a natural element; it’s about considering the sensory and emotional responses those textures invoke and transforming them into safe, pleasant, functional, and beautiful spaces.
Because ultimately, the focus of biophilic design is not bringing nature as is into our built spaces—rather, it is to foster the sense of connection, wonder, and well-being we experience in nature. Sometimes it means smooth river stones set in a bathroom floor that massage your feet while brushing your teeth. Other times it means a sculpted wool rug that makes you think of moss-draped forest floors.
And occasionally, it means refusing to use those stunning unpolished sharp slate slabs—no matter how overpoweringly authentic they would appear as an accent on your client’s wall.
