I expected to fall in love with the ceramics. I didn’t expect to fall in love with the story.

It all began in the early 1600s, when the Dutch captured Portuguese ships carrying an extraordinary cargo of Chinese porcelain. Europe had never seen anything quite like it. The delicate blue and white pieces became wildly sought after, but nobody knew how to make them. So Dutch craftsmen did what they do best. They studied every detail, experimented endlessly with clay, glazes and pigments, and over time transformed inspiration into something entirely their own. What began with Chinese porcelain eventually became one of the Netherlands’ greatest artistic traditions: Delft Blue. 

The factory itself has an equally inspiring story. It survived difficult years thanks to Geertruida Piccardt, who kept it alive. At the museum, I read about the passion of Joost Thooft, who believed so deeply in its future that he approached her because he wanted to become involved. His passion eventually led him to take over the factory and breathe new life into the brand. Rather than simply preserving history, Royal Delft continued to evolve, collaborating with artists and designers while staying true to its remarkable heritage. 

What surprised me most, however, was the factory itself. This isn’t a museum where everything sits behind glass. You can actually walk through the workshops and watch the artists painting each piece by hand. Seeing centuries old craftsmanship still practised every single day was incredibly refreshing.

I also discovered something I never expected. Royal Delft didn’t just produce the famous blue and white plates and vases. They also created architectural tiles for churches, public buildings, floors and walls. As someone who absolutely loves the Amsterdamse School movement in architecture, which flourished roughly between 1910 and 1930, I found that fascinating. I had always associated Royal Delft with blue ceramics, but seeing their wider contribution to architecture and design made me admire the company even more. (I amsterdam)

Standing there, surrounded by centuries of artistry, I couldn’t help but imagine what might happen if Dutch craftsmanship met Malaysian storytelling.

So here’s my little message to the wonderful team at Royal Delft.

If this somehow finds its way to you, we’d be honoured to create something together.

A collection where Delft Blue meets Malaysian flora. Dutch craftsmanship meets hand drawn Malaysian patterns. Two cultures connected by heritage, artistry and a shared belief that beautiful objects should tell beautiful stories.

And if you’re ever in the Netherlands, don’t skip Delft. It’s one of the most charming towns I’ve visited. The canals are lined with water lilies, the cafés are wonderful, the streets invite you to wander, and Royal Delft is absolutely worth the trip.

Who knows? Sometimes the most meaningful collaborations begin as a dream.

There I discovered .TIFF, a beautiful photography publication by the FOMU Photography Museum. Every year, FOMU selects ten emerging photographers living or working in Belgium and gives each of them space to present their work. Every photographer even gets their own fold out poster, making the magazine feel like a portable exhibition.

The best part? It was only €4. Looking back, I should have bought the whole stack. Instead, I behaved myself and came home with just three.

As photographers, it’s so important to keep looking beyond what everyone else is doing. Books and magazines like this remind you that there are countless ways to tell a story, frame a subject, or use light. I’ll definitely be passing these around to our photographers in Kuala Lumpur. It’s a welcome change from scrolling through Instagram. I know I say that all the time, but I still believe there’s nothing quite like sitting down with a really good book.

If you ever travel, don’t skip the museum bookshop. Even if you skip the museum. That’s often where the real treasures are.

Anyone who has travelled with me knows I can never resist a vintage store, especially in Japan. For years, I’ve hunted down Hawaiian shirts in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, filling shelves with treasures in rayon, silk, and cotton. Some are vintage originals, others are newer finds, but every single one made its way home with me for a reason.

My absolute favourite brand has always been Sun Surf.

I bought my first Sun Surf shirt many years ago in Tokyo and have been collecting them ever since. The brand has become legendary among aloha shirt enthusiasts for recreating some of the most beautiful Hawaiian shirts from the 1930s, 40s, and 50s. The level of craftsmanship and attention to detail is extraordinary. The Japanese have a way of taking something already beautiful and treating it with an almost obsessive level of care and respect.

What I love most, though, is the feeling.

There is something about a great Hawaiian shirt that instantly puts you in a good mood. The colours, the oversized flowers, the tropical landscapes, the boats, the birds, the complete freedom of the prints. They don’t whisper. They sing.

Although originally designed for men, I’ve always loved them on women. Pair one with a full 1950s skirt and suddenly it feels elegant. Wear it oversized with trousers and it feels effortless. Mix it with another pattern and somehow it still works.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the optimism of the 1950s, and Hawaiian shirts capture that spirit beautifully. They remind me that fashion doesn’t always have to be serious. Sometimes it can simply be colourful, playful, and full of life.

In many ways, Aloha started there.

To me, wearing a great Hawaiian shirt feels a little like walking around inside a painting.

Sometimes fashion should simply make us happy. And few things do that better than a great aloha shirt.

Hidden inside the Four Seasons Hotel Kuala Lumpur, it has almost everything going for it. Beautiful branding, elegant interiors, thoughtful graphics, and shelves curated with obvious care. There was even a tiny book section. Almost sold out, but the handful of books that remained were wonderful, including the one featured in this newsletter.

What struck me wasn’t what was there.

It was who wasn’t.

I was the only customer in the entire supermarket.

I took my time, wandering through the aisles, looking at the displays and admiring the details. Nobody came in. Nobody left. For that brief moment, it felt as though the whole supermarket had been designed just for me.

And it made me think. I have always believed that good design works. Beautiful spaces matter. They make us stop, look, and appreciate the world around us.

But perhaps beauty alone isn’t enough. Perhaps even the most beautifully designed places need something more.

A story. A community. A reason for people to make them part of their lives. A shop, a café, a supermarket, or even a fashion brand can have wonderful interiors and beautiful products, but without soul, they’re simply pretty rooms waiting for someone to walk in.

Good design opens the door. People keep it open.

Perhaps that’s the missing ingredient. Not another renovation or a new logo, but little rituals and familiar faces. The butcher who knows your name. The coffee you always order. The recommendation for a good book. The feeling that this place belongs to you, and you belong to it.

Just across the road is another supermarket(Isetan), full of people. It may not be as carefully designed, but over time it has built habits, trust, and loyalty.

Those things can’t simply be bought. They have to be earned.

I hope this supermarket succeeds. I’d hate to see a space this beautiful disappear. It has enormous potential and, with a little luck and the right story, perhaps it will find its audience.

It was also a quiet reminder for me. Whether we’re building a supermarket, opening a shop, or creating a brand, beautiful design is incredibly important.
But beauty is only the invitation.

It’s the story that makes people stay.

And then there’s Cad.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s absolutely becoming my next model.

Cad is an artist. The way she prepares the youtiao, or chakoi, is honestly mesmerising to watch. Every movement is precise. Every piece gets the same amount of attention, the same amount of love. It’s the exact same energy you put into design, into painting, into making something beautiful with your hands.

The whole place carries that feeling. Cad stands behind the counter furiously making fresh golden youtiao while somehow still smiling at everyone walking through the door, making the entire space feel warm and alive at the same time.

I had my first beignet with coconut and gula Melaka there and honestly… worth breaking your diet for.

The space itself is full of tiny details. A little poster here. A little clock there. A random Mona Lisa on the wall. Nothing feels overly designed, which is probably why it works so well. It feels human. Clean, pretty, welcoming, and full of personality.

And maybe that’s also what I love so much about Penang itself.

It’s a happy place. So many places there feel genuinely happy. People are happy to see you. You get the biggest smiles everywhere. People say good morning. They’re interested. Present. Warm. Nobody feels like they’re rushing through life.

We just spent the entire weekend shooting with Penang models and honestly, none of them seem to have any intention of leaving the island. And I completely understand why.

It’s a happy island filled with happy people, and you can feel it in everything. The food they serve. The shops they open. The way they live.

Whatever I always say is true:
what happens in Penang, stays in Penang.

And I absolutely love it there.