THE ART OF ATMOSPHERE

Its Christmas Eve in Sydney, at five years old, at Nana and Grossels' - in the home he built himself. The cousins were already in the saltwater pool, being thrown from uncles' shoulders, everyone laughing.

Inside, the mothers were with Nana as she set out the mega feast, including her famous German potato salad the family still tries to replicate 35 years later, never quite getting it right. The clinking of glasses, the smell of steaks on the open fireplace, the buzz of family just 'being'.

The hallways were lined with a soft, textural wallpaper, warm in tone and soft to the touch. Woven wool and silk rugs lay directly over the plush wall-to-wall carpet. Hundreds of National Geographic magazines were scattered over solid, handmade mahogany furniture. The light fittings were made of translucent pearl shells they had brought back from a holiday in Hawaii (or so I was told).

And the scents! Nana’s orchid gardens, the crystal clear saltwater pool mixed with the aroma of Grossel’s psoriasis tar—a potent, strange scent that became, weirdly, the smell of home.

They made that place theirs, so we felt like we were home because every single detail was so them.