“The Spaces That Shaped Me”

There is something universal about beauty. Before language, before policy, before borders, there was form, color, texture—an instinct to create and to make meaning visible. Beauty has always moved across civilizations without translation. It has connected people who did not share a common language, belief system, or history, yet could still recognize something deeply human in what was made. Creativity is not secondary to human life; it is foundational. And design is the structure through which it lives—quietly shaping how we think, how we feel, and how we move through the world.

I didn’t come to understand this through theory. I came to understand it through my own life.

Long before I had the language to explain anything, I had the instinct to create. One of the first things I remember doing—before I could fully speak—was picking up a pencil and drawing. I was five, maybe six years old, and I was drawn to faces. Portraits, especially of the people I loved most—my family, the ones who were always around me. I didn’t think of it as art at the time. It was simply a way of seeing, of paying attention, of holding onto something I felt but didn’t yet have words for. Even then, there was an awareness—however quiet—that something meaningful was happening in the act of making.

Looking back, I understand that impulse differently now. Not as a hobby, or even as talent, but as a way of being. As The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin reflects, creativity is not reserved for artists alone—it is a fundamental condition of being human. We are all, in some way, engaged in the act of creation. The question is not whether we are creative, but whether we are paying attention to it.

The process of making—of drawing, designing, shaping—mirrors the process of living more closely than we often realize. In both, there is no perfect blueprint. There is only presence, intuition, and a willingness to engage with what is in front of us. You begin with something small—a line, a form, a thought—and over time, through attention and refinement, it becomes something more. Not through force, but through awareness.

Art teaches patience. It teaches restraint. It teaches you to see what is there, not just what you expect to see. And in that way, it becomes a quiet discipline—one that asks you to listen more than you impose, to observe more than you control.

Living is not so different.

We move through the world shaping and reshaping our lives in much the same way. Through decisions, environments, relationships, and time, we construct something that did not exist before. Not all at once, and not always intentionally—but continuously. There are moments of clarity, and moments of uncertainty. Periods of structure, and periods that feel undefined. And yet, over time, a form emerges.

What I have come to understand is that the same awareness required to create something meaningful in art is the awareness required to live meaningfully. To notice. To refine. To let go of what does not belong. To remain open to what wants to take shape.

In that sense, we are not just living our lives—we are designing them.

And just like any work of art, the beauty is not only in the final outcome, but in the process itself.

I was born in Fier at a moment when Albania itself was in transition—emerging from decades of communism into the early, uncertain beginnings of democracy. It was a time of contrast, where the external world and the internal one did not always align. From the outside, especially in the cities, you saw rows of gray buildings—uniform, restrained, almost silent in their expression and so many bunkers. But inside homes, behind closed doors, there was another world entirely.

Design was never formalized, never spoken of as a discipline, yet it was deeply present—internalized, decentralized, and uniquely shaped within each home. It lived in the careful layering of fabrics, in the contrast of colors chosen with instinct rather than instruction, in the way spaces were arranged to feel warm, intimate, and alive. What could not be expressed publicly found its way into private life. Beauty was protected there—quietly cultivated and shared only among immediate family and close friends. It was not performative; it was deeply personal. 

There was a softness to the culture, a warmth that coexisted with discipline. Creativity lived in quiet, resourceful ways—refined not by abundance, but by constraint. Education was deeply respected, not only as a personal virtue but as a societal expectation shaped by the previous regime. And yet, within that structure, something was building.

People were beginning to press against the limits of the system. There was a collective awareness—subtle at first, then undeniable—that the life inherited was not the life desired. The youth, especially, carried a different vision. They were not rejecting their past, but they were no longer willing to be confined by it. There was a quiet but resolute demand for a freer society, for the right to shape one’s own future. In many ways, it was not chaos but consciousness that defined the moment—an educated population recognizing its own capacity to lead, to govern, and to reimagine itself.

But this internal awakening did not unfold in isolation. It existed within a broader and far more volatile regional transformation. Across the Balkans, the collapse of old systems gave way not only to aspirations for self-determination, but also to the reemergence of unresolved histories, competing nationalisms, and violent power struggles. What, in one place, looked like democratic emergence, in another became fragmentation and conflict.

For Albanians, this tension was deep. The violence carried out under the regime of S M*, particularly during the Kosova War, and the broader campaign of ethnic cleansing against Albanian Kosovars, did not remain confined by borders. It reverberated across Albanian communities everywhere, including ours. The idea of nation, identity, and survival was no longer abstract—it was immediate, emotional, and deeply intertwined with everyday life.. 

What emerged, then, was a convergence of forces: an internal push toward freedom and self-definition, and an external environment marked by instability and violence, that was pushing against our already very vulnerable system in transition. It was a moment where hope and uncertainty existed side by side, where the desire to build collided with the reality of regional fracture. We lacked a truly unified voice as a nation, and the opposing powers were too great. 

In that sense, the period was not simply a political transition—it was a philosophical one. It raised fundamental questions about what it means to form a society after control, how identity evolves when both memory and aspiration are in tension, and whether a people can move toward openness while surrounded by conflict. It was, in every sense, a threshold moment—one that shaped not only institutions, but consciousness itself.

At the same time, the world around us was beginning to open. Television signals reached further. Satellites caught fragments of Italy (RAI uno)  and Spanish telenovelas. Foreign films flickered onto our screens—Home Alone among them—bringing glimpses of (Hollywood) entirely different lives into our living rooms. Music, too, began to arrive with a kind of electricity. For the first time, we were hearing global artists like Michael Jackson, whose presence felt almost otherworldly, alongside the rise of European pop and electronic sounds—artists like La Bouche, Ace of Base, etc..—blending rhythm, technology, and emotion in a way that felt entirely new. Also, incredible new talent and music was coming from Albania as well. 

It was an extraordinary time to receive art. Not gradually, but all at once—layered, unexpected, and deeply felt. These influences didn’t replace what we had; they expanded it. They entered homes that already held a strong sense of identity and quietly became part of the atmosphere, shaping taste, imagination, and a growing awareness of the world beyond.

In that space—between what was seen and what was hidden, between structure and expression, between isolation and discovery—my/our internal understanding of design, culture, and identity began to take form naturally.. 

Then we left, my family moved to Michigan—to a small Downriver town shaped by industry, water, and working-class life. We found a modest home. We lived steps from the Sibley Quarry, where daily blasts shook the ground, and just behind us stood the U.S. Steel plant—once a commanding symbol of American industrial power. Rail lines, factories, and the constant rhythm of production formed the backdrop of everyday life.

What made this landscape unforgettable was its contrast. Just beyond the steel and stone, there was water—vast, quiet, and ever-present. The River, surrounding lakes, and expansive parks introduced a kind of serenity that felt almost surreal against the industrial backdrop. The region itself felt designed by tension—hard lines softened by reflection, movement balanced by stillness.

And within that landscape, what made it truly extraordinary was that the Detroit Institute of Arts existed there at all—a cultural gem situated in the midst of a city that, at the time, felt nearly emptied of its former life. Detroit carried the visible weight of economic decline—vacant buildings, aging infrastructure, and entire stretches of the city that seemed suspended between what once was and what had yet to come. It was a place that needed reinvestment, renewal, and people willing to believe in its future again.

Yet within that reality, art held its ground.

Inside the museum, works like the Detroit Industry Murals by Diego Rivera stood with monumental clarity—depicting labor, machinery, and human effort with reverence and scale. Surrounding them were masterpieces that carried centuries of cultural memory: The Wedding Dance by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a powerful Self-Portrait by Vincent van Gogh, and works by Rembrandt, Henri Matisse, and Claude Monet. Outside the museum, intricate steel sculptures and public art echoed the city’s industrial identity—art shaped from the very materials that once powered its economy.

Together, these pieces did more than decorate a city—they held it up. They preserved the memory of a Detroit that had once been one of the most thriving industrial centers in the United States, while simultaneously projecting a vision of what it could become again. Even as the city around them showed signs of decline, these works remained—steady, unapologetic, and full of meaning.

During the economic crisis, when discussions emerged about selling pieces from the museum’s collection to address financial strain, it became a defining moment. Voices rose in defense of preserving the city’s cultural core, including Madonna, who publicly opposed the sale and advocated for protecting the collection. It was a reminder that the value of a city is not only measured in economic terms, but in what it chooses to preserve.

In many ways, these works of art—within the museum and throughout the city—kept something essential alive. They held continuity, identity, and possibility in place, even when the surrounding environment felt fractured and almost impossible. They were not just remnants of the past; they were anchors for the future—quietly sustaining the vision of what Detroit once was, and what it still had the potential to become.

Art held space. 

While still living in Michigan—surrounded by both the ruins and the unrealized potential of Detroit—I was completing my degree in health services administration at the University of Detroit Mercy. It was during this time that the Detroit Institute of Arts deepened something in me—a growing desire not just to observe art, but to understand it, to live closer to it, to be immersed in it. 

That curiosity led me to spend a semester studying art history in Rome at John Cabot University—an experience that didn’t just expand my perspective, but fundamentally reshaped how I see the world. In Rome, learning extended far beyond the classroom. It unfolded in real time—in the streets, in museums, in churches, and in the architecture that surrounded me every day.

We studied art masters like Michelangelo, Raphael, and Caravaggio not as distant historical figures, but within the very spaces their work was created for. I stood inside environments shaped by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, where marble seemed to move, where emotion was carved into stone with an almost impossible sense of life. We traced the architectural vision of Donato Bramante, following the evolution of space from ancient Rome through the Renaissance and into the Baroque.

What we were really studying was not just art, but the evolution of human thought—how each movement reflected shifts in philosophy, power, religion, and identity.

What struck me most was the level of integration. In Rome, art, architecture, and public space form a continuous language. Churches function as immersive narratives, public squares are intentionally composed, and beauty is constructed with purpose. Nothing feels incidental; everything carries meaning.

That experience brought clarity, inspiration, and a deep sense of joy. It revealed that beauty is not decorative—it is foundational and it is necessary for human life. It holds memory, shapes identity, and reflects the values of entire civilizations.

When I returned to Michigan, I could no longer see the world the same way. As I completed my degree, I began to understand systems—especially healthcare—not just as processes, but as designed environments that shape human experience and outcomes. Design was no longer something external; it became a way of thinking across different fields. 

After graduating, I opened my first brick-and-mortar space, La Perle. It was the first time I wasn’t simply observing design—I was creating it from the ground up. I found a 2,000-square-foot space and a very tight budget, and with that came a challenge: to reimagine the entire environment as a 360-degree experience—something that could be shaped, edited, and brought to life with intention.

I stripped the space down to its core. I ripped out the carpet, removed the drop ceiling, and exposed the structure beneath—leaving it raw, open, and honest. I used durable paint to coat the ceiling, embracing its height rather than hiding it. I installed studio-style directional lighting, creating an atmosphere that felt almost like a gallery or museum—where light itself guided attention and movement.

The floor became its own moment of expression. While painting it, I sprinkled glitter into the surface, inspired by the subtle sparkle of nearby movie theater floors—something that had always brought me a sense of joy. I wanted that same feeling for anyone who entered: to walk in, look down, and feel a quiet sense of delight. 

The walls were painted and intentionally left bare—clean, neutral, and open. I brought in low seating to ground the space, creating contrast with the high ceilings above. The combination was deliberate: a place where people could feel physically comfortable, yet mentally elevated. A place where nothing was overly prescribed, where the environment didn’t dictate experience, but invited it. Where there was enough space and room to create and formulate their own thoughts, and opinions. A place where they could maybe find inspiration. 

What I was building—without fully naming it at the time—was a space for possibility, warmth, and laughter. A place where people could walk in, with glitter beneath their feet, light above them, and openness all around, and begin to create ideas of their own. More importantly, it was a space where none of the usual boundaries applied— where you came from, what you looked like, or how you sounded didn’t matter. Everyone was welcome.

It was then that I fully understood: design is relational. It shapes how people feel, how they behave, and what they remember long after they leave.

After La Perle, naturally  I moved to San Francisco, where my understanding of design expanded into something entirely different. San Francisco is not just a city—it is an ecosystem. With Stanford University feeding into Palo Alto and extending through Menlo Park, Mountain View, and San Jose, the region has become the center of global technological innovation. It is where ideas are imagined, funded, and scaled—where highly educated individuals from around the world gather not only to challenge what exists, but to design what comes next.

In this environment, design is about possibility. It is where companies like Airbnb and Uber, and social media were created—systems that reshaped human behavior on a global scale. You are encouraged to think beyond limits, to build what does not yet exist, and to imagine entirely new futures.

But alongside this innovation, I also saw imbalance. Access to venture capital has historically been concentrated among a narrow group—often favoring men in tech. It became clear to me that design is not just about creativity; it is about access. It is about who gets to build, whose ideas are realized, and whose are left behind. That realization shifted my perspective. I became interested not only in building systems, but in what those systems serve—how they shape emotional well-being, economic opportunity, and the human experience itself.

My time at Tesla and within smaller startups reinforced this even further. Design operates at scale—but with that scale comes responsibility.

When I later studied international relations in Bologna at Johns Hopkins, something deeply personal unfolded. For the first time since leaving Albania, I found myself geographically close again—just a short flight from Tirana. During that year, I traveled back and forth multiple times—visiting Prishtina, Gjakova, Prizren, parts of North Macedonia, Ulqin, and Çamëria near Greece.

There was a constant exchange happening within me. As I gained knowledge and perspective in Bologna, I carried it into the Balkans. And as I learned from the Balkans—from the people, the spaces, and the lived histories—I brought that understanding back with me to Bologna, and ultimately forward into Washington. It was not linear learning; it was movement. A continuous dialogue between place, identity, and experience.

It was during this time that I attended the MUZA Design Competition in Tirana—and that moment marked another shift. I had never seen so many young Albanian designers gathered in one place, presenting work with such intricacy, depth, and quality. Designers from across Albanian-speaking regions brought their own voices, their own interpretations, their own cultural imprint.

I was completely blown away.

There was a level of creativity and artistic sophistication that challenged any narrow perception of where design excellence belongs. It was inspiring, freeing, and deeply reassuring. It showed me that there is an emerging generation of designers within our own culture who are ready not only to participate globally—but to define their place within it.

I immersed myself in that space—meeting designers, studying their work, understanding their perspectives. And it became clear: something powerful is building. A design identity rooted in history, culture, and lived experience.

It reinforced what I had been feeling all along—design does not belong to one place. It emerges wherever there is vision, depth, and the courage to create and share it. 

After my year in Bologna at Johns Hopkins, I moved to Washington, D.C. to complete the rest of the program.

Studying international relations is not just about countries, power structures, or diplomacy—it is about identity. And identity is expressed through design. Through architecture, symbolism, art, and public space, nations communicate who they are and how they want to be seen.

In that sense, design becomes a form of diplomacy—a silent language that moves across borders.

Art and design preserve civilizations. They capture time, emotion, and transformation. They create pathways to understanding. And in a world often defined by division, that understanding becomes essential—because peace is not built only through negotiation, but through recognition. 

Albania taught me to find beauty within constraint—to recognize true gems hidden within what, on the surface, may appear as rubble. It taught me contrast: the richness of interior life versus the restraint of exterior form. It taught me to observe closely, to value what is protected, and to understand that design often lives where it is least visible.

Michigan taught me structure—but also transformation. I witnessed how an entire region could begin to rebuild within a decade, how landscapes shaped by industry could evolve, and how change—once unimaginable—could happen quickly when conditions aligned.

Rome taught me meaning. It showed me that art is not decoration—it is history, preserved with intention. That materials, craftsmanship, and vision can transcend time. That what is created with depth can resonate centuries later—and still shape how we see the world today.

San Francisco showed me possibility at the highest level. It revealed what the future can look like—sometimes 10 to 15 years ahead of the rest of the world. But it also revealed something else: that innovation without balance can lead to disconnection, to loneliness, to systems that scale faster than they are understood.

Bologna taught me connection—through international relations, through movement between cultures, and through an understanding of economics that I often found myself questioning, challenging, and rethinking.

And now, in Washington, D.C., I find myself in another defining moment—living within systems of power during a time of global uncertainty, rapid technological acceleration, and shifting geopolitical realities. It is a moment where design, policy, and identity are more interconnected than ever.

Across all of it, design was always there—quietly shaping everything. We do not simply experience the world; we are shaped by it. And from that shaping, our vision forms. And from that vision, our lives unfold and shared. 

But design is not only something we inherit—it is something we are capable of transforming. There is a spirit within us, shaped by every place we have been and everything we have seen, that pushes us not just to accept the world as it is, but to reimagine it. To question it. To rebuild it with intention. To create a better world or to preserve it. 

At some point, the relationship shifts. We move from being shaped by environments to shaping them in return.

And in that exchange—between what we are given and what we choose to create—design becomes not just a reflection of life, but a force that moves it forward.

Beauty was never confined to one place, one form, or one definition—it was always present, but always evolving. It existed in Fier through protectionism, in Michigan through scale and force, in Rome through mastery and preservation, in San Francisco through imagination and systems, in Bologna and the Balkans through history, identity and emergence of potentially newer ideas, and in Washington through education, symbolism, and the design of power itself.

Even in the industrial landscapes of Michigan—where nothing appeared traditionally beautiful—there was still something undeniable: an awe, a magnitude, a raw visual language of production and endurance. The factories, the steel, the machinery—these too were forms of design– waiting for transformation. They represented ambition at scale, human capability, and the architecture of an entire economy. It wasn’t delicate, but it was profound. And over time, even that landscape began to evolve—shifting from extraction to restoration, from decline to reimagination. 

Beauty transforms. 

In Albania, I have watched that transformation closely. A country once defined by restriction continues to evolve with a deep, almost urgent desire to grow, to learn, and to move forward carefully and somewhat slowly—to catch up, to integrate, to build. There is a speed to that evolution, a willingness to absorb, adapt, and redefine itself in relation to Europe and the United States, while still holding onto something deeply its own.

In Detroit, I witnessed another kind of evolution—one rooted in resilience. A city that once stood as the height of industrial power fell into visible decline, only to slowly begin rebuilding itself. Not perfectly, not all at once—but steadily. With artists, entrepreneurs, and communities stepping in to reshape its future, piece by piece.

In Rome, evolution takes a different form. There, the intention is not to reinvent, but to preserve. The inner city, and much of surrounding suburbs, resists unnecessary change, protecting its architecture, its art, and its historical continuity with extraordinary care. Beauty in Rome is not something to be redefined—it is something to be safeguarded, carried forward with discipline and constant upkeep.

In Bologna, beauty revealed itself intellectually, housing the oldest university in Europe. Known for its endless porticoes—the longest continuous arcades in the world—the city creates a rhythm of movement and thought. Those porticoes lead to places like the Sanctuary of the Madonna di San Luca, a path that feels both physical and symbolic. It was there, within that environment, that I was first deeply exposed to international relations—not just as theory, but as a lived complexity. Questions of hegemony, power, war, and diplomacy began to take shape. And I began to understand that I resisted and disagreed with much and that diplomacy is not a perfect equation—it is a constant, ongoing negotiation between competing truths, histories, and interests.

In San Francisco, beauty exists in forward motion in regards to tech and innovation. It is a place constantly evolving—driven by technology, by ambition, severe competetion by the desire to build what does not yet exist. It shows you the future, often before the rest of the world is ready for it. But it also reveals the tension within that progress—between innovation and inequality, connection and isolation. In its relentless race toward the future, there is also a quieter, more visible reality unfolding—one where the homeless population continues to grow, gathering along the very streets where the next generation of technology is being built. 

And currently, in Washington, D.C., I see beauty operating at the level of a nation. Here, design is deliberate. Architecture, monuments, and spatial planning are not accidental—they are expressions of democracy, order, and power. The city itself is a statement. International relations, in this context, becomes not just policy or negotiation, but design. Each nation, each system, each institution is carefully constructed—through language, through structure, through visible and invisible frameworks that shape how we relate to one another across borders… 

Across all of these places, I’ve come to understand that beauty and design is not always soft. It can be structural, mechanical, emotional, invisible, or experiential. It lives in art, in technology, in healthcare systems, in cities, and in institutions. It evolves with societies—reflecting their priorities, their struggles, and their aspirations.. Their voice, their culture. 

Art, design, essentially becomes the language through which civilizations express identity. Beauty becomes the thread that allows us to recognize one another within that expression. Whether through a Renaissance masterpiece, a steel plant, a digital platform, or the structure of a global institution, what we create reflects what we value—and how we choose to shape the world.

And so, design becomes more than creation—it becomes responsibility. A responsibility to build with thoughtfulness, to see with depth, and to contribute to systems and spaces that are not only functional, but meaningful and representative of the people that it houses. Because the environments we design—physical, cultural, or institutional—become the very environments that shape our perspective and expression. 

“The goal of art is not to attain perfection. The goal is to share who we are. And how we see the world. Artists allow us to see what we are unable to see, but somehow already know. It may be a view of the world singularly different from our own. Or one so close, it seems miraculous, as if the artist is looking through our own eyes. In either case, the artist's perception reminds us of who we are and who we can be. One reason art resonates is because human beings are so similar. Were attracted to the shared experience held within the work. Including the imperfection in it. We recognize some part of ourselves and feel understood and connected. “The personal is the universal”, the personal is what makes art matter. Our point of view, not our drawing skills or musical virtuosity or ability to tell a story. In the arts, our filter is the defining factor of the work. In science or technology, the aims are different. The reason we create art isn't with the intention of making something useful for someone else. We create to express who we are. Who we are and where are on our journey. Our point of view doesn't have to be coherent. And its rarely simple. We may have different, and sometimes contradictory, points of view across a variety of topics. Aiming to narrow it all down to one elegant expression is unrealistic and limiting. Whatever our perspective, so long as we share it, unaltered and undoctored, we succeed in arts fundamental purpose. When making art, we create a mirror in which someone may see their own hidden reflection. Art is about the maker. Its aim: to be an expression of who we are. This makes competition absurd. Every artist's playing field is specific to them. The two cannot be measured against one another. Art relates to the artist making it, and the unique contribution they are bringing to the culture. All the work we do, no matter how intricate, holds an underlying essence. A core identity or fundamental structure, a “is-ness”.” 

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Anja