I didn’t get the chance to know my father. He died when I was very young.

But I grew up with stories of him.

Joey loved music. He had style. He was a bohemian who marched to the beat of his own drum. I came to know him through the stories people told, the things he loved and the pieces of him that remained.

Rose, my mother, was there.

Another bohemian. A woman with an eye for beauty, style and the unexpected. She could bring found things together and make them belong.

Somewhere between the father I knew through stories and the mother I knew in life, an instinct was passed down.

To notice things.

To keep the interesting thing.

To mix rather than match.

To understand that beauty doesn’t have to be new, perfect or particularly well behaved.

Joey Rose is named for both of them.

It is an inheritance of sorts.

Music. Style. Objects with past lives. Rooms assembled over time. The thrill of finding something nobody was looking for.

And the belief that the best spaces, like the best people, should have a point of view.

That’s Joey Rose.

Come hunt with us.