Lately I've been thinking a lot about good taste. Maybe because I'm building The Ėditure and, inevitably, the question comes up: what makes something truly special? Who decides what's beautiful? What's elegant? What's worth buying, discovering, eating, visiting or keeping? And above all: what does it really mean to have good taste?

For a long time I think we confused good taste with certain things: money, labels, impossible-to-book restaurants, five-star hotels, a perfectly decorated house, or knowing which designer is in before everyone else does. Today I'm convinced it doesn't have much to do with any of that.

I've seen very expensive houses that say absolutely nothing to me, and simple houses I never want to leave. I've eaten at very important restaurants I forgot the next day, and at tiny places where I can still remember exactly what I ordered, what the place smelled like and who I was with. I've seen women dressed head to toe in designer clothes I wouldn't look at twice, and others in jeans, a white shirt and something you can't quite name that makes you want to know who they are.

And then I understood something: good taste isn't in the things. It's in the way you choose them.

And choosing well requires something I find far more interesting than money. It requires judgment. Judgment to know what you like even if nobody else does. To recognize quality without needing a logo to confirm it. To mix something very expensive with something you found at a market. To know when to add. And, maybe even more important, when to take away.

Because having good taste also means knowing how to say no. No to buying something just because everyone has it. No to following a trend that has nothing to do with you. No to filling a house with things just because there's room. No to ordering the dish you're “supposed to” order. No to traveling where everyone is traveling if it doesn't excite you.

Over the years I've found that I care less and less about what I'm supposed to like. And more and more about discovering what I like. I think that's one of the loveliest freedoms of getting older.

When you're younger you want to belong. You want to know what people are wearing, where you need to be, which restaurant is hot, which bag you need to have. Then, if you're lucky, something shifts. You start asking yourself: But do I actually like it? It sounds like a very simple question. It isn't.

Because we live surrounded by people telling us what to want. Social media shows us the same bag, the same table, the same hotel, the same sofa, the same body, the same restaurant. And if we're not careful, we can end up building a perfectly pretty life that looks absolutely nothing like us.

For me, real luxury is starting to mean something else. Having time. Eating something delicious. Sleeping on incredible sheets. Buying less, but buying things I'll love for years. Meeting someone who is passionate about what they do. Walking into a small shop and finding something I'd never seen before. Sitting at a table with people who interest me. Traveling without feeling I have to document every minute. Going back to a place simply because I was happy there. Wearing something a thousand times. Having flowers in my house. Cooking for the people I love.

That's taste too. Maybe even more so. Because good taste shouldn't be a performance. It should be a way of living.

And there's something else that fascinates me: taste can be learned. We're not born knowing. It's built by looking. Traveling. Reading. Tasting. Eating. Going to museums. Watching how other people live. Asking. Getting it wrong. Buying something hideous that years later we find in a photo and think: what on earth was I thinking?

That's also how taste is formed. Because having judgment doesn't mean always getting it right. It means being curious enough to keep refining it.

And maybe that's why I love discovering so much. I love finding a person who does one thing extraordinarily well. A small hotel. A recipe. A table. A dress. A cream. An artist. A shop. A city. An object someone designed with care.

But I'm more and more certain that I don't want The Ėditure to be a place that says: “This is what you need to have.” I want exactly the opposite. I want it to be a place that makes you look. That makes you curious. That shows you things you might not

have known. That introduces you to extraordinary people. That makes you save a screenshot. That makes you travel. That makes you try. And then, you decide.

Because in the end, for me, having good taste doesn't mean liking the right things. It means knowing yourself well enough to know what moves you. Knowing the difference between what you want and what you were told you should want. Choosing with intention. Editing. Changing your mind. Still learning. And surrounding yourself, little by little, with people, places, objects, flavors and ideas that make your life feel more like yours. Maybe that's why we chose this name. The Ėditure.

Because a beautiful life doesn't necessarily need more. Sometimes it just needs to be better edited.

— Corde