On Taste

We often speak of taste as though it were instinctive. Something a person either possesses or does not. Yet the things we value most rarely emerge from instinct alone. They are shaped by attention, experience and curiosity, developing gradually over time.

Perhaps this is why good taste can be so difficult to define. It rarely announces itself. It does not seek validation, nor does it depend upon novelty. More often, it reveals itself through a quiet consistency in the choices a person makes. The books they return to. The buildings they admire. The places they revisit. The music that continues to accompany them long after it has disappeared from public attention.

Many of the things we admire most possess this quality. A beautifully proportioned sculpture. A well-made chair. A photograph that reveals something new each time it is viewed. Their appeal extends beyond fashion because they are grounded in qualities that endure. They reward attention rather than demand it.

Music offers an interesting example. Most of us can recall albums we once played endlessly, only to abandon a few years later. Others remain part of our lives for decades, revealing something new with each return. The difference is not always quality. More often, it is depth. Certain works continue to unfold because they contain more than can be absorbed in a single encounter.

The same might be said of people.

Those with the strongest sense of taste are rarely the most conspicuous. They tend to be observers. They notice details others overlook. They understand when to add and, equally importantly, when to leave something alone. Their judgement is seldom hurried, shaped instead by a willingness to look carefully before arriving at a conclusion.

In this sense, taste has less to do with acquisition than selection.

We live in a culture that frequently equates abundance with success. More information. More possessions. More options. Yet the most compelling collections, whether of books, art, furniture, wine or music, often reveal a different philosophy. Their significance lies not in their scale, but in the care with which they have been assembled.

What emerges is not simply a collection of objects, but a portrait of the individual behind them.

Over time, this way of seeing begins to influence other decisions. It affects how a home is furnished, how a table is set, how a room feels, even the atmosphere one chooses to create for guests. Taste becomes less about appearance and more about judgement. A gradual understanding of what belongs, what endures and what may be left aside.

Restraint plays an important role in this process. Not because simplicity is inherently superior, but because discernment requires selectivity. The ability to recognise when something has reached its natural conclusion. When another addition would contribute little, regardless of its cost or rarity.

This may explain why certain objects remain important to us long after they have ceased to be new.

A watch inherited from a parent. A favourite book bearing the marks of repeated reading. A piece of music capable of transporting us instantly to another place and time. Their significance extends beyond utility or appearance. Meaning accumulates around them gradually, through memory, familiarity and use.

The most enduring objects are seldom those that seek attention most aggressively. Instead, they reveal themselves slowly, becoming woven into the fabric of a life. Their value is found not only in what they are, but in what they come to represent.

Jewellery is no exception.

At its best, it reflects the same principles. Not simply adornment, but intention. Not simply possession, but meaning. The pieces that endure are often those chosen thoughtfully and worn often, acquiring significance through the moments they accompany and the stories they come to hold.

At Rhys James, this belief informs more than the objects themselves. It influences the materials selected, the proportions resolved and the atmosphere surrounding the work. Whether expressed through a piece of jewellery, a drawing, a conversation or a carefully curated listening experience, the intention remains the same: to create things that reward attention and reveal themselves gradually over time.

Taste, like meaning, is rarely formed in an instant. More often, it is cultivated slowly and carried forward through the things we choose to keep.

R