A Conversation with Bradley Huesemann-Odom
Founder of Bradley Odum Interiors for Dixon Rye
1085 Howell Mill Road NW, Suite A-1, Atlanta, Georgia 30318
@bradley.odom
Bradley Huesemann-Odom is an Atlanta-based interior designer and founder of Dixon Rye, a design studio and retail shop known for blending Southern hospitality with global sophistication. With a background in fashion and over 20 years of experience in the fashion and home industries, Huesemann-Odom brings a refined, editorial sensibility to his interiors, characterized by tactile materials and a balance of raw and refined elements. His work has been featured in publications such as Architectural Digest and The New York Times.
Where were you born and raised? How has your Southern upbringing influence your approach to art and design and your thinking about the world? I was born and raised in the Mississippi, which is an origin I carry with a deep sense of pride and complexity. The South is layered—it's a place of contrasts, of tradition and reinvention, of quiet decency and bold expression. Growing up there gave me an appreciation for history, storytelling, and a kind of innate hospitality that still influences how I approach design. I’ve always been drawn to the tension between raw and refined—things that feel lived-in yet intentional, elegant but approachable.
That background shaped not only my aesthetic sensibility but also my worldview. I tend to see spaces and objects as carriers of memory and emotion, not just style. And I think being from a place that holds so much cultural weight—sometimes beautiful, sometimes fraught—has made me more attuned to nuance. I believe good design is about how something makes you feel, how it invites you in, and how it tells a story. That’s definitely a Southern inheritance.
Your design work is often described as understated but emotionally rich. What core principles guide your design philosophy?
My design philosophy centers on creating spaces that feel deeply personal, intentional, and quietly expressive. I’m drawn to the idea that a home—or any well-designed space—should reflect the life being lived within it, not just the trends of the moment. For me, it’s about tension: the balance of raw and refined, masculine and feminine, old and new. That friction creates interest. It invites you to look a little closer.
I believe in restraint, in letting certain pieces or materials breathe, while also knowing when to layer in richness and complexity. Nothing should feel over-designed or overly precious. And above all, there should be a sense of authenticity. I never want a space to feel like it was assembled to impress—it should unfold over time, telling a story that’s as much about the person inhabiting it as it is about the designer who shaped it.
You started your creative journey in fashion before moving into interiors. Was there a particular moment when you knew that creating environments was your true calling?
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of my surroundings—how a room felt, how light moved through a space, or how certain objects seemed to carry more weight than others. But it wasn’t until later in life that I gave myself permission to fully pursue it as a career. I started in fashion, which taught me a lot about storytelling through material and form. But interior design felt more enduring—more rooted in the rhythms of everyday life.
The turning point came when I realized I was most fulfilled when I was creating spaces that people actually lived in. There’s something powerful about designing a home—a place that holds someone’s daily rituals, their history, their future. That’s when it stopped being an interest and became a calling. And once I made that leap, I never looked back.
What does your typical day look like? And what brings you the most joy? No two days are the same—which is one of the things I love most about what I do. Some mornings start with site visits or design presentations, others begin at the studio reviewing materials, approving upholstery details, or having deep dives with my team. I might move from working on a concept for a private residence to selecting vintage pieces for the showroom, to hosting a client walk-through or a vendor meeting over a cocktail at the end of the day. It's a constant shift between the creative and the logistical—and I truly enjoy both.
What I love most about my job is the act of translating emotion into space. Helping someone feel more at home in their home is deeply rewarding. And I find a lot of joy in the relationships that form along the way—whether it’s with my clients, my team, or the craftspeople we partner with. At the end of the day, I’m building a life as much as I’m building a business. That’s what keeps me inspired.
What project are you working on at the moment? We’re working on a number of exciting projects right now, from full-home residential designs to ongoing product collaborations that reflect our studio’s ethos—quiet tension, material honesty, and lived-in elegance. I’m also developing a new physical space that will serve as a more holistic expression of the brand—one that blends design, hospitality, and experience in a way that feels fresh but grounded. It’s been a deeply creative process, and one I’m approaching with a long-term lens.
Each project—whether for a client or for our brand—offers a new opportunity to tell a story through space, which is what keeps me energized and endlessly inspired.
When beginning a new project, how do you decide what takes the lead—the architecture, the furnishings, or the art?
For me, it all starts with restraint—knowing when to let a space breathe and when to layer in texture, form, and emotion. Architecture sets the tone. It’s the bones, the rhythm. From there, the furnishings become the language we use to support and respond to that architecture—never competing, always in conversation. And art is where the soul enters. It’s often the most personal element, and I like to treat it with reverence. Sometimes it’s the starting point, other times it’s the punctuation.
I’m not interested in matching things or forcing cohesion through uniformity. I’m interested in tension, contrast, and moments that feel quietly intentional. The goal is to create a space that feels lived-in, timeless, and emotionally resonant. One where every piece has a purpose—and yet nothing feels overly controlled.
A great thing about living in Atlanta is…
Atlanta is often called the “city in a forest,” and for good reason. It’s incredibly green—lush, layered, and full of unexpected beauty. There’s something grounding about being surrounded by so many trees in a city this size. It creates a sense of calm that balances out the creative energy and momentum that Atlanta is known for.
What I love most is the duality here. It’s a place where history and progress coexist, where the creative community is both deeply rooted and constantly evolving. There’s room to take risks, to build something new without losing a sense of place. That spirit of possibility—paired with the quiet grounding of all that green space—makes Atlanta feel like home in the truest sense.
What is your process for understanding your client’s vision? How do you begin to decode the subtleties of someone’s lifestyle and story, and translate that into form and function? How do you begin to decode the subtleties of someone’s lifestyle and story, and translate that into form and function? : It always begins with listening—not just to what a client says they want, but to what they respond to emotionally. I pay close attention to the way they live, what they gravitate toward instinctively, and the spaces or objects that make them feel something. I’m not interested in replicating a Pinterest board. I’m interested in understanding their rhythms, their aspirations, their history—and then translating that into a language of space.
From there, I build a narrative. Architecture provides structure and intention, the interiors bring warmth and functionality, and the art becomes the punctuation—the pieces that make it personal and layered. I guide clients toward decisions that reflect their essence, often through materials or forms they may not have initially imagined for themselves. My role is part interpreter, part editor, part advocate for restraint. The result is always a space that feels authentic—not just designed, but lived in with intention.
Tell us about a moment in design history that resonates with your own ethos today. While I find inspiration across many periods, I’ve always been drawn to the 1940s and ’50s—particularly postwar European design. There’s a quiet confidence in the work from that era, a return to craftsmanship and material honesty after so much global upheaval. Pieces from that time feel purposeful and soulful, with a kind of restraint that speaks volumes.
I’m especially influenced by mid-century French and Italian designers—Jean Royère, Gio Ponti, Gabriella Crespi—who understood how to balance sculptural form with livability. Their work wasn’t about excess, but about elegance rooted in functionality. That ethos still informs my own work today: beautiful, timeless design that doesn’t shout, but rather invites you to linger and look closer.
Has there been a project that pushed you in unexpected ways—creatively, logistically, or emotionally? How did you navigate it, and what did you take from the experience?
One of the most challenging—and ultimately rewarding—projects was a large-scale residential home where we were brought in after construction had already begun. There were architectural decisions in motion that didn’t align with the client’s lifestyle or the emotional tone they wanted in the interiors. It became a delicate dance: advocating for design integrity while navigating existing timelines, budgets, and personalities.
What got us through was clear communication, a collaborative spirit, and staying rooted in the narrative we were trying to tell. We found subtle but effective ways to shift the materiality and scale of key elements so that the space felt more cohesive, more them. It reminded me how much of design is actually about leadership—about guiding people through a process they may not fully understand, but deeply feel.
In terms of challenge, commercial and public projects often bring more moving parts—more stakeholders, longer timelines, and heightened expectations. But residential work can be just as complex emotionally. You’re not just designing a space, you’re shaping how someone lives. So the stakes feel higher in a different way. Each presents its own kind of tension—and I’ve come to embrace that.
Your use of color, texture, and natural materials feels highly sensory. When you're building out a space, how much of your process is led by how a place should feel versus how it should look?
Absolutely—design isn’t just visual; it’s deeply psychological. Every element—color, texture, light, spatial rhythm—contributes to how a space makes someone feel. That emotional resonance is the lens through which I filter every decision.
Color, for example, isn’t about trend for me. It’s about mood and energy. A soft, muted palette might ground a space and create calm, while a rich, moody tone can add depth and intimacy. Texture is equally important—it brings warmth, tactility, and a sense of life. I often layer natural materials like wool, plaster, wood, and stone to create subtle contrast that invites touch and slows the eye.
Spatial flow, above all, is about intuition. I want a room to feel effortless—to move the body and the mind without friction. And functionality is never an afterthought. A beautiful space that doesn’t support how someone lives isn’t good design. So I spend a lot of time understanding daily rituals, movement patterns, and emotional needs, and then translate those into a layout and palette that quietly supports them. When done well, it’s not something you necessarily notice—it’s something you feel.
You move fluidly between architecture, interiors, and curation. Do you think in disciplines—or in atmospheres? How do you hold all those threads together in a single vision?
For me, those roles are entirely interconnected—it’s less about choosing a lane and more about weaving a cohesive narrative through all of them. I see myself as a steward of the full experience. Architecture, interiors, and art aren’t separate disciplines in my world—they’re threads of the same story.
The architecture sets the tone—it gives form and proportion to emotion. Interior design brings in the tactile elements—the lived-in layers, the function, the soul. And curation is what makes a space feel specific. The right object or piece of art placed with intention can shift the entire energy of a room. My job is to bring a point of view that allows those parts to speak to each other in a way that feels seamless and, ideally, inevitable.
At the end of the day, I’m drawn to the totality of an environment. I want to create spaces that feel deeply personal and quietly powerful—and that requires moving fluidly between all those roles.
Much of your work favors materials that weather with time. How do you integrate natural elements, sustainable practices, or eco-friendly materials into your designs? I’ve always been drawn to materials that carry an honesty—natural wood, stone, wool, plaster—things that age beautifully and tell a story over time. In many ways, sustainability begins there: choosing materials that are not only responsibly sourced, but also enduring. I believe in investing in pieces that won’t be replaced in five years. There’s a quiet sustainability in permanence.
I also work closely with artisans and small-batch makers who prioritize ethical practices, whether that’s through traditional handcraft or the use of eco-conscious materials. And I tend to favor vintage and antique pieces for their patina, yes—but also because repurposing is, at its core, a sustainable act.
That said, I don’t believe sustainability should feel like a constraint. When done well, it enhances the space—creating warmth, depth, and a more human connection to the environment. It’s about living with intention, which is really at the heart of all good design.
When working on homes with historical character, how do you preserve a sense of place while still making space for the new?
I approach historical architecture with a sense of reverence. There’s a responsibility in working with a structure that has lived a life before you—it’s not about erasing the past, but allowing it to coexist with the present. My goal is never to replicate history, but to respond to it thoughtfully.
I begin by identifying what feels essential—architectural details, original materials, or even imperfections that hold character. Those elements become the foundation. From there, I layer in modern design and contemporary art to create contrast and dialogue. That friction between old and new—that subtle tension—is where the magic happens.
It’s not about mimicry or nostalgia, but rather creating a space that feels timeless because it holds multiple eras in conversation. When done well, the result doesn’t feel overly designed. It feels inevitable—like it was always meant to be that way.
When curating artwork or decorative pieces for a space, how do you consider not just visual appeal, but how those pieces will interact with the occupants and hold its own as life unfolds around it?
For me, art and objects aren’t just visual punctuation—they’re emotional anchors. I think a lot about how a piece will live in a space: how it will shift with the light, how it will age, how someone might pass by it every day and still notice something new. The best pieces invite interaction, not just observation.
I always want the objects in a room to carry weight—not necessarily in size or value, but in presence. I consider scale, materiality, and mood, of course—but also how a piece will resonate with the people who inhabit the space. Does it challenge them? Comfort them? Spark a memory? That emotional dialogue is just as important as aesthetic cohesion.
Over time, those pieces often become the heart of a room. They outlast trends. They hold stories. And in that way, they become more than decoration—they become part of the life unfolding around them.
Do you tend to work closely with artists and galleries from the outset of a project? How do you ensure that the art in a space resonates with the client’s sensibility, while also expanding it?
Yes, I’ve developed trusted relationships with a number of galleries and artists whose work I admire—not just for its visual impact, but for the thoughtfulness and integrity behind it. I tend to work closely with galleries that understand my aesthetic language and are open to a dialogue, not just a transaction. I also love working directly with artists when possible—it adds a layer of intimacy and intention to the process.
When it comes to selecting pieces, I think of myself as a curator, not a collector. It’s never about filling walls—it’s about finding work that deepens the story we’re telling in the space. Sometimes the art sets the tone early on; other times it’s one of the final layers. But either way, it has to resonate—with me, with the client, and with the spirit of the architecture.
I always make space for pieces that challenge or surprise—something a bit off-kilter or unexpected. Those are the moments that elevate a room from beautiful to memorable. Ultimately, the goal is not just to align with the client’s taste, but to expand their understanding of what they connect with. That’s where the magic happens.
How do you approach designing spaces that are both timeless and adaptable to future changes, such as evolving technology (smart home systems, lighting, or audio-visual equipment) into the aesthetic design of a space? Timelessness, for me, is rooted in proportion, materiality, and restraint—not in resisting change, but in designing with intention. I’m always thinking about how a space will age, both aesthetically and functionally. That’s where adaptability comes in.
When it comes to integrating technology, I believe it should serve the space, not dominate it. I collaborate closely with experts to ensure systems—whether it’s lighting control, hidden audio, or smart home automation—are seamless and invisible. Technology should enhance the experience of the space, not interrupt the visual narrative.
I also build in flexibility. We might conceal wiring or infrastructure that allows for upgrades down the line, or design millwork that can evolve as needs change. The goal is to future-proof the space without compromising beauty. Because at the end of the day, the most timeless rooms are the ones that feel deeply personal—and that requires both soul and foresight.
Exploring design, art, ideas, and the creative process connects me to a deeper understanding of humanity—how we live, what we value, and the quiet beauty found in the everyday. It reminds me that good design isn’t just about objects or spaces; it’s about emotion, memory, and meaning. It connects me to the past, grounds me in the present, and keeps me curious about what’s next.
