Not to over share, but in 2012 I had a huge college roommate drama that resulted in me moving out of my dorm.
I needed a sofa.
My mom took me to the mall. We walked into Pottery Barn and landed on a rolled arm slipcovered sofa — this one. At the time, it felt like a sensible choice. Around $700. Washable. Slouchy but not messy in white denim. A little Nancy Meyers, but not so much that it couldn't be dressed up. I didn't overthink it. I wasn't even thinking about design. I was thinking about where I was going to sit.
Fourteen years later, it’s still in my living room. I’m washing the slipcover right now and yes, It’s still white.
And somehow, despite all the phases I’ve been through, it still makes sense in my home.
It has watched every version of me arrive and leave with one million mood boards in between and has never once asked me to explain myself. It simply stays.
In the years between, I have changed approximately one million times.
When I bought this sofa, I thought I wanted to be a dermatologist. I had no idea that architecture — let alone interior design — was a job a person could have. I was not a “creative.” I had no distinguishable “taste”, or at least no taste I was aware of yet.
I sat on that sofa to apply to architecture school.
I sat on that sofa and cried because I thought I wasn’t good enough to get through architecture school.
I sat on it again the day I graduated.
It has watched every version of me arrive and leave — with one million mood boards in between — and it has never once asked me to explain myself.
It simply stays.
A lot of what gets written about home design and interiors is about self expression: finding your super specialized totally unique highly personal aesthetic, curating your space, and making it say something about who you are.
And I understand that. I talk about it all the time.
But there is another layer underneath all of that — quieter, more load-bearing — that I’ve been thinking about more lately.
The things that outlast phases, relationships, apartments, and opinions.
The things that are still there when everything else has changed.
The key is that these pieces are not random.
They share a few traits, which are not stylistic.
They don't ask anything of you. You don't have to style around them. You don't have to protect them from guests. You don't have to hide them when someone comes over. They don't only look good once you finally fold the laundry that's been on your bedroom chair since Tuesday.
They absorb you. They receive your actual life instead of resisting it.
And here is the part that I find genuinely interesting: I made this decision completely outside the design world. No Pinterest. No algorithm. No quite luxury. No one telling me what I was supposed to want. I just needed somewhere to sit.
I think that’s why it worked.
This is the first in a series about everything I’d buy if I had to start completely over.
This is the infrastructure underneath every home you've ever saved, screen shotted, or completely lost your mind over on Pinterest. That Kendall Jenner mountain house everyone is still talking about? It's the bones underneath it all that matter most. Load-bearing in the most literal sense. You can't layer a home that can't hold the layers. This is where you start.
If I were starting over, this is where I’d invest first.
Slipcovered seating, washable fabrics, pieces that don’t punish you for living.
A slipcover you can wash at 2am after a dinner party that got away from you is not a design choice. It's a personality type. Invest accordingly.
Objects that don’t have one fixed role in your life.
The best pieces in your home don't have one job. They have whatever job you need them to have on a Tuesday when your life looks nothing like it did six months ago.
Wood. Linen. Anything that absorbs life instead of resisting it.
You will not win a fight against your own life. Stop buying things that require you to live around them. Buy the linen. Buy the wool. Buy the wood that dents beautifully. Let your stuff age with you like a person who's been through things.
Pieces that leave space for you to evolve.
A piece of furniture that needs to be the main character is a piece of furniture that is insecure. You don't need that energy. Get the quiet one. The one that makes everything around it look better without asking for credit.
Pieces that leave space for you to evolve.
Bad lighting is doing more damage to your home than any wrong sofa ever could. It is the great equalizer. It is also the most under-budgeted line item in every single renovation I have ever witnessed. I am begging you.
Pieces that leave space for you to evolve.
I said what I said. I wrote an entire essay about dining chairs and I meant every word. The things you use every day — the things your body is in contact with — matter more than anything on your gallery wall. Full stop.
I’m a stuff lover. I think we've established that.
But the things I’ve come to value most are not the statement pieces. Not the things you save up for and are slightly afraid to use.
It’s the quiet infrastructure of a life.
The things that are still there when everything else has changed.
I wrote once that I didn’t need a stable relationship as much as I needed a stable dining chair. People thought it was a joke. I have never been more serious about anything in my life. Some of the most reliable things I own have four legs and no opinions, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Have fun with everything else.**
If you want to build a room that can survive you, I pulled a fuller list of pieces that follow this logic here:
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.