Two experienced homeowners/design writers approach decorating and home improvement quite differently. One will do without until she gets exactly what she wants. The other may splurge now and then on a good piece but might also fill a room with flea-market finds. They probably spend the same amount of money in the end, though their individual purchases and decorating tastes are often worlds apart. Here’s their point-counterpoint debate.
GOING FOR IT
More Top Picks Our Place Griddle Pan
By Lisa Skolnik
The famed interior designer Billy Baldwin reportedly once said: “If you plan your home around a few good investments, you can fill in the rest with humble things of good design.”
Even though Baldwin was referring to furnishings, it’s a philosophy that carries over to every aspect of the home. Splurge on the big things and scrimp on the small. Or figure out a way to get what you want within your budget.
In fact, those last words are my husband’s last words on anything that involves the house, be it structural or cosmetic. They have shaped our lives for 20 years. I should have known what kind of goofy yet enterprising solutions I was in for when I saw his first apartment. Ever the architect, he had flanked his bed with floor-to-ceiling, self-installed black metal shelves. But the ceiling was higher on one side of the room, and to bolster the shelves on the lower side he used cans of pitted olives, which were all he had in the house, painted black. The shelvesstayed that way until we moved two years later.
The place was fabulous, especially for a 25-year-old guy. He had an Eero Saarinen table, Marcel Breuer chairs and the most perfect sofa I’ve ever seen–six cushy sections covered in dense steel-gray flannel. The sofa was his major splurge at the time, but still reasonable at $300 per piece. Twenty-two years later we still have that sofa, not only because it’s wonderful but because we can’t afford to replace it. Last time we checked, it would cost $2,500 a section–wholesale.
Today we’re still at it, splurging on the big things, scrimping on the small.
When we got our first home eight years ago, an addition was prohibitive fiscally and psychologically (thanks to four little kids). So we reconfigured two huge bedrooms into three smaller ones. Instead of a kitchen overhaul (we’re modernists and the kitchen’s country sweet), rough primitives and a sleek Sub-Zero refrigerator toned it down. And when my husband accidentally turned the back yard into a wasteland with too much weedkiller, he slowly rebuilt it into the lush English-style country garden we have today, laying pavers and planting everything himself with our friend Michelle, a landscape architect. But we bought the best plants possible.
Finding the pros to work in our house has been another challenge. When we lived in a condo and needed a paint job, we interviewed three sources, got quotes and hired the one in the middle. Even though everything checked out (references, knowledge and ability), the results were less than grand. So when we wanted to revamp a tiny maid’s room into a home office, we asked the building engineer–a sweet and enterprising fellow who worked for residents on the side–for recommendations. He introduced us to Wasek, who changed our lives.
Wasek had been an engineer in Poland. He said upfront there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. In retrospect he was right. During our 13-year relationship, he was our contractor, painter, electrician, carpenter and sometimes plumber (for little things like leaking faucets). He built our home office, painted rooms, turned the two bedrooms into three, constructed built-in shelves, seamlessly altered custom cabinets, installed recessed lighting, house-sat and more. He became a close family friend. His prices were fair and his work so superb that when I made the mistake of referring him to an editor I worked for, he became immersed in a two-year project and often put us on the back burner. That’s when I started plying him with luscious home-cooked meals whenever he came over.
When Wasek went home to Poland last fall for good, we shed our tears and started looking for a new jack-of-all-trades. We got a referral from our local hardware store and gave the man a try. He was adequate but no Wasek. My best friend hired the painter who did her office at work to do her home, with stellar results, so that name has been tucked away in my files. And a fellow soccer mom I met this fall, a former banker, told me she’s now a handywoman. As soon as something starts leaking, I’ll give her a call.
The same ethic has carried through to furnishing our home. At a house sale during our second year of marriage, for $300 we bought a Baker dining table that seats 20. Now that I can afford another, countless family meals make it irreplaceable. Plus the Mies van der Rohe chairs we splurged on for an anniversary increase its style quotient. And whenever we’ve lusted for a certain antique piece, we’ve shopped until finding the right one in our price range (although once we had to wait a year to have pieces shipped here from Brussels). But the things we like to snag at flea markets and antique shops (frosted Deco lamps for my husband; Burley Winter pottery for me) now often cost more than we can afford, making mistakes too expensive. We’ll soon be onto something else.
So–bottom line–do you really need the best of the best? I think not. Sure, you may have to lower your expectations now and then, but it’s only stuff. However, in one area we’ve gone whole hog out of dire necessity and hired the best firm we could find. We were cursed with a flat roof on our house. Such roofs are notorious for leakage and costly upkeep. We can attest to that, and so can our roofer, who is here several times a year.
HOLDING OUT
By Barbara B. Buchholz
The seeds were planted early. Before I married, almost 29 years ago, my father counseled my husband and me not to buy first- married furniture–i.e. junk–that we’d want to replace. “Slowly buy the best you can afford,” he advised, even if it meant a sparsely furnished first apartment. The advice seemed sage and similar to what fashion gurus say about buying one great jacket or dress to build a wardrobe.
A trip to Colonial Williamsburg a year after we married kindled our interest in American antiques. We took my father’s advice and set a realistic goal: to buy one good piece a year from reputable dealers willing to teach us and be patient with our timetable and pocketbook rather than to look for great buys from unknown vendors who might not be as trustworthy.
We soon found that going the first-class route took longer and cost considerably more than we expected. Yet the furnishings that we scrimped for and lovingly collected became almost the equivalent of members of our family with rich histories to tell: Who made them, who previously owned them, any mishaps they endured, which of their parts were original and which were married or added. Such treasures also wore well; after all, they already had survived for generations.
We spied the first piece we wanted, a tallcase clock, on our Williamsburg trip, but it greatly exceeded our budget. We kept looking and by our 15th wedding anniversary, at a favorite dealer, we had found a circa 1795 Hepplewhite mahogany clock descended from a New York family. It was almost within reach, so we slowly paid it off.
By the time we moved into our first home, we had assembled a nice collection of other 18th-Century American pieces–a Hepplewhite Martha Washington chair; a pair of Chippendale Philadelphia side chairs; a Chippendale Salem, Mass., tripod table; plus very graphic and colorful early American quilts and several weather vanes, including a 19th-Century horse that the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., once borrowed for a dinner because of its small size and original patina.
But our buying pattern did more than help us gain furnishings to live with and love. It established a road map that we followed when it came time to remodel and decorate. We became relentless about finding the most professional work crew rather than the cheapest. We’d ask how long a crew had been in business; we’d get references; we inspected work samples. Sometimes we’d work on one room at a time because of high costs.
Our hirees came to us in various ways. Whenever work appealed, I played reporter and found the source. The reproduction carpeting in the Glessner House Museum in Chicago led me to a Boston company that specialized in copying William Morris designs. Six months later one pattern lined a hall in our apartment.
I asked friends for recommendations, though I tried to examine work firsthand. I wanted to be sure my idea of quality and theirs meshed. Through one friend, we found a wonderful but expensive carpenter named Rick. He could make everything better, whether it was a balky closet door or a bookcase in need of redesign.
I scanned home/shelter magazines, too, for names, which is how we found a particular architect. On writing assignments I asked architects, designers and contractors for their secret sources. They graciously shared names of floor sanders and stainers, air-conditioning experts, upholsterers, custom furniture manufacturers and curtain designers. The price a New York custom furniture manufacturer charged for one sofa seemed as expensive as a small car at the time, but the argument that it would last forever because of its quality wood construction, springs and down feathers convinced us. We still have that sofa 24 years later in its same blue woven fabric. (OK, it may need re-covering.)
More Top Picks Best Reef Tank Led Lights For Beginners
The same holds true for the firm that made our chintz living room curtains 20-plus years ago. The price was steep but the workmanship superb. We had the curtains lengthened for our second home and hemmed for our third due to differing ceiling heights.
On a recent assignment, I found our best contractor. He remodeled our latest kitchen effortlessly and stayed within our budget. I was the one who added here and there.
Another case in point: the men who painted and papered our apartment. We found them via a decorator friend. They were among Chicago’s creme de la creme, and the fact that they had painted Marlo Thomas’ homes was another recommendation.
Not only was their prep work superb, the colors just right and the wallpaper seams invisible, but the results probably would have lasted forever if the apartment hadn’t experienced a fire. When our chief painter, Ron, finished, we and our two daughters threw a party for him.
The people we hired often became part of our lives for months because of the project or their Old-World craftsmanship. They also acted professionally, showed up on time, brought their own cellular phones and asked before using our bathrooms.
All the happy experiences are not to say we haven’t made mistakes; we have. A contractor recommended by an architect was almost too eager to start. He proved inept, and his choice of cabinetmaker was almost worse–a harpmaker trying to break into a new field with us as guinea pigs. A landscaper recommended by a friend proved a disaster both in the choice of plants, absence of a plan and what we saw as an inflated bill. But we were at fault; we were in a hurry to see the yard bloom, so we didn’t look at prior work closely enough or ask for references.
The main downside of our diligence is that almost everything has lasted so long that we have not changed our surroundings much. The investments always seemed too steep to forgo, particularly as the antiques appreciated in value. To compensate, we have changed throw pillows, added contemporary art and sculpture, reframed photos and bought new accessories. Given the demands of four busy lives and three major moves, not having to reinvent the wheel each time may be a blessing.