The Things That Matter

by Nate Berkus

  The back of the room is entirely given over to a pyramid of books, magazines, and Sandy’s collection of Limoges china, sitting behind a protective screen made out of chicken wire that she spray-painted white and attached to the wall with a staple gun. She created the bookshelves using scrap pieces of floor from the renovation of an old farmhouse. Book spines aren’t uniform in color or size or font, so in an effort to maintain her tranquil palette, she created slipcovers out of thick gray paper for each volume in her library, as well as gray magazine cases that outfit her collections of old home decorating magazines.

  Above the room, accessible only by a ladder, is that small sleeping loft, which she insulated herself. It is by far her favorite spot in the house, and I can see why. The place is just big enough for two people to curl up. “I feel like a kid in a tree house up here,” she tells me. What look like curtains flowing from the ceiling around either side of the loft are in fact nothing more than panels of sheer white paper. Beginning in October, Sandy says, it starts to get blustery outside. An electric space heater cuts the cold, but in November, when the snow begins falling, she brings in a propane-fired heater with an electrical wire that snakes across the creek and into the trailer she shares with her husband, Todd. Someday, she says, she’d like to build a fireplace or, at the very least, install a woodstove.

  For now, she relishes her private hangout. She reads, she blogs (My Shabby Streamside Studio has nearly one million hits, to date), she takes photographs and gardens; she listens to Neil Young, the Beatles, and her all-time favorite band, Rush; and she plays with Zuzu, her Maltese, who, fortunately for all parties concerned, is creamy white and therefore does not require a slipcover.

  A lot of us daydream about a space where we could sit for hours, gazing out at a stream, or at wildflowers, where we could read or write or play our music as loud as we want to with nobody yelling at us to turn it down. Sandy Foster has gone the extra mile and actually built that fantasy space for herself, and she’s done it with little more than some practical magic, perseverance, an unerring eye for detail, and an authentically romantic spirit.

  When you’ve got four brothers and a sister, you figure out pretty early on that being an introvert just doesn’t work. As a result, I never really hesitate to grab a microphone, stand in front of a large group of people, and say whatever needs saying. But when it came time to toast my friends Brooke Cundiff and Michael Hainey at their wedding reception in New York last year, I got up, raised my glass, and proceeded to dissolve into tears.

  I cried because I’m so impressed with the way these two very different people have learned to allow for each other’s differences. I cried because I’m so inspired by the way they always seem to have each other’s backs, nourish each other’s creativity, and genuinely enjoy hanging out together. And I cried because in a world where love can be pretty elusive, Michael and Brooke actually found each other—even though they had to travel to another continent to do it.

  They were both in Milan on business. Michael is an artist, author, and the deputy editor of GQ. Brooke is now vice president of brand relations/fashion director for Park & Bond and Gilt Groupe, but in those days she was working as a buyer and living in Chicago. They kept spotting each other across the runways of various fashion shows. Season after season, Michael would casually sneak a peek at Brooke when she wasn’t looking, and season after season, Brooke would be as nonchalant as possible while checking Michael out whenever she thought she could get away with it. Then, one evening, they found themselves at the same noisy, crowded party, and Brooke, being very resourceful, managed to “accidentally” bump straight into Michael. People bump into me at parties all the time, they spill their red wine, they step on my foot, and it’s never once ended in us deciding to have and to hold until death do us part, but Brooke and Michael always go that extra mile.

  Actually, Brooke went hundreds of miles. She’d grown restless in Chicago, and finally decided to make the move to Manhattan. It wasn’t long before her friendship with Michael turned to love and love led to a one-bedroom, prewar, Greenwich Village apartment where the two of them could merge their lives, to say nothing of their families, their friends, and, of course, their stuff. But how exactly do two very distinct personalities with very distinct ideas about how to live in a space go about doing that? The friends-and-family thing I get; you make the introductions, stand back, and hope for the best. But the commingling of stuff is a whole other challenge.

  Brooke and I were neighbors in Chicago before we were neighbors in New York. When I first met her, I took one look at this tall, thin, beautiful blonde and made certain assumptions. I assumed she’d be icy. I assumed she’d be a snob. I assumed she’d be one of those rigidly organized girls who was born with perfect hair, straight teeth, and all of her homework done. In reality, my thin, blond friend is one of the sweetest, most down-to-earth people I know. She abhors gossip, she has no agenda, she’s got a really bawdy sense of humor, and she’s unbelievably loyal. As for her intense need to keep every surface clutter-free to within an inch of its life … let’s just say it takes a neat freak to know a neat freak. Brooke’s style was always very done, very elegant, and, like my own, immaculately organized.

  Michael, on the other hand, is what we fastidious types call “normal.” I’m told that normal people like to relax a little and spread out occasionally. They’ve got some paperwork on their desks and maybe even a couple of notebooks. They believe in throwing a wild card into the mix every now and then. That’s Mike. He jots down shards of poetry, and ideas for paintings, he collects quotes that move him and pictures that provoke an emotion, he improvises, he takes chances, he embraces whimsy, he pays attention to the details.

  So with Michael living the informal life of a single guy, Brooke realizing that the majority of her very formal style was best left in Chicago, and one week to go before the date of the move, I offered to help them settle into their new place. On the off chance that you haven’t picked up on this yet, I am notorious for my quick decision-making. Remember that famous “I know it when I see it” quote from the Supreme Court? True, Justice Potter Stewart was referring to pornography, while I’m thinking more in terms of the perfect sofa, but you get the idea. Years of experience have taught me when a piece will work in a person’s home and when it won’t. I know when the price is right and when it’s ridiculous. I know when something is too subdued, too loud, too stern, too frivolous, too sleek, too slouchy, too delicate, too heavy. I know when something is fantastic but still completely wrong for a particular personality, and I know when it’s exactly right.

  Brooke has never met a big decision that she didn’t want to mull over. She is methodical, deliberate, and contemplative. But I’ve always felt that there’s a time to let things happen and a time to make things happen, and I’ve logged in enough shopping hours with Brooke to know just how hard I can push my friend when it comes to making a purchase.

  The Lower East Side vintage store I took Brooke to was filled with mid-century modern furniture that was affordable and chic. We found a 1960s sofa, a glass coffee table with a driftwood base, and an industrial lamp that could be clipped to a great glass-and-chrome desk. The pieces were both classic and contemporary, so when I convinced the shop’s owner to do the impossible and deliver all the furniture to the new apartment that same day, despite the rain, I was ecstatic … and that made one of us.

  Brooke was as close to a panic attack as anybody I’ve ever seen. “I just can’t commit to this many things at once,” she said, through her tears. I tried logic: “But today is the day we put aside to get all of the main things for your living room, and look how lucky we are to find so many wonderful things, all in one spot!” When that didn’t dry her eyes, I tried economics: “Listen, I know the value of these things, and I’m telling you, you’re getting a terrific deal!” Strike two. Finally, I tried Michael. He was in Europe on business at the time, so we began sending photos of each piece for his review and input.

  Everythin
g was delivered that same afternoon.

  The desk now sits in front of a large casement window that fills the room with light and charm. It’s not unusual to find a pile of papers on that desk marked “Do Not Move,” because if Michael doesn’t make it absolutely clear, Brooke tends to straighten up in a way that drives him a little nuts. She used to smooth out all his crumpled receipts and place them in a pretty box, but she’s learning to take a more hands-off approach. Michael’s notebooks, a few pieces of mail, family snapshots, and a ceramic typewriter that holds his Post-it notes and paper clips all have a place on his side of the desk. There’s also a rusted old spike from the railroad yards in McCook, Nebraska, a town comprising of 5.4 square miles in Red Willow County, where Michael’s grandfather worked switching engines on the freight trains. And there’s something else on the desk: a letter opener, its black-and-red painted handle carved into the shape of a spade, a diamond, a club, and a heart. Michael’s father whittled it as a boy, but that Nebraska kid couldn’t have known the letter opener would one day sit on his son’s desk in New York City. Bob Hainey died when he was 35 years old and Michael was only 6. Michael has written a riveting account of his father’s life and the mysterious circumstances of his death, titled After Visiting Friends.

  With the exception of a framed invitation to Michael’s first gallery show, and some very cool boxes where Brooke tucks away her work, there is nothing extraneous on her side of the desk. At night they sit across from each other, Michael in his squishy chrome-and-caramel leather chair—it’s Italian and part of a pair he’s had for years—Brooke in her high-back black patent-leather chair—it’s French and part of a set she’s had for years—with their laptops touching: the perfect definition of modern love.

  The rest of Brooke and Michael’s home is a tribute to couplehood. The art and photography books belong to Michael, the fashion books are Brooke’s. The sophisticated, moody colors that percolate through the apartment are a little of each of them. The black leather medicine ball by the coffee table is Michael’s but it’s pretty sturdy and, believe it or not, Brooke likes to perch on it whenever they’re in need of extra seating. The crow paintings above their sofa, striking yet restrained, were painted by Michael. “The black crow was the first real birthday present I ever gave Brooke,” he told me. “I’d been lusting after it for a while, and it’s still the best birthday present I’ve ever received,” Brooke added. She’s not the only gift recipient. Michael gave me one of the paintings from his crow series as a housewarming gift and it’s now hanging in my library. See that chair with the Greek-key cut-velvet pillow on it? The chair was Michael’s, the pillow was Brooke’s. Next to it is an Italian lamp from the 1960s that they bought together. The bowl of bocce balls with a vintage airplane thrown in for good measure is his. The luminous blown-glass shells from Murano on the antique tray are hers, and by laying them next to two small sculptures of slightly beat-up-looking heads that Michael found at a flea market, they’re creating a perfect combo platter of refined and rustic.

  The chrome bookcase also comes from our first shopping day, but the rock crystal tree covered in sparkly silver-and-white-agate leaves that sits on one of its shelves comes from Brooke. Actually, that tree was originally mine. I had it in Chicago, but Brooke always adored it, so one Christmas I wrapped it up and gave it to her. For a second she couldn’t imagine how I could ever part with something she considered so special—unless there was actually something wrong with the thing. “Is it broken?” she asked, turning it over and over, in search of the problem. I had to explain that it wasn’t broken, it was just beautiful and I wanted her to have it. So Brooke got a twinkly tree and I got the right to tease her about it for the next fifty years.

  The other really amazing thing in that bookcase is the doodle a colleague of Michael’s did as they sat through an awards dinner that seemed to be droning on forever. As portraits go, it doesn’t really rank right up there with the Mona Lisa, but I found a little red frame for it because the artist did manage to say something about Michael’s wit and style … or maybe just the fact that he hung on to the tiny line drawing says it all.

  But the one item that stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw it, the thing that I think says the most about Michael, is a single sentence scribbled in pencil on a slightly stained scrap of paper: “Michael, be careful when using electric drill. Gramp.” The note is framed and hanging in Brooke and Michael’s entryway. “I had just left Chicago and moved to New York and I couldn’t afford a bed, so I decided to build one myself,” he told me. “My grandfather was a very fine craftsman with a well-stocked tool bench. He put together a care package of screwdrivers, a hammer, and an electric drill, and he mailed it to me, along with this note.” It seems that Michael’s grandfather was a man of few words, but I love that Michael knew not to throw those words away—in fact, he framed them. Who would think to do that? A writer, that’s who!

  The entry is filled with Michael’s work in vintage frames, including a simple oil on canvas of a woman with her face blacked out. “I wanted to do a series about absence,” Michael explained. “I like that she still has a personality, she still makes you feel something.” He’s right, the faceless portrait is mesmerizing. The brown velvet bench with gilded legs is nineteenth century French. Brooke brought it from her old life, along with the blown-glass raindrop chandelier. That chandelier is one of the first vintage pieces Brooke and I ever bought together. To me, the chandelier and the vintage Louis Vuitton suitcases sitting under the bench, and all of the old frames, battered bowls, and silver vases represent the weekends we spent laughing and talking and foraging through hundreds of little dives and tag sales and antiques malls north of Chicago. I look up at those blue raindrops and see the start of our twenty-year shopping spree.

  The painting of the lady in the periwinkle party dress who looks like she could benefit from a few milligrams of Lexapro was a gift from Brooke’s step-grandmother. I love that picture and I bet Don Draper would love it, too. The French chair beneath the lady in blue also comes from Brooke’s old life—she found it online and we reupholstered it together. The chair is romantic and regal and, when paired with a charcoal-gray pinstripe pillow, sends a clear message that this couple has a well-defined sense of irony. Next to the chair is a vintage Italian cube from the ’70s—a chic leftover from Michael’s life before there was a Brooke in it, as well as a good place to hold another collection of art books, this one topped with a weathered old starfish.

  Brooke doesn’t depend on a cube or even the floor to hold her collection of shoes. One day she walked into a store and fell in love with a French, silk-lined curio cabinet and bought it on the spot. I loved it, too, and then something dawned on me: “You don’t have to use your cabinet to hold porcelain figures,” I told her. “Why not put your favorite shoes inside?” Brooke had the peeling paint refinished, some extra shelves added, and moved the piece right into her bedroom, where it now stores forty pairs of her favorite shoes and provides her a lot of pleasure, not to mention extra closet space.

  This is a couple who are not only madly in love but also have wild respect for each other. Brooke leaves Michael tender Post-it notes, Michael brings Brooke her morning coffee, and together they’ve learned how to be married to each other. He let go of some closet space because Brooke is worth jamming a few jackets into the kitchen pantry for. And she let go of the need for perfection, because she realized that life is inherently messy and because Michael’s happiness is more important than a few wadded-up receipts on a desk—and because it turns out that sitting on a dilapidated leather medicine ball is surprisingly comfortable for her.

  I can’t say it enough: The correct order for achieving joy is people, then animals, then things. Sooner or later most of us realize we can’t change the other person, and we really don’t even want to. We make concessions and compromises and come to understand that their way has its logic, and so does ours. It’s what I call “imperfectly perfect.” And that’s the aesthetic that move
s me the most about Brooke and Michael.

  The truth is, their stuff probably shouldn’t work together, but it does. Sometimes breaking the rules of design is what it takes to tell the story of who two people are when they’re together. And reimagining your style to make room for who your partner is results in an interior that, like most great love affairs, is, and will forever be, perfectly imperfect.

  (Illustration Credit 15.1)

  (Illustration Credit 15.2)

  I’ve always been drawn to the energy of New York City—the people let you know exactly where you stand within seconds of saying hello, you’re never more than a twenty-two-minute subway ride from dim sum or tapas, on any given day in Central Park you’ll find an old guy playing tenor sax or a rescue dog learning to walk on a leash, and you’ll spot a battered copy of the book you’ve been searching high and low for being sold on the sidewalk in front of Zabar’s. As a kid I watched movies like Arthur and Working Girl and The First Wives Club, and I thought New York was glamorous and gritty and mesmerizing and magic in a way I’d never seen before—a place where anything was possible. On most days I still feel that way.

  I moved to Manhattan in baby steps. I had spent so much time visiting Fernando, and developing a steady stream of business in the city, that by the summer of 2006, with one foot still firmly planted in Chicago, I finally decided to actually buy a tiny, prewar 550-square-foot West Village apartment, a brand-new toothbrush, and a MetroCard. Chicago still felt like home, but Manhattan felt like it was at least worth a try.