The Things That Matter

by Nate Berkus

  (Illustration Credit 15.4)

  By 2011, I was as ready as I was ever going to be to make a permanent move. My company was well established, and my staff was strong enough to take on the challenge of running the business without needing my physical presence on a daily basis. We were working with clients from coast to coast, which meant that when I wasn’t boarding a plane to fly cross-country for another Oprah makeover show, I was hopping a flight to Florida, the Hamptons, Southern California—you name it. The truth was, Chicago is where I started. I didn’t really need to be there anymore, so when I was offered the opportunity to launch my talk show out of New York, it was as though the fates had given me the go-ahead to kick off the next chapter of my life.

  A few years after settling full-time into my tiny West Village apartment, mutual friends introduced me to an architect named Carlos. He was whip-smart, genuinely thoughtful, tremendously talented, roughly the same height as me, and Jewish. That, my friends, is about as rare as finding a unicorn under your bathroom sink.

  I think all of us absorb lessons from the people in our lives, old or young, friends or lovers, parents or children. Carlos was born and raised in Mexico City. His references were so different from mine that I didn’t know what to expect when it came time to actually see his apartment. What if he secretly collected thousands of those little Sweet ’n Low packets or celebrity hair or something? Please, if nothing else, I prayed, let the place be clean. I’m happy to say that his home was not only immaculate, there wasn’t a bad oil painting in sight. It wasn’t long before we fell in love.

  In the months leading up to the launch of my talk show, Carlos and I rented a modern, white box created by renowned French architect Jean Nouvel. The apartment was, and is, a minor miracle of design. I always thought there was something to be said for living in an aerie overlooking the Hudson River, and here it is: sleek lines, white walls, and polished concrete countertops. The view was riveting—Arthur, Working Girl, and The First Wives Club all rolled into one! Everything was state-of-the-art. The sinks and the cabinetry were flawless. The glass-front refrigerator couldn’t have been better for a guy who likes to decant his eggs. Look, I don’t care how many times you reread that sentence, it’s still going to say that I decant my eggs. (I cut the expiration date off the carton, set it at the bottom of a plain glass bowl, and place the eggs on top.)

  Moving on.

  I loved the juxtaposition of my vintage things sitting in an unmarred modern space. I loved the sunlight and how it made all our stuff pop; almost the way a sterile white backdrop in a photo studio allows you to see everything a little bit better. I lovedbeing able to go running along the river all the way to Wall Street and back. I loved having an open space where we could easily entertain. The first things I bought for the apartment were thirty champagne glasses, so mimosas could happen on the spot. Carlos would make the waffles, I’d pour the orange juice, and together we would have fifteen friends over for a spur-of-the-moment Sunday brunch. I loved decorating with pieces we had found together in Mexican vintage shops, things that represented both of us, mixed in with objects and furniture from my tiny West Village flat, and books and lighting fixtures from Carlos’s old place. And believe me, it was not lost on either of us that two grandchildren of immigrants could sit and have our morning coffee while staring at the Statue of Liberty. The apartment was cinematic and chic, pristine and perfect; it was the American dream come true. There was only one small problem—it was completely wrong for me.

  (Illustration Credit 15.5)

  Living up in the sky with floor-to-ceiling windows made me feel unmoored. I had already experienced the sensation of the earth opening up, and it left me vulnerable in ways I hadn’t really counted on. I wasn’t exactly miserable; I didn’t have vertigo or anything. I was just kind of disoriented and … floaty. It felt like I was living on a theme-park ride and I wanted off.

  For better or for worse, we are heavily influenced by the places where we’ve lived as children. I’ve lived in traditional houses my whole life. Give me something cracked or banged up, give me tarnished brass or mottled brick, the height of a baseboard, the profile of a molding, and I’m home. It turns out I’m not a big fan of asymmetry and interesting angles; I like my rooms square. I like stone fireplaces and ancient grout and knots in the hardwood floors. I like knowing that somebody else has lived in a place before me. They say that life isn’t about learning new lessons so much as learning the same old ones again and again; if this apartment did nothing else for me, it reinforced that I want hardware that’s been touched by many hands. I need to live in a more familiar, storied way, surrounded by stuff that has age and patina and tales to tell.

  (Illustration Credit 15.6)

  Hosting your own show isn’t exactly as brutal as mining for coal, but it does require a staggering amount of hard work that has to come across as effortless on-screen. Taping six shows a week takes a toll both emotionally and physically. I was getting ready for the launch and simultaneously doing dozens of makeovers all across the country, which made it even more anxiety-provoking when I’d walk through the door at the end of the day into a space that just didn’t feel right.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me: Here I was bounding onstage each morning, showing the audience how they could make their own spaces feel more like home, and not feeling even remotely at ease in my own place. One day, Carlos and I had a heart-to-heart. I told him I felt like we were living on a shelf inside of a really, really modern medicine cabinet. I told him I felt like one of the Hollywood Squares (Paul Lynde to block). I told him that this place just wasn’t home. And he told me that he understood. I know, I know: A normal person would have poured a glass of tequila, put his feet up, and reminded himself that he was living there only temporarily, and that when the demands of producing and hosting a daily TV talk show cooled down, he could begin looking for a more traditional home.…

  (Illustration Credit 15.7)

  Normal has never been high on my priority list (Hello, my name is Nate, and I’m an egg decanter). Instead of the feet on the coffee table and the glass of tequila, I’d get home from a day of taping and immediately start trolling online real estate websites. Rather than asking Carlos how his day had gone (he’d recently launched his own fragrance line), I’d say, “Hey—check out this three-bedroom floor-through … do you think this could work for us?”

  We looked at a lot of apartments over the next few months. We met broker after broker. We traipsed through hallways, peered into closets, tested water pressure, studied views, and said, “Thanks, we’ll let you know,” more times than I can tell you. Ideally, our next home would be in a charming neighborhood, where I could find a decent slice of pizza and a basic supermarket (I actually need laundry detergent more than smoked eel fillets) within walking distance. The space would have great bones, and I could renovate it using all the materials I love, like white-oak, hand-planed herringbone floorboards, marble mantels, iron-and-glass windows. I wanted a space that would showcase all the hardware I’d hunted down online or found in architectural salvage places. When all was said and done, I wanted some history.

  When I walked into the apartment I finally ended up buying, it felt strangely familiar—I even wondered if maybe I’d once been to a party there. It took no more than a couple of seconds to realize that this was a space where I could be happy. For one thing, the apartment had two floors, a formal dining room, a space off the master bedroom that I knew we could transform into a great dressing room, a big, light-filled guest room with a terrace, and a family room that was big enough to fit a pair of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. But a space is only as good as what you put in it and I knew that almost every object and piece of furniture I owned would look beautiful here. There was nothing to think about—I made an offer on the spot, and it was accepted that afternoon.

  Carlos was just as excited as I was. We started going back and forth to the new place, every six seconds, ’round the clock: Should the dining room go here or there? What co
lor do we paint the kitchen? Can we get away with leaving the bathroom tile alone? And the biggest question: How are we ever going to get this together with my work schedule? From time to time, we all wonder who’s really in charge of the world. My proof God exists is that I was able to arrange for this renovation to take place over the summer, so that by the time the show began taping again in late August, we’d be living in our new place. Unfortunately, before we could live, we had to move.

  On a scale of things that make me want to curl into a ball and hyperventilate, moving falls just below an emergency appendectomy. At its best, the process is emotional and grueling; at its worst, it’s traumatic and back-breaking. There’s something about packing your life into boxes labeled “dining room,” “bedroom,” “miscellaneous,” and then watching everything you own get shoved into the back of a stranger’s truck that I just find harrowing. For one thing, I have never, ever moved on a sunny day. There’s always a torrential thunderstorm. For another, I can’t seem to relax until every last spoon is washed and in the drawer, every picture is hung, every sneaker has found a proper home in the closet.

  If you were to add up all of the time I logged sleeping that first week after the move, it would come to approximately fifteen minutes—and I swear I was up twice during that quarter of an hour. Some people have nightmares about roller coasters raging out of control or walking naked across a college quad. Not me. I would wake up in the middle of the night and wonder, Where is that silver dresser I bought online going to fit? As soon as my bloodshot eyes flipped open in the morning, I sprang out of bed and went right back to staring down the cardboard boxes. And Carlos was with me every step of the way, measuring, hammering, and bandaging my toe each time I dropped something heavy on it. (For those of you playing the home game, that would be three times in a single afternoon.)

  (Illustration Credit 15.8)

  When I’m decorating a new space, my eye goes to every detail in a room simultaneously. I can’t focus on any one thing. I need to understand the relationship of a table to everything that surrounds it. To me, the mathematical problem of creating a home is: How do I fit what is important to me in this new environment, and then add to those things in a way that makes them look correct and beautiful to my eye? Always, always the architecture—the size and scale of the room—dictates what works and what doesn’t. I knew I needed four things: height, light, space, and character. When I walked into the apartment that would become our new home, the first things I noticed were the ten-and-a-half-foot ceilings. Next I looked at the distribution of the rooms—how a chain of rooms open into each other. I looked to see where the sunlight was. I asked myself which rooms I’d want to spend the most time in. For example, the previous owners had a dining room that I decided to turn into my family room because my morning ritual is to have coffee and blueberries in front of the TV, and that room got the most light. I wanted rooms that would meet our needs. I didn’t want a room that you just walked past unless you decided to throw a dinner party every couple of months. I wanted a place where you could set up your laptop and stretch out with your papers, where you could have a business meeting or have a few friends over for take-out Thai food. The universal question that people have to ask themselves is this: When I come home after a long day, do I have a soft place to land?

  That’s easy for me to say, right? The truth is, figuring out which things belong where, and what you really need to be comfortable and happy can be complicated. For what it’s worth, I’ve been a professional decorator since 1996, but I still don’t feel as confident in my own home as I do in other people’s (it’s kind of like the chef who makes himself peanut butter and jelly for dinner or the manicurist with ragged cuticles). I know when something looks right, but I also like standing in front of a piece of furniture and asking, “Do you like this?” and “Do you think this would work?” Left to my own devices, I will always bring in as many opinions as possible, so it only makes sense to me to have the opinion of the person I love. As far as I’m concerned, the pursuit of love is tied up with the desire to live beautifully, and I count myself lucky to live with a partner whose taste I trust and whose opinion I value and who is not, thank God, as much of a maniac as I am. Carlos once told a mutual friend, “When Nate goes silent I know I’ll be carrying a chair.” There aren’t a whole lot of people who are willing to haul a silver dresser into three different rooms with me, but when I find one, I’m extremely grateful.

  So what’s the difference between doing a makeover and decorating your own home? Well, at heart, a TV or magazine makeover is almost the opposite of creating a home for yourself. Actually it isn’t about creating a home so much as expediting the process. Every single makeover begins with the following questions: What is the look and the feeling we’re after? What is the color scheme? Where can we get the sofa? I’m always asking myself, What kind of information can I put into a makeover that people will learn from? My job is to inspire others, while teaching them not to be intimidated. In real life, I’m the one who is forever seeking inspiration.

  ONE DAY, I LOOKED AROUND AND REALIZED THAT I WAS HOME.

  And I find it everywhere. I’m inspired by people who seem to be juggling a thousand different things, all at the same time. And I’m especially moved by those who are capable of having a good laugh when a couple of those thousand things end up getting away from them. I’m inspired by people who’ve got phenomenal street style, because they’re fearless; they’ll mix patterns or eras or textures in such an interesting, carefree, witty way that you feel like you’re being moved forward by unseen forces. I’m inspired by the young, the risk-takers, the people who establish the rules, and the people who are willing to break them. And I’ve always admired that European thing, where a person will buy just one outfit, but that outfit is tailored to perfection from beautiful fabric, and they find a million different ways to wear it. I’ve yet to be able to pull it off personally, but I’m profoundly inspired by true minimalists, because they’re always so fiercely protective of the quality of the things they surround themselves with.

  So, as you can see, for me inspiring others and being inspired are two separate issues. My job as a decorator is being able to distill the essence of people from their words, and tell their stories through objects and color and fabric and furniture.

  Including my own story. Because one day, I looked around and realized that I was home.

  That realization was a quiet thing—music didn’t swell as I came down a staircase bathed in a halo of golden light. No, I knew I was finally home when I reached for a screwdriver and realized that I didn’t have to think about which cupboard it was stashed in. My muscle memory was finally activated. At last I knew what was inside each and every cabinet, drawer, and shelf, whether it was plates, cups, T-shirts, sneakers, or gift-wrapping (yes, I have a gift-wrap drawer, and that’s all we’re going to say about that).

  My space reflects the life I’ve lived so far, and it’s filled with stuff that has been with me for years, stuff that reminds me of where I’ve traveled, who I’ve loved, and where I want to go next. In my family room are gifts from friends; one gave me a Fornasetti plate for my fortieth birthday, and another pal gave me a Bottega Veneta picture frame. Corin Nelson, whom you read about a few chapters back, gave me a spectacular chunk of malachite that I keep on a stack of books. There’s a vintage Louis Vuitton leather case I found at a flea market in Paris years ago; two funny brass puzzles I bought at a Japanese store on Melrose Avenue; an old Hermès picture frame, also from Paris; a pair of standing graphite feet that I gave to Carlos as a gift; and a lamp that used to sit on the desk a couple of apartments ago.

  (Illustration Credit 15.11)

  There was also some stuff I wasn’t able to fit in my new space that’s now resting comfortably in storage. In my Chicago apartment, I had a kitchen table and chairs that I still miss a lot. (I used to sit there and pick at the top, talking with friends for hours on end, so I was intimately acquainted with all the marks in the wood.) B
ut I also did some recycling. The curtain panels are from my Chicago apartment. I found them years ago in a catalog and added some length to make them work in this space.

  Those old iron bookshelves were salvaged from a Parisian bank. They come in a million pieces, so if you move them, you first have to take them apart and then reassemble them. They’re so heavy they have to be bolted to the wall. It’s really a lot of work, and really worth it. On top of one is an old brass clip lamp from my Chicago days that probably cost me all of $1.85.

  The family room is my favorite room, the one I think is the most successful. I not only love what’s in this room and how the objects stand out, I love what is not here, too. I think of the family room as an assortment of small beats—or moments—of color: a bright yellow tortilla holder from Mexico, and a scattering of woolen place mats I brought back from Thailand. Deborah Colman and Neil Kraus, two genius connoisseurs of decorative art and furniture who have influenced me greatly for as long as I’ve been a decorator, own one of my favorite shops, called Pavilion 20th Century. Over the years I’ve known them, the store has passed through more than a few incarnations. Deborah and Neil alter the design and the feeling of the interior over and over again. Many of my favorite things in the world, including those Parisian bookshelves, came from Pavilion.

  It’s easier to tell what a room has than what it lacks. So, quick: If I asked you for the defining characteristic of the family room, what would you say? It’s this: With the exception of a table I bought especially for this place, there’s nothing new in here.

  The room had been painted white, and we kept it that way. I had the choice of placing grilles over the radiator and air conditioner, but that was just too much metal.