by Nate Berkus
I painted the window frames black. The brass chairs—Fernando and I bought them together—came from my apartment in Chicago. I designed the pillows. The wicker table used to be in my Chicago bedroom, and the silver dresser from the 1970s (you may recall we lugged it to several different spots) I bought online for that modern, white apartment in New York. The black mirror is another Pavilion piece—it used to hang in my entry—and we found the majolica bust of Julius Caesar in an antiques store in Stamford, Connecticut.
The chair is one of a pair (and sharp-eyed readers will recognize the other in Brooke Cundiff and Michael Hainey’s living room). That pillow on the chair is covered in a nineteenth-century Native American wool rug. The three photographs on the wall were a gift from Chicago photographer Doug Fogelson. Above the couch hangs one of my favorite pieces of art—I bought it with Carlos on my first trip to Mexico City. It’s called The Last Ranchero.
The tiny coat that hangs in my stairwell belonged to my grandfather, and I can remember seeing pictures of him wearing it when he was a little boy. I had it in my first apartment in Chicago, in my final apartment in Chicago, and now I pass it dozens of times a day as I go up and down the stairs. It not only connects me to where I came from, but, like the man himself, it’s just got a certain charm.
The story goes that my grandfather met my grandmother when he was the water sports director at Camp Pinemere in the Poconos and she showed up with three trunks’ worth of wardrobe changes. He was a suit salesman who moved his family from the East Coast to the Midwest because that was his territory. He’s 90 now, but to this day he can still rock loafers without socks, perfectly pressed khakis, a button-down Oxford shirt, a braided belt, and a navy blazer with brass buttons like nobody else. Also, like nobody else, he doesn’t hesitate to call after catching a TV appearance to let me know that a shave wouldn’t exactly kill me, or that I’d seem a lot more credible with a tie and a pocket square.
One of the questions I asked myself when I first saw the dining room was, Is there enough space in here for floor-to-ceiling bookshelves? My dream was to have all my books in a single spot, so Carlos got to work and, using his background as an architect, he was able to design it down to the millimeter. It’s inspired by the second floor of Pierre Bergé’s apartment in Paris. Jacques Grange was Bergé’s decorator, and he’s one of my design heroes. His first floor is very formal, but the second floor, where his office and bedroom and library are, has a slightly rustic, more casual quality. What we wanted to take from Bergé’s place is the timeless feeling his home conveys. I think that’s the thing everybody should consider before writing a check to a contractor: Will this stand the test of time? You have to just be in a room for a while, block out all the white noise, and honestly ask yourself, Is this the hottest trend, the flavor of the month, or is this the navy blue blazer with brass buttons? My grandfather taught me well: I go for the blue blazer every time. I walk into my dining room/library and I know that I will never tire of the waxed-wood planks in a chevron pattern on the floor because it’s historic and never goes out of style. Nobody will take a chisel to my marble fireplace because after a few years I decide I want wood instead. The marble fireplace is a nineteenth-century classic. And I know that I’ll always take pleasure in these simple bookcases—they still work for Pierre Bergé and years from now they’ll still work for me, too.
The books on display here are a combination of mine, Fernando’s, and Carlos’s. They all revolve around the same subjects: architecture, design, travel, jewelry, fashion, photography, furniture, paintings, drawings, and museum collections. None are there for show. Some I use for inspiration, others I reference when I’m working for clients, and still others just make me smile.
When Fernando died, I took almost all his books and lots of small objects, though nothing of any real monetary value. The watches and the cuff links he loved went to his nephews, but when he and I first began spending time together, Fernando would hand me books that he’d marked up with little Post-it notes because he wanted to show me something: a thought-provoking quote, an amazing face, maybe just a place he wanted us to see together someday. I’ve always believed that there is something extraordinary and very circular about opening a book that once really mattered to someone I love, and I still take comfort in being able to touch something that he touched. Now a part of what Fernando collected and cherished is celebrated by the way I live.
The two pictures are by the German artist Günther Förg—they were the first grown-up art I ever bought. I always hear about people being intimidated by the art world—it can feel so clubby, so insular. But I was never impressed by names, because I saw virtually every major name come through the auction house where I worked and it taught me that the true value of a piece is always determined by the market. When you put something up on the block, you find out very quickly what people think it’s worth. I’ve had more than one client ask me if a piece is good, but really, the only question you have to ask when you’re buying art is, Do I like it? If you like it, then yes, it’s good.
The dining table was my conference table in the Chicago office, and I salvaged the 1950s-era chairs, with their original upholstery, paint, and nail heads intact, from a client. They were made by the French company Jansen. Jacqueline Kennedy used Jansen when she redecorated the White House, and the Duchess of Windsor used Jansen for her home outside of Paris, so I guess I’m in pretty good company. The woven Belgian wallpaper I found at Lowe’s.
THE ONE QUESTION YOU HAVE TO ASK WHEN YOU’RE BUYING ART IS, DO I LIKE IT? IF YOU LIKE IT, THEN YES, IT’S GOOD.
You can see in the custom iron-and-glass doors the influence my time spent living in France has had. I love the idea of metal interior doors. Unfortunately, when they were first installed, the workers used white caulk to hold the panes of glass in place and I was less than happy with the results. I insisted they replace it with black putty.
The dining table is more of a working table than a place to eat (I usually have dinner on the couch in the family room). Books sit there, mostly volumes I’m referencing for various design projects. I brought the beaded hat home from South Africa. That hand was created by the artist Pedro Friedeberg. I actually paid a visit to his home in Mexico City, and as the night went on, and more and more tequila was consumed, I finally found the nerve to slur, “Would you be offended if I wanted to buy something here?” And without missing a beat, he answered, “I would be offended if you didn’t.”
Also in the dining room are a few things I have had with me forever. The pottery fish candleholders belonged to Fernando (I always picture the way he’d set the table with them) and so did the Chinese silver compote and the papier-mâché lacquer vase. Carlos and I bought the Napoleon plates at a Florida antiques mall. I came across the little set of dishes and the wine pourer in Chicago years ago. The runner is from Thailand. There’s also a book about Patmos, one of my favorite places to go when I need to change my scene and catch up with the friends I’ve made there over the years.
(Illustration Credit 15.17)
In the kitchen, I painted the cabinets, and replaced the existing backsplash with plain subway tile. For the island, I wanted something that felt like it had always been there, and I found just the thing from a Chicago antiques dealer. The fact that it’s on casters, and has two shelves where I can put my serving pieces, is great, and I could not love the stone top more.
The leather screen in my bedroom comes from my Chicago apartment, and the bed has an upholstered headboard I designed that I had slipcovered in cotton velvet with leather welting. The nightstands are from the sixties, made out of lacquered goatskin by Italian furniture designer Aldo Tura. I found the bronze-lacquer-and-leather desk in Mexico City. The lamps have Italian eighteenth-century bases, and the shades are made of old grasscloth. The folk art piece is from my old bedroom in Chicago; it’s some kind of scorecard, sketched onto black linen. The cashmere pillow and the pillow with braided leather cording sit beside a $9 Mexican embroidered pillow and
a cashmere blanket that practically weighs as much as I do.
My closet is a total fantasy. Carlos literally sketched out the space, which the contractors then mocked up. The closet was brought in piece by piece, like LEGOs. Every shelf is beveled. The ottoman is from my library in Chicago, and the carpet Carlos and I picked out together. The light fixture is American 1960s, and used to hang in my Chicago guest room. The millwork is French Directoire–inspired and painted pale gray, with unlacquered brass hardware and inset mirrors.
The mirrors in the bathroom come from my master bathroom in Chicago. As for the stuffed leather rhinoceros head hanging on the wall, he was a wedding present to my parents, from Abercrombie & Fitch, in the days when Abercrombie was a hunting and fishing store, and he lives with me wherever I go. The bust is of Shakespeare, while the lighting Carlos and I ordered from Nantucket. A picture that Fernando took of birds at night hangs above an old French 1950s shelf, which holds towels from my own collection. The matchbook engraved with a “B” was a gift from my friend Barri Leiner, who you met in chapter 4. The horn cup I brought home from Asia.
(Illustration Credit 15.22)
As I mentioned, my mother and I both gravitate toward stone and fossils and dendrites—they’re one of the few presents she knows are safe to surprise me with. But this particular star sapphire and dendrite my friend Ahmad and I found in Tucson, Arizona.
I swiped the marble fireplace from my master bedroom in Chicago, and reinstalled it here in the guest room. The old French urn on the wood vase is from my Chicago entry. The chair in the corner is a prototype for Niedermaier, while the lamp is 1960s-era. On the side table is a brass lamp, the baskets are Mexican, the horn tray comes from Sri Lanka, and the two candlesticks belonged to Fernando.
I have to say, it was fun to position the nineteenth-century French fireplace across from a nineteenth-century French side table in the living room. I reupholstered the benches in corduroy; the coffee table used to be a bench, but I replaced the top with a piece of old Belgian limestone. I have had the little brown chair for twenty years, upholstered in cashmere. The funny little sculpture I bought at an art fair in Venice. The seagrass rug comes from a catalog.
I wanted to begin collecting English Regency mahogany furniture, which is why I bought the center table. (A good rule of thumb is that when the trend moves away from collecting something, it’s the perfect time to buy it, and right now English antiques are a great value.) One of the first chairs I ever owned was the pony chair with the black cotton velvet seat. I remember scrounging my money together to buy it from the auction house I worked for in Chicago when I was 23.
On the side table is a collection of some of my favorite things of all time: a Belgian pottery vase; an Alexander Noll bowl carved from a solid piece of ebony; a bronze paperweight I bought from a jeweler in Naples; a C. Jeré sculpture; and another series of crystals that were a gift from my mom. The French chairs, which I found in a Sag Harbor antiques store, are probably the most valuable pieces in the house. They were created by one of the most talented and refined mid-century designers who ever lived, Gilbert Poillerat. His work is featured in the Museum of Decorative Arts in the Louvre.
(Illustration Credit 15.23)
This 1970s-era chrome-and-carved-wood French cabinet comes from my apartment in Chicago. Michael Hainey did the bird painting (you may recognize a similar one in Michael and Brooke’s home) and gave it to me as a housewarming present. It’s one of my favorite pieces, which makes a lot of sense, given that he’s one of my favorite people. I bought the 1950s-era wood-carved shell in Paris, and it sits beside a Marina Karella sculpture. Colors come in and out of vogue every season, but black and white never get old. On the wall is a collection of vintage black-and-white Fornasetti plates. Fornasseti is one of those rule breakers I was thinking of when I was telling you about people who inspire me. His point of view was strong and his patterns were wild and whimsical and absolutely unique.
The doorknob is French vintage, circa 1970.
This hat belonged to Fernando, and so did the Chinese vase, the cloche, and the skull. The bracelets I brought back from South Africa after visiting the Oprah Leadership Academy for Girls. The horse was one of a pair of Fernando’s, and the belt I brought home from Peru. There is a vintage Hermes toiletry kit from the 1930s that I found years ago at a flea market in Paris. The chest of drawers comes from a roadside antiques shop in rural Michigan. They’re very rural in sensibility but also very refined. The original stamp is faded but still visible in the back of a drawer. It tells me that it was made in Belgium; how it found its way to a dusty little shop halfway between Chicago and Saugatuck will remain a mystery. The bird was a gift from my mother’s wonderful friend Joyce Straus. Also, there are framed notes from various friends, mixed in with photographs of me with my niece and nephew. I’m a sucker for a fantastic piece of jewelry, and I keep that 1960s-era necklace on that book.
The bed comes from my Chicago apartment, and the lamp is leather, with an ostrich egg. The embroidered tapestry on the wall is traditional Mexican, and the bracket I have had forever. The mirror is 1960s-era Italian.
The powder room is decidedly masculine; I’ve always been very no-frills. I bought the leather sink and the sconces online. I had the mirror made from rope, and the towel bar is salvaged. The wallpaper is Fornasetti malachite, because every man, woman, and child, blonde, brunette, and redhead looks amazing against that particular paper.
(Illustration Credit 15.25)
The lantern in the stairwell was the kitchen fixture in my Chicago apartment.
I am fully aware that I am fortunate to lead a beautiful life, that I have worked hard for it, and that it matters a lot to me. At the same time, in no way is my New York space complete, because the truth is, a space, or an individual room, is never really done. To me, decorating is the lifelong pursuit of what could be more interesting, more harmonious, better, what can be discovered, unearthed, combined. Some people sit in their family rooms at night rehashing their day or thinking about what’s on TV. I sit in mine and wonder, Would that wicker table look good in the bedroom? Should I put two more chairs here? Should this bookcase be moved two inches to the right? Why are there two chests of drawers in here? It doesn’t mean I’m always actively seeking something new, only that I’m open to change if and when it occurs to me.
The greatest evolution for me as a person over the years is the knowledge that situations change, nothing is ever perfect, and some stuff you just can’t control. Today, I know that I can fix anything that’s not working. In my early days as a decorator, I was terrified to make a mistake, take a risk, spend someone else’s money. But who wants their work to be based in fear? The bottom line is that there’s always that moment when the eighteen-wheeler pulls up to the curb, and you’ve got to be ready to think on your feet. I’ve been doing this for so many years now that I no longer hesitate to say to a client, “Those two chairs we ordered for the living room would look better in the bedroom.” It’s gotten to a point where my team and I must have the flexibility to change our minds without the client peering over our shoulders. My knowledge and confidence comes from taking a sofa out of one room and putting it in another, by replacing an accent wall with a single unifying color, by incorporating depth by layering in family photos and flea market treasures—and making hundreds of rooms come to life as a result.
(Illustration Credit 15.26)
Surviving the tsunami helped give that priority shift a push. I used to stress out when a room wasn’t perfect, or a piece of furniture showed up twenty-four hours late. These days, I shrug my shoulders. When you have lived through the worst thing you can imagine, it unlocks the shackles, creatively speaking. It sets you free. Time and experience and a few triumphs and, of course, my fair share of mistakes have shown me that there is no one right way to design a room. That’s what I love about building a home for myself and what I love about building a home for other people. The recipe isn’t all that complicated: You just have to add yo
ur life, your travels, your memories, the people you’ve loved, the people who’ve loved you back, all the stuff that’s crossed your path along the way—and then mix.
SO HERE’S TO THE THINGS THAT LIFT US UP, ANCHOR OUR LIVES—AND TELL THE WORLD WHO WE ARE.
At the end of the day, my attachment isn’t to my new home—which is really just a series of rooms and walls—but to the things that fill it. Which is why I know that if for some reason I ever ended up living in a studio apartment again, I’d be happy. Because I would have only what I need. But in my case, as a lifelong aficionado of stuff, what I need is the exact same thing as what I want. So here’s to the things that lift us up, anchor our lives—and tell the world who we are.
(Illustration Credit 15.29)
THINGS THAT MATTER TO…
BARBARA BERGER
As an avid collector, I find it so hard to choose just a single piece, but this handbag represents my jewelry, toy, and handbag collection in one. I think it has a great sense of humor and beauty.
(Illustration Credit bm.1)
JULIANNE MOORE
I love this lamp. It’s a piece of sculpture, plaster, made in the 1970s, probably cast from the artist’s own hands. I love a human, physical element in objects.
AHMAD SARDAR-AFKHAMI
I love these monkeys. They’re not the most precious or rare things that I have in my home … but I couldn’t imagine morning coffee without their naughty gaze. They used to be in the bedroom but would get up to no good when I was asleep. After a long separation, they now live together on my dining room table. They were a rather surprising and delightful birthday present from a dear friend.