I've been really drawn to before-and-afters lately, and I think I know why.
There are a lot of ways to make a room fine. Fine is easy. Fine is a sectional and a rug and calling it done. But there's a difference between fine and a room that's actually yours — full of things that traveled with you from city to city, sometimes overseas, things you remember the story behind because that's just how my brain works. I don't think everyone designs this way, and that's okay. But I collect what I like, and what my husband likes, and then I make it work together. It shifts constantly — I move things around, I dust a probably-unreasonable amount, nothing is precious in a way that means it can't move again. But all of it, together, tells a story of who we are, what we like, how we've actually lived, and what's meant something to us along the way.
That's how I like to design, too — not just for myself, but for clients. Not "what's fine," but "what's actually yours."
Nothing in this house showed up by accident.
That's not an exaggeration for a blog post — it's basically the operating philosophy of this whole house, and this room might be the clearest proof of it. Almost nothing you see here started here.
Three Homes, One Room
We went from a 650 square foot two-bedroom apartment in San Francisco, to a 1,450 square foot high-rise in Saint Paul with Mississippi River views, to this 2,300 square foot house. Each move was an upgrade in space, but not a reset. When we packed up that SF apartment, the sofa came with us. So did the campaign dresser — now doing double duty as a media cabinet, its hardware hand-painted by me at some point along the way because the original finish just wasn't it anymore. The organ bench came too. The Danish side chair. The side table, the coffee table. Even the floor lamp has history: our Saint Paul high-rise had track lighting I could not stand, so we filled the place with lamps instead, and one of them just... kept coming.
So when we finally landed here, the room wasn't starting from zero. It was starting from us — just waiting to catch up to the walls around it.
Catching up meant new paint on the walls and ceiling, an actual crack repair (old houses keep you humble), rust-toned sheer curtains, and a vintage lamp from an estate sale. The hair-on-hide rug came from an estate sale last summer — one of the last pieces we added, and one I'm still a little smug about. The little drinks table next to the Dan Johnson chair is even newer — an estate sale find from just last winter, so this room genuinely wasn't "finished" until a few months ago. It meant a few genuinely new additions too — a Dan Johnson armchair, a new lamp, and the plants. Always, always the plants.
The Art Walls
The art in here isn't a set — it's a timeline, split across two different walls.
Above the organ bench is a large botanical collage — a woman's head opening into branches, leaves, and flowers, almost medusa-like — by Jon Vochatzer, a friend who owns a gallery in San Francisco and is genuinely one of the most talented artists I know. Around it are three smaller photographs, all by local Saint Paul artists, picked up at various art fairs here over the years.
By the TV, a completely different wall tells its own story. There's a small piece from a garage sale — the artist made it himself, I picked it up for $5, and it has moved to more walls in this house than I can count. Next to it is another piece by Jon — a woman set against a white background, picked up from him back in San Francisco. And the third piece, a fluid resin painting, is the very first piece of local art we ever bought here in Saint Paul, from a local artist at an art fair. That one still means something every time I look at it.
Above the sofa is a photograph I loved for years before my husband finally bought it for me for my birthday — Joshua Benmore's "The World Is Still at War, But We're Still Dancing." That title has basically become a personal motto at this point.
The Pillows (Yes, All of Them)
The pillow on the Danish armchair is a Kelly Wearstler graffiti-print linen — one of those pieces that just quietly elevates everything near it. On the organ bench, the green zebra print pillow is Scalamandre — a fabric house whose prints I will happily justify any budget for.
On the sofa, the orange-toned pillows are vintage Turkish, sourced through Etsy. One of them got a huge hole in it about two weeks after it arrived — because of course it did — and had to be repaired, since I have exactly zero skills when it comes to fixing a wool rug pillow myself. The pillow in the middle is a vintage silk velvet piece, also Etsy. And the two pillows behind those actually came with us from our old Saint Paul high-rise — CB2, and still holding their own years later.
Nothing on this sofa matches on purpose. It's not supposed to. It's supposed to look like it was gathered, because it was.
What's Actually On the Coffee Table
If you follow along regularly, you know I already wrote a full post on what's on this coffee table — and it's worth a re-read if you want the full story, because almost every object has one. The short version: it's half gifts, half estate sale finds, half Etsy rabbit holes I refuse to feel bad about. (Yes, that's three halves. It's that kind of collection.)
Sitting right in the center is a terrarium I built myself — one of the ones I made as centerpieces for our wedding. They're all over this house now, which means this room quite literally has a piece of that day sitting on the coffee table.
On the radiator cover nearby, a faux alligator-skin tray holds two more terrariums (non-wedding ones, this time — just because more terrariums are always the answer) along with a few plants.
The Side Table Situation
Every piece on the side table has a story too: a moth preserved under glass, gifted by a close friend who — genuinely — just gets me. A small skull with an air plant growing out of it. A thrifted lamp I gave a new shade with a gold interior. Butterflies under a dome. A tiny vase holding dried florals.
The One Ritual Nobody Asks About
Next to the media cabinet, there's a small lamp that has one very specific job: it's there so I can read, or paint my nails — something I take seriously and do every single week, no exceptions. It's a small, unglamorous ritual, but it's mine, and it needed its own light.
The Whole Point
You don't need a full vision on day one. You need every piece to have a reason — even if that reason is just "this came with me, and I'm not done with it yet."
This room took three apartments and one very stubborn ceiling crack to get here. Nothing about it happened fast. All of it happened on purpose.
If your space is full of things that came with you — but they're not quite working together yet — that's exactly the kind of project I love. Reach out and let's talk about what your rooms are trying to tell you.
