The first thing I did after signing the brief was ask them to remove everything from the main reception rooms. Not to redecorate — just to see the bones. What we found was extraordinary. The original plaster cornicing, the proportions of the windows, the relationship between the front room and the garden.
The house already knew what it was. It was a late Victorian greystone with extraordinary bones and very particular light — cool in the morning, warm by afternoon. Everything I specified had to work in both conditions.
I worked with a palette of warm whites, aged linen, and three carefully chosen pieces of furniture that anchored each room. No accent wall. No statement lighting. Nothing that called attention to itself. The rooms needed to feel like they had always been this way.
The clients wanted new hardwood throughout. I convinced them to restore the original boards instead. Sanded, oiled, left to show their age. It changed the entire feeling of the ground floor — from aspirational to inhabited.
The main reception sofa is in a deep tobacco linen that most people said was too dark for the room. It is the single most important piece in the house. It gives the room weight. Without it, everything floated.
We removed every ceiling fixture in the principal rooms and replaced them with floor lamps, picture lights, and a single reading lamp per seating area. The house now has no bad time of day.
Six months after moving back in, the clients sent me a single message: "We've stopped wanting to change anything." That is the only measure of success I use.
The Lincoln Park Residence is not a dramatic transformation. There are no before-and-after photographs because the change is not visual — it is felt. The house now has a point of view. It knows what it is, and so do the people who live in it.