MI CASA ES SU CASA: Arranging a home and being comfortable sharing it
Rebecca is a story, written by Daphne du Maurier about a young woman who marries a rich older man and attempts to become the mistress of his mansion Manderley. Prior to this marriage, the older man, Mr De Winter, had had another wife. Rebecca was an extremely glamorous and vibrant woman. As the new wife explores Manderley she begins to build an image of Rebecca through all the traces of her left behind in every part of the home, from the writing set initialed with R, to the paintings she commissioned and the azalea flowers she preferred. Certain rooms, such as her dressing room, are kept under lock and key, preserving Rebecca’s things in their precise state. Her comb lays idly, a dressing gown strewn elegantly across a bed, scented bottles assembled on a dresser waiting for slim hands to use them. Were it not for the inevitable mustiness of an unused room, the narrator believes that Rebecca could walk in at any moment and resume life. The young narrator struggles to make Manderley her own. Rebecca is irreplaceable and the roots are too deep. The intertwining of Rebecca with Manderley is so crucial to Rebecca’s power in this story that the young narrator, the new Mrs de Winter, is never named in the book. This story demonstrates how embedded an owner becomes in a home, that the attitudes and mood of a space grow alongside the personality of the person living in it. This reveals the way a guest instinctively investigates a home, drawing conclusions from little objects.
Although De Maurier wrote Rebecca in 1938, the notion that homes are more powerful and personable when they accurately embody the sentiments of their owner is now key to the interior design profession. From the dishes in the sink that are still ‘soaking’, to the books on the shelf or the trinkets that add a little randomness that peak a guest’s curiosity. These small things all create a picture of a unique lifestyle and energy that design principles alone cannot achieve.
Ilse Crawford is a British interior designer that approaches her practice in a very particular way. Crawford notes in the Netflix series Abstract that a designer must understand who they’re designing for. When working with clients, she considers that she has two ears, two eyes, and one mouth and that they should be used in that proportion. Observation and investigation guide the creation of spaces that, like Manderley, weave genuinely into the lives of their inhabitants.
Author Deborah Levy in her book, The Cost of Living, sums up the importance of this innate sentimental connection to the home. The book is a beautiful looking glass into how our lives unfold unpredictably in the spaces we live in and the comfort that our meaningful surroundings offer. She discusses moving home twice. Once as an adult where she describes being distressed at having found herself ‘unmaking the home (she’d) spent much of (her) life’s energy creating’. In the second instance she is 9 years old on a train from South Africa arriving into Waterloo Station. ‘Where were my clothes? My toys? Where was our stuff? The furniture from our family home?’ Her descriptions denote the feeling of security that treasured possessions provide to their owners, and their ability to give an understanding of identity. They may only be small things that children become attached to, but over the years we build upon them to create something that’s unique and difficult to pull apart and pack into cardboard boxes.
Being surrounded by small sentimental souvenirs that evoke memories can be reassuring. However, displaying sentimental items means there’s also a lot of yourself on show for your guests to investigate. Experiences and tokens that were previously hidden in personality-lacking IKEA drawers are now displayed. An exposed feeling emerges, where guests can see the dirty dishes that point to disorganization, or the books that suggest political, cultural and personal values, or the trinkets that, to the un-sentimental eye, seem like tacky bric-a-brac. The guest can peek into the ‘neuro-wirings’ of the inhabitant.
A heavy marble egg sits in a porcelain cup on a chiffonier in my parent’s home. It’s out of place to anyone other than us. Since childhood I’ve found the weight of it in my hand is comforting, alongside the fact that it was carefully selected, once upon a time, by my nana in an antique shop. Designer Axel Vandervoodt considers the home a reflection of the soul, therefore seeing these little possessions everyday is important. He encourages confidence because it’s difficult to relax in a home decorated for the person we want to be seen as, rather than for the person we actually are.
The interior design of a home is now not only reflective of the wellbeing and status, but also the soul of its owner. The gathering and displaying of items isn’t about being materialistic but rather stems from the same compulsion that some of us have to unpack a suitcase, hang a shirt or put jewelry on a bedside table. A compulsion to make a foreign destination feel even just a little more our own.
Creating a home is one thing. Sharing it, and the sense of life and identity that is dotted throughout it, is another. The trust and confidence required to feel comfortable putting a whole life of experiences on show isn’t automatically installed in all of us, no matter how extroverted one may be. Yet, each person welcomed into the home, and the intrigued comments they make, chips away at this vulnerability. Interior design in the home is an exercise in establishing a genuine identity, and being proud of it.