I’m writing this from my grandparents’ house in Rochester, NY. I’m here because my grandmother is dying. She’s a private person, and I don’t think she’d want me to say much more about her condition, so I won’t. What I will expand on (appropriately, for the theme of this newsletter) is their house. It’s my favorite house in the world, and during my time here I’ve been reflecting on how their house has shaped my own tastes in decor and my general notion of a beautiful home.
So, the house: it’s a brick house, originally built in 1920, in Corn Hill, a Rochester neighborhood with lots of beautifully preserved old homes. My grandfather bought it during a ten-year period when he and my grandmother were divorced. At the time, the house was divided into two apartments. At my grandfather’s 90th birthday party, I met a woman who rented the upstairs from him for a time. “Your grandfather was one of my best friends in those days,” she told me. She was in her twenties then; he would’ve been in his forties or fifties. He’s always been a charmer.
When my grandparents got remarried, my grandmother moved in and they remodeled. They’ve lived in the house ever since, and filled the place with tchotchkes, paintings, prints, ceramics, plants both alive and dried, vintage glassware, random antique items, family photos, etc.
This is their main decorating principle, which I have inherited: casual maximalism. Their maximalism is unfussy, earthy: accumulated rather than planned. This might sound like their house is just cluttered with random things, but it’s not. Cluttered, sure, but with style.
My grandfather is a longtime collector of antiques. He likes dark heavy wood, stained glass, and art posters. I’ve never heard him discuss these tastes or why he favors them: his finds mostly speak for themselves. He used to hit the flea markets, sometimes with some gay guys who lived on the street. He has an old wooden icebox by the door that holds random things, including the recycling and a handle of Jim Beam that he drinks a little pour of in the early evening and calls his “schnapps.” He told me that he found the icebox in the basement of a bar (?) and they let him take it home. He also told me that all the hinges are original, which is apparently a big deal in the world of antiques.
Time marches on; this house, as I know it, won’t be here forever. My grandfather talks a lot about how to divide up the things and who should get what. My mom hates it when he brings this up but I don’t. I get it. He’s spent a lifetime collecting these things and he wants to know what will happen to them when he’s gone. I’ll cherish them, I tell him. I’ll love them forever.
Shanah tovah, everyone. <3
A few more assorted pics:
