Read the full feature in Coldwell Magazine
View IssueFor as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with creating beautiful surroundings. There's something deeply aligned in me with shaping an outer world that mirrors my inner life. As a little girl, I redecorated my bedroom constantly, moving the dresser from one wall to another, painting an "accent" wall before I knew what that meant, taping up posters of movie stars I had serious crushes on.
After college, when I moved to New York City, my first apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up on York Avenue over the Raccoon Lodge bar. I had $300 in the bank, but I decorated that studio anyway—with flea-market finds, hand-medowns and used furniture—determined, even then, to make a small life feel intentional.
Later, as I got older, the apartments grew larger, but my eye for beauty and visual order never wavered. When I bought my current place in 2001, it had just been renovated by the previous owner. That didn’t stop me from gutting it to the studs and starting over. Since then, I’ve done three full renovations—roughly every five to seven years—each one a way of recalibrating not just the space, but myself.
My most recent redesign may be my last. I’ve entered my peace era. The previous one was in 2017, during my reality-show years, a chaotic, drama-filled time in my life. My apartment reflected that—loud, restless, always performing.
When I left TV and finally slowed down, the dissonance became impossible to ignore. I could no longer reconcile the drama of my surroundings with the quiet I’d worked so hard to create in my life.
Gone now are the black linen hallways and the hotpink bedroom. The living room—once all chrome, silver and four competing shades of blue—has been quieted. Beige walls in Farrow & Ball’s Joa’s White have replaced the drama and the once-bare walls are now adorned with traditional. French architectural molding, framing my Marilyn portrait like a thought finally given its proper sentence.
"I've entered my peace era. The previous one was in 2017, during my reality-show years, a chaotic, drama-filled time in my life. My apartment reflected that: loud, restless, always performing."
The black lacquered floors have been stripped back to their natural oak. My vintage Dunbar credenza and wall cabinet were taken down to the wood as well, their age allowed to show. I used the remains of the Manach silk velvet tiger fabric—once famously upholstered on a custom sofa designed by Lee Radziwill in the late sixties— on two perfect French Louis chairs I found in an antique shop in Princeton, NJ.
Everything in my home now has a purpose, a history—either my own or someone else’s. I believe in pre-owned everything. I’m drawn to objects with a collective memory. If something doesn’t already carry a life before me, I’m not interested. Even the building I live in agrees: a converted schoolhouse built in 1886.
My latest find is a marble fireplace that once lived in the original Waldorf Astoria Hotel. It dates to 1931. I found it in a salvage yard in Scranton, PA, along with its wooden overmantel mirror. Both pieces still bore the customs stamp on the back: Made in France. The salvage company hired to remove the hotel’s 300 fireplaces documented the entire process. Mine came from room 3404. I often wonder what it witnessed—whose letters were read there, whose trysts lingered, whose face once stared back from that mirror
But my favorite spot of all is the window. I had new nine-foot mahogany windows installed, creating the perfect place for an extra-wide window seat. It’s here you’ll find me most days—writing my Substack, napping or watching out over the neighborhood I’ve called home for 25 years.
