My husband and I recently bought a house and are renovating it with the help of our cousin/friend/architect Talia Braude. I’ve learned that a good architect is also a good marriage counselor. Every decision, from the doors to the lighting fixture, can turn into a debate. He likes door handles, I like knobs. He’s not worried about mold, I’m convinced we’re all going to die of it. He wants to stencil a giant octopus on our kitchen island, I’m not even sure what he’s talking about.
But nothing is quite as fraught as the master-bedroom closet. We’ve been lucky in our current apartment to have separate closets, and we’ve gotten spoiled. Nivi especially loves having his own space, free from the toxic clutter of my shoes and dresses. I like being free of his judgmental comments about all my “shit”.
Talia had to listen to our closet debate over the course of days, sketching different options for a somewhat limited space in the new house. Ah, the trials of the bourgeoisie. In the end, we agreed to this option, a shared closet with a little wall jutting out from the center to shield Nivi’s eyes from the horrors on the other side. Nivi calls it the Maginot Line. I call it an excellent allocation of scarce resources.