For my part, I grew up and moved, but I did not keep the promise I had made to myself to find my base. I moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, then again in Manhattan, then again in Brooklyn, twice, then back to Manhattan in an apartment that I loved, and finally in another that I have never seen, the pandemic having kept me on a another continent for almost a year. I was beginning to understand that you don’t just move because you’re looking for something better. We move because life goes through it, in a way that is as heartbreaking as it is banal. Sometimes it’s because of noisy neighbors, sometimes it’s because of overwhelming heartache, and sometimes it’s just because the rent is way too high.
The construction of a whimsical house
However, I wanted stability, I was looking for the feeling of living in a monument – if it was not for the glory of the family that I still had to found, then it would be for that of the family that left me. had done. This is how my parents embarked on their craziest real estate project: to build my house in their garden in Connecticut.
A real Suicide squad was then put in place, made up of a longtime friend, the architect David Bers, a genius full of nuances and class; Rick McCue, the tight-lipped but very capable construction manager who had made all our dreams come true in Connecticut; and to manage the project with them, my father, an esthete himself, with his own way of doing things, as well as my mother, who used her passion for color, texture and, as well as she calls them objects. I was standing in the back line sending helpful messages like “Can we paint the house pink and add Windows in the shape of a circle so that I feel like I’m living in a forest of strawberries? » (The answer was a definite no).