From the moment my husband Jon and I saw the sun-drenched loft on Mercer, we knew two things: We absolutely loved it, and we had to change everything.
We loved the location, the fourteen-foot ceilings, the exposed brick, the historic pre-labor-law building. But the more modern additions were intolerably bourgeois. This space was not meant to be a luxury condo; it was meant to be a vehicle for ruthlessly extracting wealth from the sweat of the proletariat. So, determined to bring a little authenticity back to the neighborhood, we rolled up our sleeves and paid someone else to get to work.
We started by rectifying the primary crime committed against this architectural gem: the gauche “walls” installed by previous owners. What was a tacky two-bedroom, two-bath gave way to the true space in all its original glory: a magnificent no-bed, no-bath open concept with a completely inaccessible fire exit.
Next, we filled the place with period details, like a wood-burning garbage pail, original molding (the spores were hard to find but the smell was worth it), and low-wage labor.
We wanted the vibe to be high-end and vintage but also lived-in and unfussy. When we installed rows of turn-of-the-century sewing machines, Jon had to remind me, “Babe, these are gonna get some blood on them. This place is going to be packed with malnourished immigrants working fifteen-hour shifts in low light—accidents happen. And you know what? That’s beautiful. Because it’s life. It’s real.”
Throughout the project, Jon and I developed a language of design that reflected the depth of our connection. Like, when I said, “I don’t know about these ducts,” Jon understood intuitively that I meant absolutely no air movement at all. Like, zero. Asphyxiation hazard is a must.
Finding contractors who could work around New York’s restrictive “building standards and codes” was definitely a hurdle. Take it from us: If you want to replace a modern fire-suppression system with a bucket of old mop water, it helps to know someone in the DOB.
It was especially challenging to source the street children. But my yoga guru, Codi, was like, “I’ve got a guy,” and you know what? That guy turned out to be incredibly professional, able to work within our budget, and super nice.
Of course, the usual renovator worries kept us up at night: tuberculosis, unionization, Jacob Riis… but our dreams kept us going. Namely, the dream of restoring this space to the perfect conditions for the rapid transmission of communicable disease and a devastating fire resulting in dozens if not hundreds of preventable deaths. We’re talking oil lamps, doors locked from the outside, kerosene stored in stairwells lined with stacks of old newspapers—an homage to a simpler time.
After putting the finishing touches on the loft, we were lying in a corner one night, the shadows of the workers flickering on the walls. I was inspecting the day’s shirtwaists for visible blood when I realized: All the while those bony fingers had been working the machines, what they had really been working on was my heart.
I turned to Jon. “Babe, what if we went even deeper?”
Jon stopped fondling himself to daguerreotypes of coal-burning stoves and turned to me, eyes shining.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
We made love that night, to the hum and clack of the machines a few inches away. These days, that might sound like a “sex crime,” but to us it was the unconscionably dangerous and exploitative early-capitalist nightmare we call home.
The next morning, I watched as Jon defenestrated our waste onto the avenue, a stream of expletives wafting back up to us in the spring air. We began paying taxes to England, which was admittedly difficult and seemed to confuse them.
As you can imagine, this began an iterative process of constantly recreating earlier, and therefore better, forms of living. That led Jon and me to where we are today: being lowered into a peat bog by Welshmen so we can be preserved for thousands of years. Below us, we can sense ancient mycelium, amoebae, and cyanobacteria: simpler lifeforms leading simpler lifestyles—and, who knows, maybe even our next adventure.
