You Can Never Go Home Again. But You Can Spend a Lifetime Trying

As I type this, a small wooden figure of a man sits perched above me on a mantel, one leg crossed over the other, head cocked slightly to the side. Although he is nameless and faceless, we are very familiar with one another. He used to reside in my dad’s office, where I’d play with him like a Ken doll whenever I visited. Typically used for reference for figure drawing, he is chiseled and bendable, with hinges for joints. I liked leaving him in different positions when I left—in a running motion, doing the Y-M-C-A, a ballet move—in the hopes that my dad might notice and laugh.

My dad, John Petrarca, was an architect in New York City, and his presence lingers in some way, shape, or form in every home I’ve ever lived in, including the one I’m about to move out of. Over the last five years, that little wooden figure has seen a lot. He watched me furnish my first solo apartment from top to bottom, agonizing over every new addition. He watched me set up a desktop computer on my dining room table when I quit my job in 2023 and went freelance. And he watched me sit down next to my boyfriend—the one I’m moving in with—on my tiny, uncomfortable, undeniably stylish couch (technically a love seat) and realize that I may have grown out of the life I’d meticulously built for myself.

Moving is emotional. I don’t care who you are, where you live, or where you’re going; the experience of digging through and packing up all of your earthly possessions is destabilizing enough to turn even the toughest of tough guys into a blubbering pile of mush—and send you on a trip down memory lane that has you reflecting on the deeper meanings behind all your belongings.

It wasn’t army-brat levels of uprooting, but being the daughter of an architect means living in a near-constant state of renovation. The home I was born in is a triangular-shaped Tribeca town house that is three feet wide at its narrowest point. My parents purchased it in 1982, back when the neighborhood was literally a parking lot, and renovated it largely on their own over the course of seven years, before I was born in 1992. A red-brick building that they painted white, it’s a Brooklyn brownstone meets a downtown loft, with lots of wood and a big, open floor plan. So open, in fact, that for years, my dad refused to install a handrail on the staircase because he "didn’t like the way it looked."

We sold that house when I was eight and moved next door to another, much bigger, much more modern town house he built in May 2001. A mad-scientist-like realization of my dad’s wildest dreams, it features a solid steel facade and a 1,250-foot-deep geothermal well for heating. (He was quoted in this magazine in 2003, saying there wasn’t even a permit for this kind of work yet when he did it.) All the walls are white except for a ruby-red stairwell with glass steps—and, yes, steel handrails—plus a seven-story-tall metal mesh divider. Tragically, my dad only got to live in his dream home for two years, though, as he died of lung cancer in May 2003, when I was a preteen. Three years later, my mom, my brother, and I moved again, to a more traditional Tribeca town house.

I wanted pieces that felt "so me." But what did that even mean?

Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find my way back to the homes my dad built, particularly the more modern one, or the Big House, as we call it, as it’s the one I was conscious in for the longest amount of time, and my dad’s pièce de résistance. I have Google Alerts set up for both addresses, in case they’re ever listed. Not that I could ever afford either, but I still feel a responsibility to watch over them and go out of my way to walk by whenever I’m in the neighborhood. I’ve considered writing a tear-jerky letter to the current owners, in case they’re ever feeling generous. About 10 years ago, my brother and I even visited the Big House when they opened it up for a neighborhood design tour, which turned out to be a mistake. (Painfully heinous decorating.)

Most people don’t get to buy their old homes back, or ever step foot in them again, and that’s okay. But we sure can spend a lifetime trying to re-create them. When I moved out of my mom’s house and into my first apartment with a roommate at 23, I brought with me a black rug my dad bought in Morocco. After graduating from Carnegie Mellon, he joined the Peace Corps and spent time in Ouarzazate designing government buildings. In a room full of cheap Ikea furniture, it was the only thing that truly felt like a reflection of me. Well, that and a rigid, plastic, yellow outdoor chair I for some reason bought to go with my desk. Looking back at photos now, I see that the choice makes more sense: The chair my dad got me for my room in the Big House was almost the exact same hue.

In 2021, I decided to start looking for my own solo apartment and consciously set out to find one that I thought would make him proud. The one I chose is in a landmarked building in Brooklyn—he served on the Landmarks & Preservation Committee in Tribeca for years—with exposed brick that reminded me of my first home, or the Little House, as we lovingly call it. Real estate is his legacy, so now it’s my legacy, too. No, I couldn’t discover the hottest new zip code in the country and do a gut renovation all by myself, but I had to live in an apartment that I felt like he would approve of and decorate it to his standards as well. (Hey, Dad, it got me into Dwell!)

When I moved into my current apartment, I brought almost nothing with me. Except the rug. I was overwhelmed by the amount of stuff I needed to buy—my former roommate had furnished our last place, so I didn’t even have a spoon to my name—but the rug gave me a place to start. Its shape and size determined the orientation of my living room. Beyond that, though, I was stumped. I wanted pieces that felt "so me." But what did that even mean?

Because I hadn’t yet discovered my own interior design style, I asked myself What My Architect Dad Would Do (WMADWD). Or how he might advise me if he were still alive. I bought multiple pieces of black-and-chrome furniture that looked like the ones in the Big House and the same exact Flos suspension light that hung over our kitchen table there. I spent too much money at Design Within Reach because I remembered it being one of my dad’s go-to stores. I even bought Lego flowers because my dad and I used to build Legos together, and the activity gives me a nostalgic sense of calm. (I also can’t keep a plant alive to save my life.) He was Italian American, and I found myself gravitating toward Italian designers, too. In fact, I went a little overboard on the Italian thing, as it was the only real identity I felt like I could call my own. I got mortadella-print dish towels, a candle shaped like a block of Parmesan cheese, and embraced a color scheme that one might call "caprese salad."

The hardest part was getting a couch. I spent months and months and months looking for one I liked and eventually purchased the first one I fell for: a red Bambole sofa by Mario Bellini with soft curves like a dinner roll. As I mentioned, everyone thinks it’s too small and shockingly stiff. But I love this couch as though it were family. For the longest time, I couldn’t explain the connection. It just felt like the furniture version of myself: fun but tasteful. But recently, when I was asked in an interview about the first piece of art I ever loved, I realized just how deeply my dad’s design influence had lodged itself in my subconscious.

One of my fondest memories with my dad is when he took me to the Museum of Modern Art before we moved into the Big House. While looking at the design objects in MoMA’s permanent collection, he told me to pick out something for my new room, as though I could walk away with it like we were in a store. (This is how you get a nine-year-old to enjoy a trip to a museum.) My eyes lit up at the sight of a 1967 red inflatable chair by Jonathan De Pas, Donato D’Urbino, and Paolo Lomazzi. (Who are also obviously Italian.) It was the first mass-produced inflatable chair and happens to look like the plastic version of Bellini’s Bambole sofa.

I never got the red inflatable chair from MoMA, or any red inflatable chair for that matter, but my desire for it clearly lasted decades, and I finally fulfilled some sort of lifelong wish with the purchase of my couch. Oddly enough, I’ve since found further confirmation of my choice. While googling my dad one night, I came across an article in New York magazine’s December 25, 1989/January 1, 1990, issue about my parents’ first renovation. At the time, I had worked at the magazine for years, but my mom had somehow neglected to tell me she was in it. I immediately went to the archives and dug out the issue featuring Fanelli Cafe on the cover. (Nothing we do is original; our parents did it first.) When I flipped it open to the page where my parents were featured, lo and behold: two bulbous red chairs, not dissimilar to the inflatable one, and my couch.

Like grief, I carry my father’s aesthetic with me, but I don’t let it define me.

Now that I am moving again, I asked my mom to send me a photo of an old coffee table she bought for our final family home—the one my dad didn’t design—in the hopes that I might take it off her hands. (Coffee tables are expensive!) All she could find was a listing photo from when she eventually sold the house, after my brother and I had moved out. When she sent it to me, I was reminded that she purchased what we called the "Red Blob," or a soft, oval-shaped fabric ottoman for our living room. Did she buy it because of my dad? Did I buy my couch because she bought the blob because of my dad?? When I asked her recently, she revealed that the choice was hers and hers alone. Perhaps I was giving my dad too much credit.

For that home, my mom hired neighborhood architects who did their best to honor my dad’s legacy in the renovation. They installed a steel staircase that was appropriately dangerous looking and a modern kitchen with plenty of marble. But really, it was a chance for all of us to take what we loved about living in his spaces and put our own spin on all of it. Looking at a photo of my desk chair in that house, I realized it’s the Pottery Barn Teen version of the Herman Miller chair I now want from DWR. But that was my choice; my dad didn’t tell me to buy it. For years, it was hard for me to parse out where my dad’s influence ended and my own design preferences began. I’m starting to see both of us in my home purchases, though, which I think is progress. Like grief, I carry my father’s aesthetic with me, but I don’t let it define me.

The question is: Will I take the couch with me to my next apartment? My boyfriend would rather not. But I can’t get rid of it. I’ve decided to store it until I have a proper place for it. In the meantime, we have purchased a big, comfy greige couch together that my friends are "surprised" by because it looks nothing like "me." Isn’t that the point, though? It looks like us, and at least we can sit on it comfortably together.

As I pack up my apartment, I see in my possessions a young woman trying to figure herself out—searching for her own identity in the objects she acquired and trying to keep a closeness with a person she had lost. Decorating with My Architect Dad in mind was the closest I could get to having a dialogue with him again. Moving forward, I don’t want to fight my subconscious influences. In fact, I’m enjoying indulging them again so much that I can’t get anything done. I’m back to scrolling through DWR. I’m back to bookmarking red cabinets and the silver, adjustable Artemide Tolomeo desk lamps my dad had in his office, along with the adjustable wooden man. But I’m also enjoying going through this process again with another person who is bringing his own memories and tastes to the table, ones that we’ll pass down ourselves.

Last week, my boyfriend asked me if he could bring a chest of drawers that belonged to his grandma, who died when he was 25, to our new apartment. He seemed nervous to ask, since it clearly didn’t fit my aesthetic. But of course, I said of course. I want stuff like that in my home. I can’t wait to live with it and get to know it, and let its life become a part of ours. Little did he know that I already planned to bring my little wooden man with me. I’m just not sure where I’ll put him yet.

Top photo of the Petrarcas’ triangular Tribeca town house, photographed for New York magazine’s December 25, 1989/January 1, 1990, issue, by Andrew Garn

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