Poetry in the Everyday: A Soul’s Architecture in Forty-Six Meters
When we left Ukraine and moved to Brooklyn, I brought more than just my belongings; I brought a hunger for a sanctuary that could hold the weight of our new life. As an interior stylist and photographer, my eyes are always searching for the “poetry in the everyday,” even when that poetry must be written within the confines of a 46-square-meter rental. Building a home when you know it is temporary is a delicate emotional dance—a balance of investing your heart into a space while knowing you might one day have to pack it all away.
Our apartment, tucked away in a 1920s townhouse, began as a canvas of possibilities,. From the moment we saw the large balcony, we knew this was it; in a city as relentless as New York, having a private edge of the sky felt like a rare stroke of luck,. My creative process is guided by a simple, three-word prayer: functional, flexible, and beautiful.
The entry was the first place I needed to speak to our history. We turned the hallway into a “little gallery” of artworks we’ve collected over the years, a bridge between who we were and who we are becoming. There was a stained wood pantry door that I couldn’t paint—a stubborn reminder of the limitations of renting. Instead of fighting it, I chose to camouflage it with a collection of our personal photos, turning an eyesore into a living picture frame of our memories.
In our main living space, the air is thick with the scent of wood and the presence of greenery,. Because the room must hold our lounge, our work, and our meals, we had to be intentional about “zoning” without building walls. We used different wool rugs to create invisible boundaries between the kitchen and the living area. Our solid oak dining table is the heartbeat of the home; it is where we gather for coffee, where we brainstorm our next design projects, and where Stella, our dog who moved with us from Ukraine, sits faithfully by our side,.
Every choice I make is an attempt to invite nature inside. I am inspired by the tranquility of natural elements, which is why our home is filled with ceramics, plants, and wooden objects,. We even moved our bed toward the windows so that the first thing we feel each morning is the warmth of the sunlight. In the evening, the atmosphere shifts. We replaced harsh lights with a rice paper ceiling lamp and wall-mounted wooden racks that cast a soft, warm glow, inviting us to slow down,.
Even the kitchen became a place of creative rebellion. Because we love to cook, we removed the cabinet doors to create an open, accessible feel. We kept the doors, of course—a nod to the reality that we are guests here—but for now, the open shelves showcase the tools of our culinary passion.
To me, decorating is not about filling a room; it is about supporting our work, our social life, and our personal comfort. It is about finding a way to live lighter while still feeling deeply rooted. Our home may be small, and it may be temporary, but every intentional detail—from the projector screen painted on a light-colored wall to the modern gray-blue ceiling in the bathroom—is a reflection of our determination to do things differently,. It is a space that doesn’t just house our bodies, but nourishes our dreams.