What woman in her heart of hearts isn’t a secret voyeur?
It’s nighttime. You’re strolling down the street, past rows of homes, curtained window after window. Tell us, are you not drawn to the one room not entirely hidden from sight? To that one apartment where the curtains aren’t sealed, where a stream of light leaks out, revealing a fractured glimpse of the home within? Do you not slow your pace, crane your neck, try oh-so-casually to catch a glimpse of the life beyond the window? Don’t you pause, half-hidden by the shrubbery, to sneak a look at the art on the walls, the rumpled sofa… and, oh, is that Marimekko fabric on the side chair? What paint color is that amazing accent wall? And what on earth is that odd assemblage on top on the bookshelf? A collection of birds’ nests? Or just crumpled tissues?
People are fascinating. Their stuff is too. Other people’s collections and clutter and curiosities excite us. We love how a home reflects the spirit and soul of its inhabits— whether the inhabitants are aware of it or not.
Nope, we won’t lie: we love to spy.
But how? The homes in glossy magazines—so overstyled and trim and tidy—they don’t cut it. Fun, but they don’t send shivers. Too self-conscious. Design porn isn’t the real thing.
