issue no. 10: on sublets
Becoming an impermanent fixture.
The premiere volume of Love and Other Rugs is presented by Backdrop.
short-term leases and short-term relationships.
Love and Other Rugs will be taking a break until the fall… travels, clients, weddings (and casting for Volume 2). Stay tuned for a big announcement next month and some LAOR in the real world… And be sure to check out the archive. I complain about ghosting and grey sofas and exes in storage units, among other things.
My apartment and I are seeing other people. This follows the longest relationship (with real estate) I’ve had in my time in New York, and many years of threatening to move elsewhere.
Until now, I had never sublet my own space. But the day the clock struck summer, I quit my job, handed off my keys, and opted for a bit of structured chaos. While I bounced from Vermont to weddings upstate to my best friends’ Brooklyn walk-up for brief hits of the city, my apartment was having a summer fling.
Despite the fact that I have spent seven years building a life in New York, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to leave. Perhaps I started to feel this way the moment my mom died, how amazing it would feel to absolutely flip a table and run off into whatever Italian sunset was most popular that summer. And despite the urge to move to Austin and then almost accepting a job in Milan, considering Los Angeles and even San Francisco, maintaining that sense of home was the priority. So I stayed. I stayed so hard that I bought an apartment.
This spring however, all I could think about was leaving.
It brought to mind sublets, semi-permanent solutions that offer a sort of restless flexibility. Giving their residents a short-lived illusion of transience, quick fixes. Was this dating? Casual, open-ended, lacking true definition. Going month-to-month until you are ready to commit to something more official or move on to the next. Both were good until they weren’t available anymore, good until things got too serious or not serious enough.
I’ve been asking myself what it means to be an impermanent fixture in someone’s life. Slowly collecting (what would soon become meaningless) information on a person over dinners and drinks and sleepovers. Just as sublets give us a window into a potential life, so does dating—the more time we spend with someone the more of ourselves we can picture in their lives, their homes, the spaces we were temporarily occupying. When it ends, a sort of unlearning should occur. The location of the bedside outlet to charge your phone is irrelevant, the way the light comes in their window in the morning is inconsequential, and the time you’ve spent with them is no longer billable hours. There is a thrill in newness, of course, but is it worth the come up for the come down?
This past year, I have been unintentionally committing to memory the couch colors and the layouts of the spaces I’ve visited. I could draw you floor plans of various suitors’ homes—not in a serial killer, red string kind of way but rather as an archival act. And so, if needed, I could point you towards the nearest exits in case of emergency. I’ve also actually gotten to know people, not just their floorpans. And even though my mind had become memory foam, thankfully my mattress is not.
I had told myself recently that if I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, I should casually date, flirt at wine bars, say yes—jumping from undefined sublease to the next. But I have found the lack of footing to be stressful. If I was a squatter, what were my rights? And what was I supposed to do with all the data I had begun to store?
Is subletting my way through life the answer? Is semi-permanence a solution to the statis? Can you create meaningful memories this way? There is a certain beauty in something fleeting—taking things, people, memories along with us while leaving little bits of ourselves. Or in my case, leaving suggestions of home improvements wondering if they will ever be made.
In my time in New York before settling with a permanent address, I’ve sublet other people’s spaces with frequency. It gives a breath between longer leases, it is a way to get to know a neighborhood, and it is a way to get to know yourself. Do you like something newly built or with charm and character? Classic or rough-around-the-edges? Do you care about the height of the ceilings, the way a space is dressed? Do you care that this would be short-term, just for a season?
There was an Italian man with three cats in Bushwick that I lived with the summer I moved to the city. Then there was a friend's spot in Lower Manhattan I rented while looking for apartments. Later in my time Brooklyn, I shared a Williamsburg railroad apartment before I found my own space in the neighborhood. It had multiple entrances so you didn’t disturb the person sleeping in the hallway between the kitchen and the master bedroom.
During each of these flirtations with leases, I lived out of a suitcase, barely cooked meals in the kitchen, and operated as a temporary resident. There were always term limits, an exit strategy. I was careful not to overstep, to spend too much time outside the bedroom, or to unpack any books (or trauma) that couldn’t be quickly repacked when I decided to leave. Had I spent my 20s renting like a man?
In my dating life, I have been the recipient of many exits—fizzles, fade-outs, ghostings (with subsequent resurrections), but I found they always lack a little depth and intrigue. Are men boring? I, myself, like a bit more excitement in my departures, endings, pauses—I call it flare, others choose the word extra. Perhaps even those privy to either of my collegiate relationships could, if they wanted, choose the word dramatic (but I’m not here to put words in anyone’s mouths).
In June, I joked, I was blowing up my life (there’s some drama for you). I had been so desperate, after my mother’s death, to create some type of consistency, but now, I was jobless and creating chaos instead. For me, it was a sheer, slutty summer. A factory reset. One way tickets, one night stands. My friends are taking two approaches—commitment to commitment or commitment to chaos. My entire life rests in the pendulum swing between break-ups and bachelorette parties.
A few weeks ago, deep in my chaos, I had picked up a journal written by my mother called Summer Diary 1993. She wrote it when she moved in with her parents after she and her husband split, she was then in her early thirties. It was her summer of chaos. The summer before she conceived me. Inside, she names the men she spent time with—the distant one, the immature one, the older one from the dive bar, the one who hid behind his job (I’m paraphrasing). She loved to use the word coward.
Reading her own gripes about men has made me reflect on why I even started this project in the first place—to start, it was to prove that I could actually consistently write (for myself and not for work). And also to motivate myself to date, to see what I was like in the context of someone else. In this moment, our parallel written explorations about intimacy; the search to find a tether (hers in a private journal, mine loudly on the internet); seem to, serendipitously, line up.
And even with thirty years of distance between her project of undoing her life and my project of living mine, our narratives are both filled with major contradictions. The problem is, as I sublet my space for the summer and write about the trepidations of failing to fall in love, I’m not sure I can have it both ways. I want both freedom and forever, I want everything and nothing, things and people that carry weight but that don’t anchor me downward, to leave and to stay.
sloppy secondhand: weekdays only
Each week I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt. Adding the ones I can to an Instagram guides here and will update as we go.
Between trips upstate, out east, and Vermont, this summer is really summering. I’ve managed to come back and forth from the city for debauchery but also driving lessons. No dates worth talking about but VERY good drinks.
Ernesto’s—I went to Ernesto’s before the pandemic and sat at the bar with my friend Lucy and we ate ham and I told her about starting to date my best friend. It was the year 2019. I had not been back since, but it quickly slid back up to the top meals I’ve had in New York this year. Some of the best martinis I’ve had in a long time, a hot sommelier, and wild basque-inspired dishes.
Jane Cookshop—I’ve been a fan of Jane Cookshop since I stumbled in there last fall. The whole place gives off East Coast summer home energy. Have a peak and then go to wine bar meets Bad Habit ice cream shop Caleta.
*Also if you are in NYC, save the date for a home sale hosted by my friend and Clever editor Sydney.
5 things on my mind or in my cart.
At Domino, we had a column called 10 things where we asked cool people to curate beautiful things, places, inspirations. I’m giving you 5.
Stealing Beauty—this 1996 Liv Tyler film is required viewing. It was a favorite of my mother’s and it was screening at Metrograph last week. Set at an artist studio nestled into an Italian countryside, I swear it walked so Call Me By Your Name could run.
Scenes from a summer away, plus, a very good swimsuit at Suzie Kondi. Wallpaper—The vintage wallpaper in Vermont is what dreams are made of. Inspired by the patterns, I am eyeing this bright floral wallcovering (called Rhinestone Cowboy) for my bathroom and this handsy number for my entry way.
Ladies of leisure—this summer, all I want to do is wear clothing that can quickly transition to be by a body of water, enter: this terrycloth skirt from Dusen Dusen, a cropped linen shirt from Tombolo, a small playa bag from Sabah (or Bode, pro tip: if you get anything tailored at the tailor shop they give you one..), these nearly sold out Proenza sandals (here on sale!), and a this nostalgic tee. Plus, this swimsuit from Tropic of C x Suzie Kondi I entirely regret not buying.
I will make rattan work indoors at some point. Rattan—I’m in a rattan mood. In the window of Housing Works were some black, low slung rattan lounge chairs. I was told by my group chat with trusted interiors advisors that rattan is for outside. I conceded. I then saw this chair (and this ridiculous sculpture) at Jonathan Adler and last weekend, I saw an insane vintage rattan game table in Amagansett, it was NFS. Worth checking out Urban’s rattan collection—dining and side tables are decently priced and a clear nod (rip?) of trompe l’oeil wicker.
An oval platter with a pool scene and stunning Saint Heron wares. Table top—I think my brain exists halfway between the 1950s Eric Ravilious for Wedgwood tabletop I saw at the antique fair in the Hamptons and Solange’s glassware collection. Both have carved out spots in my head. My most recent home purchase was a Ichendorf picture from Big Night. I’m eyeing the table linen collection from Block Shop and a very Ken’s Casa Mojo Dojo House plate from Ralph Lauren Home.
See you in the fall! In the meantime, I’ll drop in with some notes from travels and beautiful things I see along the way. XX Lily