Time Is the Best Stylist
On decorating like a normal person, with time, mistakes, and the occasional identity crisis.
I used to think good styling was about good decisions. That once I was “experienced enough,” I’d be able to walk into a space, snap my fingers, and know exactly where everything should go. But that’s not how it works. At least not for me.
There’s a line I used to say to clients. Half joke, half truth: “You don’t need a designer. You need a decade.” It never went over well. But I meant it. I still do.
Because styling, real styling, takes time. Not time as in hours spent scrolling, sourcing, pinning. But the kind of time that layers and teaches. The kind that softens a space, shapes your eye, and changes your mind. Time that looks like living.
The best rooms aren’t finished. They’re practiced. Edited in small, barely perceptible gestures. A table pushed two inches to the left. A lamp that moves from one room to another. A piece you hated until you saw it in a new light. They come together the way trust does: slowly, unevenly, with the occasional argument and the quiet return.
Time is the best stylist. Not just because it refines, but because it reveals.
It shows you what you actually need. What you return to. What you thought you'd love but never really lived with. I’ve bought things that looked perfect in theory. Photogenic, well-reviewed, all the right notes. But they never found their place. And then there’s the stool I nearly gave away twice. Now, five apartments later, it’s still here. It earned its spot not by impressing me, but by staying with me.
A space needs time the way a friendship does. You don’t really know a room until you’ve been with it through a bad week or a quiet season. Until you’ve moved the same bowl six times and finally realized it was never about the bowl. It was the shadow it made on the wall at 3 p.m.
That’s what time teaches you. To notice the quiet parts. To value the shift, not just the shape.
And I can’t believe I’m even writing all of this, because it runs completely counter to how I work on set. The last thing I have in those moments is time. Shoots move fast. There’s a crew waiting, light changing, a client refreshing the shot list. I’ve said before that I style best with a gun to my head, because in that pressure, I don’t overthink. I rely on instinct. I make it work. I leave it imperfect. And most of the time, it works. But living? Living is different. At home, there’s no one waiting. No deadline. No walkie. Just me, a piece of furniture I’m unsure about, and the slow realization that maybe I’m the one who needs to shift.
When I first moved into my loft on White Street, it was nearly empty. It stayed that way for a while. I didn’t want to rush it. I’d sit on the floor with a coffee and just stare. Not because I was trying to plan it out, but because I was waiting to hear what the space wanted. Some days it said nothing. Some days it said, “move that chair again.” Eventually, it whispered, “bring in the rug.”
There’s a kind of confidence that only time can give. Not the loud, fast kind. The quiet kind that says: this belongs. You don’t get that from trend reports or Pinterest or perfection. You get it from living in the question. From not knowing. From looking again.
And here’s what I’ve learned. Most “perfect” rooms age badly. The ones that last have texture. Evidence of time. A scratch on the table. A faded patch on the cushion. A lamp that’s been in the family longer than you’ve been alive. They tell a story that isn’t rehearsed. It’s remembered.
Time also forgives. It makes room for what once felt like a mistake. It softens the edges of things. It allows contrast and complexity. A little chaos.
Which is good news. Because sometimes the best thing you can do for a room is nothing. Let it breathe. Live with it. Let it frustrate you. Let it change you.
Not everything needs to be solved in a day. Or a week. Or even a year.
Because eventually, and it always does happen eventually, the room will tell you what it wants to be. And if you’ve been listening long enough, you’ll hear it.
And you’ll know: it was worth the wait.
Love,
Colin
The Living Room at my Tribeca loft — a visual timeline:
Your piece is vulnerable, wise, and generous! Thank you for sharing your thoughts & feelings on this subject; they will breed confidence for all of us to learn to love and style our spaces to look like ourselves. 🤎
This piece is quite timely for me as I am finishing a renovation, and I am struggling to be patient and not rush into decisions just so that I can be "done."
I have a question about art--or lack thereof. At several points in the timeline of the loft you kept your walls bare. Do you have a philosophy on placing art? Are there certain pieces of furniture or room arrangements where you just won't use wall art because it is too busy or pulls too much attention? Or do you just go with your gut in the moment. I always worry that my rooms will feel too empty or spare without something on the walls, but your apartment was so beautiful at every turn, and I find that inspiring. Thank you for another beautiful piece of writing.