Manorisms

My closet, being a black hole of fat clothes, blown flip-flops, and bank statements from 1982-1998, was in need of some serious organization.  Not only that, but I had always wanted a closet where, when you walked in, you didn’t actually see any clothes.  My Aunt Carolyn thinks this is weird.  I think it’s weird that all of the sugar packets in her house have “Longhorn Steakhouse” stamped on them.

Years ago, in the midst of a gluttonous phase when I was paying for 12-pound InStyle magazines to be delivered to my house so I could be intimidated by articles about permanent eyeliner and ads for shoes I would never buy, I clipped a piece on famous people’s closets.  Vera’s was one that I saved, and even though I personally thought she could use a little permanent eyeliner, I really admired the style of her closet.  None of her clothes were visible, and the doors were embellished with this beautiful diamond mesh metal over fabric inserts.  How hard could this be?

Knowing I clearly was not Vera Wang, I set out to create a fair imitation of the look anyway, starting with gutting the room.  Measuring 7’ by 12’ with a pitched ceiling made up of non-standard angles, I needed to use my physics skills in the design, which I have vowed to only use for good and not evil (like in water balloon fights).  Once all the useless wire shelves were out and I’d spackled the gaping holes left behind from pulling out the wall anchors (and if you’ve ever removed wire closet shelving, you know exactly what I’m talking about), I painted the walls and designed the layout.  The next 14 days were consumed with driving to Ikea, loading flat-packs into the SUV (breaking every fingernail in the process and suffering minor cuts to the insides of my thumbs), driving home with heavy cardboard boxes smacking me in the back of the head every time I braked, unloading the 3 dozen random pieces of fake wood, non-standard screws, and Swedish hinges, hauling the pieces one at a time upstairs to the closet, ignoring the instructions while assembling everything into various right-angled shapes (and then un-assembling and trying again by actually reading the instructions), and repeating the entire process until I reached my credit limit.

On one wall, I installed 2 tall, narrow cabinets flanking a large cube-like structure that holds shoes, books, and the occasional free Clinque makeup bag.  The cabinets hold sweats, t-shirts, socks, and about 3 dozen pairs of textured pantyhose that I’ll never wear and were probably never in style anyway (sorry Vera). Wrapped around from the back wall to the other side are tall wardrobe cabinets that hold all my clothes.  Every piece fit snugly into the space without an inch to spare.  However, one thing you have to realize when installing these types of cabinets in a tight space is the clearance you need to be able to heave them into a standing position.  Since they are assembled lying down (the cabinets, not you), you need to make sure they will not crash through the ceiling when you pull them upright.  Unless you wanted a skylight there.

After all the wardrobes were installed and I’d (a-hem) patched the ceiling, I added the doors.  But the plain Ikea doors just sat there, taunting me.  “Is that the best you can do?” “What would Vera think?!” Not being one to let an inanimate object win, I set out on a quest that would end up with a special order from a metal manufacturer which would turn out to be perfect for the project but, because the custom cut sheets of diamond mesh metal I had ordered were left out in an alley by the dumpsters so I could pick them up after hours, came with the unpleasant odor of feral cat pee. (You can’t make this stuff up.)

Vera’s closet doors had a lovely fabric tucked behind the (no doubt odor-free) mesh, giving it additional texture and color.  Yet her doors were crafted as framed pieces whereas mine were plain and flat.  Plan B involved wrapping paper as a substitute for fabric, so I rummaged around in my supplies for something I could use under the mesh.  Most of my wrapping paper is Christmas themed; however, I suspected Vera would frown on ice-skating donkeys in Santa hats.  But I was able to find a brown and black toile pattern on heavy paper stock that seemed appropriate.  The problem: I only had enough to do 2 doors.  What of the other 6?  Industriously, I located the manufacturer’s web site, which only sold the paper in quantities so huge you could use it to wrap all the presents for that family with 19 kids (and counting) from now until the last one graduated from college.  So $75 and 3 business days later, UPS delivered a lovely 417 foot roll of brown and black toile paper, of which this project would require about 40 feet. But once the faux panel inserts were papered, framed, and meshed, the look was remarkably rich and elegant.  I think Vera would be proud.

At that point, one would assume I’d be satisfied with my efforts.  Well, one would be wrong.  I still needed door handles.  Given the way the closet was turning out, plain pulls would have been embarrassed to be seen on those doors.  But there was no way I could justify spending hundreds of dollars on long, custom-made handles that would match the scale and grandeur of the design.  That’s when Lowe’s came through for me with $20 antique gold Moroccan curtain rods that I could attach vertically to the doors.

And that is how my closet was crafted with the help of Vera Wang and wrapping paper.

The Result:

Before:                                                 After: