Life is full of contradictions, or at least seemingly so. I've long believed that people don't buy houses, they buy feelings. This is partly why, if you're interested in making the most money possible when you sell your home, you need to work with someone who is careful to curate the kinds of feelings people are willing to buy. And you know what? People want bright colors, they want good feng shui, sunlight, clean lines, good and well-placed art, fine books, matching furniture, and nice rugs. They don't want dirty windows, old furniture, dark wallpaper, dark hallways, or flotsam scattered all over the counter. They don't want those things because they don't want anything that reminds them of the chaos of real life, as it is often lived. They/WE want to buy a dream and the hope that it provides – the hope for an uncluttered life, with bright colors and natural sunlight and soothing textures that make one feel settled and peaceful.
What people forget when they go on the market without conjuring this dream is that paint is NOT just paint; the placement of art and mirrors and things on the walls is NOT just about getting height right; furniture is NOT just something you sit on. No, there is an intensely powerful psychological alchemy that all of these simple materials perform when done right. And that alchemy ultimately is what influences people to spend money. And so I would attribute much of my success in selling people's homes to the curation of this sort of dream.
But it's funny because some assume I live that way, and much as I would like, I don't. I hardly know anyone who does. If you walk into my house you will absolutely find at least ten home projects deferred, three different art projects and bits of homework scattered across my kitchen counter, dirty socks on the bathroom floors, light bulbs that need to be changed, the list goes on. It's not that I like living this way, but it's that there are only 24 hours in the day, and much of my daily existence is taken up with work and so many other things that it is beyond the realm of possibility to sustain the aforementioned alchemy at my own house. But also, the alchemy necessary for selling well is, as I've said, something of an ephemeral dream, a shimmering illusion. Once you move in and put your own furniture in and you fall into the habits of daily life, well then the toilet paper runs out and there are spills on the floor, and you bought art that doesn't look quite right, and the kids' toys scatter underfoot.
Preaching to myself – It can be easy to punish yourself in the era of Instagram perfection for not having your own house look and feel a certain way. Don't. Don't let go of fostering beauty everywhere possible (as this is a noble pursuit), but get comfortable with where you're at, too. Don't apologize for the bright red bedroom if that's what you love. The flotsam and clutter in your house is the sign that you're alive, and that's a good thing. Live how you like and create what feels good to you. One of my neighbors shared a poem with me this week that I thought was great.
Advice to Myself
"Leave the dishes. Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor. Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster. Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup. Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins. Don't even sew on a button. Let the wind have its way, then the earth that invades as dust and then the dead foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch. Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome. Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry who uses whose toothbrush or if anything matches, at all. Except one word to another. Or a thought. Pursue the authentic—decide first what is authentic, then go after it with all your heart. Your heart, that place you don't even think of cleaning out. That closet stuffed with savage mementos. Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner again. Don't answer the telephone, ever, or weep over anything at all that breaks. Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life and talk to the dead who drift in through the screened windows, who collect patiently on the tops of food jars and books. Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything except what destroys the insulation between yourself and your experience or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters this ruse you call necessity."
—Louise ErdrichSO
When I visit your home to talk about how to curate the feelings that buyers want, just know that I completely honor what is authentic and genuine to you, as well as whatever your daily routines have been. There is certainly no judgment from me if I tell you we need fresh paint, etc (and you'd know that if you visited my house!). For me, the art of selling – curating those feelings – is just about playing the necessary and temporary game that the market throws at us. That's it. Our lives and how we choose to spend them are something else entirely.
