It didn't take long for me to realize that I wanted to buy the quirky little rowhouse in downtown Toronto in 2002. Despite its obvious defects—nicotine-stained walls, cramped rooms, unusable plumbing, for example—there was something about the space that felt like home. I can't say it was anything tangible. The former owner had lived there for more than 60 years and the house was full of her treasures, many of which I've been lucky enough to keep. The tall ceilings, original stained-glass window and the house's fantastic location were also appealing, because I would be close to friends and near Toronto's rambling ravines for my exuberant dog, Janou. Most of all it was the sense of history and space—an urban location that felt private and tucked away. I could imagine myself happily living there. What I didn't foresee was how long it would take to make the house livable. My initial passion for the sad little Victorian became a slow and steady flame—one marked (like any relationship) by ups and downs. Despite the increasing costs and delays of the renovation, there were high points, like the turn-of-the-century newspapers I found in the wall and the quality of light that poured in when the skylight was installed. The once-dreary space has blossomed, and now combines modern and traditional styles with a European sensibility. I can honestly say there's no place I'd rather be.
One of my biggest issues was how to deal with the main floor. I loved the original rabbit warren of rooms and the coffered ceiling, but the narrow width (14.5 feet) made me reconsider. Despite my grandiose visions, the house wasn't even close to being big enough to have a formal dining and living room. An open-concept space was the solution. In order not to lose the home's charm, I tracked down architectural artefacts that would seem original. Skinny salvaged French doors from The Door Store were a lucky find, while vintage spindles and banister from Legacy Supplies created a stunning Victorian staircase. I'm still happy I splurged on some things, from the limestone floors and AGA cooker in the kitchen to a quirky 1930s armchair in my living room, which I had recovered in berry-coloured velvet. Hanging light, Trianon; white bowl, Hollace Cluny; pink lamp shade, Birds of Paradise; cushion fabric Robert Allen, sewn by Wesley Seto Design; blind fabric, Kravet Couture; chairs, Sarah Richardson Design.
My modest nine-foot addition was one of the most challenging parts of the renovation. The rear of the house was sinking (there were no proper footings) and a foundation had to be dug. Just when the crew arrived, the ground froze for four long months. But it was worth the wait—it's now my favourite spot.
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