S t o r y o f a h o u se
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f a house is a sum of its parts, Laurie and Charles Deleot’s 1950s brick ranch flouts the assumption. Here, a thousand fascinating objects do not melt into the whole, like sugar in hot coffee. Rather, the parts stand alone, each begging a story: tables with dissimilar legs, ceramic flip-flops by the door, a full-size Christmas tree (one of three) made from copper tubing, illuminated year-round; clocks with human faces; portraits with no faces; a Hawaiian waterfall; crystal giraffes, clouds, clowns, an acrobat lamp. The master bedroom suite has a mini-kitchen and two-person shower. Throw rugs crisscross at odd angles. Egyptian chariot horses anchor the coffee table and upholstery mismatches polka dots with lush florals. “I don’t follow rules about mixing colors. I just figure out a way to make things work,” Laurie explains. Surreal, psychedelic? Magritte, Dali, Modigliani? Cirque du Soleil? Yves St. Laurent linens, Boticelli’s Venus in sidewalk chalk? Andy Warhol — definitely. The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour stops here. Only a painter/sculptor/printmaker/craftsperson/ cabinetmaker/seamstress/interior designer/gardener could pull this off. Or, as Charles says: “Laurie can do anything.”