Think Pink Noise: Musician Naz Esfahani's Bushwick Apartment
Name: Naz Esfahani
Location: Bushwick - Brooklyn, New York
Size: 425 square feet
Lived in: 1 Month
Apartment Therapy Survey:
Inspiration: A daydream I had about making out with John Waters.
Favorite Element: My couch is perfectly equipped for my fits of the vapours.
Biggest Challenge: It's hard not to wish for more space, but it's also easy to bite my tongue because duh, New York. I feel lucky.
What Friends Say: "It's so fucking pink!"
PAINT & COLORS
I've always loved hot pink, and initially I thought I'd go hot, hot, punch you in the face and steal your milk money pink. The kind of pink that would make a grown man at an antiquated gender reveal party start crying angry tears once he saw it. Just an aggressive, grotesque pink. But then I spent two nights hauling paint samples back from the hardware store, swatching right on the wall, staring at them until I thought I was about to enter the void, and that's when I realized my pink needed to be less brutal. Not quite hot, not quite millennial. I finally settled on this pink, which is Benjamin Moore's Blush Tone, although for a little bit I was really stuck on Behr's Angel Kiss.
I tested eleven pinks altogether, and then the whole apartment took almost a week to paint, which like, standing in it now it sounds ridiculous to even say because there's hardly any walls to paint. I think maybe it's counterproductive to paint the way I do, which is to paint half a wall and then lay down on the floor and cry for an hour and a half, but I think if you can make it through a full move without having at least 2-3 psychotic breaks from reality then you're either a sociopath or a billionaire or both, and I don't want to know you.
Room by Room:
I know it's maybe weird to display my clothes out here, but I don't have a closet or really any storage space, and I think I'm lucky in that my wardrobe is pretty to look at it. Everything I wear is either vintage or given to me, and a lot of it is coming and going because I tend to sell everything I wear eventually. A lot of my favorite nightgowns end up in the homes of middle-aged perverts who wear them to masturbate in. Not to kink shame, those guys are my bread and butter. Shout out to Bernard in West Virginia. Love you, Bernard. You helped pay for this couch.
This couch cost three thousand dollars. I put it on a credit card, which I sobbed handing to the girl at the register, and then Visa like, panicked and froze my card and I had to call them with my squeaky frantic mid-crying voice there in the store saying, "Please, I just want to spend my imaginary money," and the very nice gentleman on the line was like, "Ma'am, are you speaking dolphin? Are you pop super star Grimes? Can I speak to your mother?" I don't want to tell you the name of the place where I got it because then everyone reading this will go and buy the things I want and I have enough competition as it is.
The shop owner is a friend, he told me it's a Rococo-style couch and said I was getting a real steal, but I think he only said that because I'm his Bernard. Regardless, I love it and no one is allowed to sit on it. A few nights ago I had guests and I made them both sit on the floor and it was really awkward for everyone, which is the best for me as a Persian girl who was raised to sleep on the floor and let her Aunts sleep in her bed when they were visiting. My people are known for being hospitable to the point of freakishness. Now I'm the exact opposite! Welcome to my home, sit on the fucking floor, don't touch anything. No taarof. Sit on the floor and be grateful.
I'm in a love-hate relationship with the kitchen. I love that it's like, big enough for a table, because if I have someone over I can socialize while I cook. Still though there's no counter space and I cook a lot, a lot, so sometimes I end up using this little table for prep. I've only been here a month but it's already annoying. The cool thing is I have storage, the bad thing is I'm using at least one of these cupboards for my antique dolls.
This cactus is from my roommates. They're having a baby, which is why I moved out, like in addition to getting sick of being in an eternal blood feud with their cat. The day I was leaving there was no one home and this cactus was sitting on the counter still in its box. And I said to myself, "I guess this is for me!" I recognize now how that doesn't make any sense, but I felt a deep connection to it. I love a cactus. I texted them afterward like, "Thank you so much for the cactus," and they texted me back a little upset because I guess it was for their nursery. I don't think neon's safe for a baby's eyes so I did them a favor. It's from fucking Amazon anyway, I'd feel guiltier if it were something rare but it's direct from the bosom of Bezos so I mean, whatever, right? All this stupid fridge art is by my friends, I have art supplies for anyone who wants to leave me something when they visit, and then this poster art on choking is from my performance artist friend who stages public chokings and has her partner Heimlich her, and then they pass these out to all the bystanders. I don't really know what it's meant to convey. She told me just a few days ago, but I was only pretending to listen because I was really excited for my turn to talk about my new cactus. I think maybe something about immigration.
I listened to Mazzy Star's Fade Into You and Emiko's Nobody at least 67 times while I was arranging this room. I knew it would be cluttered, but I wanted the clutter to be meticulously curated. I got rid of a lot before I moved, just because I wanted to be able to say things like, "Yes, I've recently downgraded my materialism," when people came over. My living room feels almost minimalist to me, maybe that's silly to say, but then when people get in here I think there's a moment of like, "Oh. There's a lot to touch." It's the reverse of everything else, where I'm like, please touch it! Please touch all of it.
The poodle is dead. This was a memorial photo sent to everyone who'd ever met the poodle, which sadly included me. Do you see this scar on my wrist? That's where the poodle bit me once. Totally unprovoked. I was sitting down, the poodle climbed onto my lap, I said, "Oh, nice poodle," and then the poodle attacked. The poodle is the reason my oldest sister and I were half-estranged for like, three years. I don't like to say the poodle's name because I feel like it brings bad energy to my home, but it's like, if someone sends you a memorial photo then you have to display that photo. I believe really strongly in energies. Not in the sense of something swarming around you or even innately spiritual, but in your own mood. The poodle has strong energy.
The cross isn't from Wayfair, it's from a friend. He found it in the street, which I really like. I love old things, I love found objects. When something's new, I feel almost indifferent to it. It hasn't lived a whole life, it's hard for me to immediately feel fondness for something new. But when I hold something old in my hands, I just think, "Oh, this sad and pathetic thing needs me."
Flavor Paper is where I got this wallpaper above my bed, and then the wallpaper is where the inspiration for all the greenery hit me. I'd been wanting to paint a mural to differentiate the bedroom from the rest of the apartment, and then for a little bit I was thinking of doing an accent wall of Sparklepuss but the more I looked at it the more it was like, "Do I really want my bedroom to look like one of those salons where there's a wall solely dedicated to taking lame, generic shots for Instagram?" I came really, really close though. I stared at Sparklepuss for ages in the shop. My only suggestion for decorating is to stare at something for as long as you can before you decide what to do with it.
The Virgin Mary came to me from Wayfair years ago. She was on clearance! If you look too close, her face is a little deformed. This was probably taken after she finished fist fighting Judas. I only bring her out for special occasions, like Christmas Eve or when I know I'm going to have sex.