Raised in Washington, D.C., with summers spent in Midcoast Maine, trained by Sister Parish and Albert Hadley, Libby Cameron epitomizes a certain all-American design ethos: rooted in tradition but unafraid to break convention, polished yet pragmatic. Nowhere is that more apparent than in her own homes, from downtown New York lofts accented by family heirlooms to well-appointed houses teeming with litters of Labradors. Here, the celebrated designer and author (her new book, Notes from a Decorator’s Life, was released this past spring) looks back on the spaces that shaped her—and the pieces that accompanied her along the way.
Broome Street, New York City
1982–1988
The loft in SoHo was the first place I lived when I moved to New York City. It was a wonderful space with 12-foot ceilings, original floorboards, and brick interior walls. It was on the corner of Broome and Wooster—which, in the 1980s, was a gritty area, and absolutely nothing like it is today. I loved living there—the space was huge and open and bright. When I began my career, I worked mostly on more traditional spaces; this loft was divided into areas—not unlike the houses I worked on, but without walls to separate each area. I don’t think I had ever lived in a space with such high ceilings. Any artwork that I had was small, so I hung it in groupings to create a sense of volume. I had tall pyramid-shaped bookcases made—I was inspired by a pair that Rory Cameron had in his house in Ireland that I loved—and added finials on top.
Bond Street, New York City
1988–1992
After our first child was born, we moved to an equally large loft just blocks away. It was once a button factory. The ceiling height was a bit lower and there were fewer windows but because it faced southeast, it was sunny and bright. There was a wallpaper border I loved, so I used it at the ceiling line in lieu of crown molding—the antithesis of what you think would be in a big loft space! By this point in my life, I had started to collect more furniture, most of which was simple; some of it had come from our families, like the screen above the sofa, which was given to me by my father. The dhurrie rugs on the floor were bright and colorful. One of my favorite pieces that I still have is the little sofa that Albert Hadley gave to me, which was in the vestibule between the two bedrooms. After our second baby arrived, it was time to move out of the city.
Larchmont, New York
1992–2017
We raised our children in a little white colonial house in Larchmont with small rooms that spilled into each other. When we bought it, the interior was very dated and not at all what I wanted the space to feel like. By this point, I increasingly wanted more color in my life, so I used a snippet of fabric I loved as the starting point for the house’s palette: the library was painted a bachelor’s button blue, the dining room was glazed in a coral-pink color—almost the same color as the frozen drinks we used to get from Howard Johnson’s when I was a little girl—and the living room was wallpapered in a yellow-on-yellow stripe. I had to take the finials off of my pyramid-shaped bookcases because the ceilings here were much lower. I used the wallpaper border from Bond Street here again in the front hall, along with an Albert Hadley wallpaper called Trixie. The rooms here were more traditional, not just because the architecture called for it, but because I had inherited furniture with a more traditional bent. It was a very happy house—bright and cheerful and teeming with children and dogs.
Greenwich, Connecticut
2017–Present
I moved to Connecticut after my children were grown. I had started breeding Labrador retrievers and wanted more land. I found a dilapidated house that I was excited to fix up and make my own. I had plenty of furniture, and everything found a new home and purpose. The chaise that had been in my bedroom in Larchmont moved next to the living room fireplace; the bookcases from my first loft in the city were at the far end of the room. The curtain bookcase that Albert Hadley gave me will always be in my bedroom—I love seeing it every morning when I wake up. During Covid, I bought the ram painting that is now in the dining room from Mario Buatta’s auction at Stair Galleries. The house is filled on weekends with my children and grandchildren; my dogs love the property, too, and swim most days in the pond.
Newagen, Maine
1959–Present
My paternal grandparents built a summer house at the edge of a granite ledge overlooking the ocean in Newagen, Maine, in 1904. My father grew up going there and later brought his own children every summer. We still all gather there each year with several generations as well as our many dogs. It is a simple summer cottage—there is nothing grand about it—but it is filled with memories and the best parts of Maine: the sounds of the sea, the smell of the pines, and the calls of the ospreys and gulls. The walls are open and exposed; the vertical boards and siding were never insulated or closed in. Very little has changed in the house—the painting of the schooner in the living room has been there for longer than I have been alive. The floors are now painted a different color, but they are still crooked and slope toward the sea—as does the house after so many years.
THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN VOLUME 21 OF FREDERIC MAGAZINE. CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE!
