Biography
Growing up with six brothers and one sister definitely set me on a track to somehow establish order, and if at all possible, introduce a little beauty – for frosting.
I remember a distant past when we were a family of one – me. It was short-lived with the arrival of my sister, and then every so often another brother. In the face of this prized invasion, Dad developed a flourishing medical practice, and mother struggled to reconcile the madding, free spirited crowd with her dream of a Williamsburg museum-perfect home. As you might imagine, she “settled” for far-cry substitutes early on, but always held out for that day...
Dad was a brilliant surgeon. He could put people’s arms, feet, and hands back on before it could be done. (He had lots of practice in WW II treating war injuries.) Household aesthetics was out of his purview. He was much more invested in helping his patients with their bills, by buying anything they might happen to sell – like pea green suits, herculon covered plaid sofas, and “Early American” maple chairs of all ilks. Mother would break out in tears, much to his dismay and puzzlement, at these lovely surprises.
As chief sounding board for these mounting disappointments, I was well coached on the difference between a Chippendale and Queen Anne leg, a camel back vs a tuxedo sofa etc. etc. etc.
Despite this one grating dissonance, both parents were noble, idealistic, wise, self-sacrificing, productive and loving. Above all they were persons of Faith. We did eventually move into lovely 22 room colonial home in Edina, Minnesota (sans Williamsburg for the moment) and our parents hospitality included guests from the world over – all of whom were Christian missionaries. So, when it came time for me to leave for college I had my sites on serving on some foreign mission field. I was non-the-less destined to reconcile this anomally of style vs. stuff.
Within months of arriving at Wheaton College, (Fall 1963) I was introduced to the Southside of Chicago. This was a foreign enough field for me, as I was not accustomed to watching small children forage for food in garbage cans on the way to school, or brave the winter elements with no suitable warm clothes. I had joined several other students volunteering on weekends in a small store front church on 35th and State Street. The “Projects” were no harbinger of style to say the least. Living conditions were grim. Out the window with “Queen Anne”.
Everything was concrete-block gray. Kids were happy to get back and forth from school without being shot. And, when they got home, they would have been happy to land on a herculon plaid sofa. So, now what?
I moved into a tenement building for the summer to keep my little “program” going with the girls, managed to finish college and kept working there weekends and summers. The 8 years that followed is its own story.
But to fast-forward a few decades, I learned in the Projects that a person’s immediate environment is critical to his or her sense of well being. One’s home matters, Ghetto or Grosse Pointe (or Edina, as was my case). In this country most everyone can afford paint, sand paper, light bulbs, bed sheets. I found myself stuggling to upgrade kids clothing, hair dos, bedrooms, table settings (including food) curtains, toothbrushes and washcloths, whatever could boost their confidence and self esteem.
Some very poor people have an elegant sense of style and some very rich people are quite short of whatever we mean by “taste”. However, all of us deserve a place we call “home”; and the opportunity to dress it in color, texture, light, feathers, whatever represents us best and gives us comfort and cheer when we walk though the door.
In 1972 when I entered the hotel business, my lessons served me well. Besides researching every detail that spoke comfort to guests, I learned that there is no substitute for the “sense of arrival.” So, besides initiating feather beds, down quilts, and bedside chocolate chip cookies (now hotel standards), I became a great believer in entry-way panache: elegant center tables, generous floral arrangements and, oh yes, a grand chandelier. After 16 years in the business it was all burned into my style book.
****
In 1987 I took a 6 month break from the fray. My father had bought (1971) 500 acres of farmland southwest of Minneapolis to plant an apple orchard. We were all conscripted to plant over 27,000 apple trees, and then we all had to pitch in and figure out what to do when they started kicking out bushels of great apples. So, between hotels and apple harvests I had no idle moments.
During this “break” I met a certain Jim Kelly of Rochester and before he could mount any protest I convinced him he couldn’t live without me. So, within the year we had this fine wedding-of-your-dreams and I could then claim 3 beautiful children and one harlequin Great Dane as my new family. No longer could I bounce around to a new hotel assignment every few years.
So, in 1990 I decided to dust off my 20 year old B.A. degree in Interior Design (U of MN) and get back to those Queen Anne legs etc. etc. etc. During my two year “apprenticeship” with Glenn Miller Interiors I learned that as time had marched on, so had all those leg styles, along with a myriad of fabric, furniture, wallpaper, lighting, rug and carpet sources. No wonder the average good-taste person was bouncing from store to store in bewilderment.
Could all these resources be discovered and their application mastered? Was it important? And to whom? Do people pay for this? How much is it worth? Is it a special skill or can anybody do it? At 45 why do I care?
I can cheerfully report, after 17 years as an Interior Designer that the answers have taken shape.
WELCOME TO SUSAN KELLY INTERIOR DESIGN
