MARIA BERMAN was hopelessly smitten with the working fireplace in her first New York apartment, a third-floor walk-up in Cobble Hill,Brooklyn.
“That fireplace was in use most of the year,” said Ms. Berman, an architect who lived in the apartment in the early 1990s. “For three years I had quarter cords of wood delivered to my doorstep.”
But in 2002, when she moved with a fellow architect named Bradley Horn to an 1898 town house in the Sugar Hill Historic District of Harlem, she gave her heart to another fireplace, one that sat buried in the wall in the front parlor and hadn’t worked for seven decades.
Ms. Berman didn’t care. She discovered a creamy cast-stone mantel at a showroom closeout sale, surrounded the hearth with a toasty slab of Breccia Imperiale marble, and never looked back.
“I don’t miss the fire,” Ms. Berman said. “And I love the look of the surround. It really anchors a room and give it focus.”
When it comes to the attractions of a particular house or apartment, there’s little mystery as to why space-starved New Yorkers are drawn to generous square footage, high ceilings and jaw-dropping views.
But over time, residents find less-obvious design elements unexpectedly alluring, not only faux fireplaces but also weirdly shaped alcoves, a decommissioned dumbwaiter, Juliet balconies, claw-foot bathtubs, minuscule shelves carved into staircases, transoms atop doors, brass keyholes and vintage radiators. The list includes even more unlikely details, among them servants’ buttons, speaking tubes, original metal thermostats and shaving closets. (Most people don’t even know what a shaving closet is: a shallow alcove with a sink just large enough for a man to trim his whiskers.)
These mundane grace notes, which may seem to have little purpose beyond collecting dust, are sometimes the very things residents single out to explain why they are drawn to a particular space. On occasion, these homely accents even prove to be the selling point when it comes to closing a deal.
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