The domino dream: chapter 1
Last time I introduced the obsession and set the mission—get this house into Domino. This chapter gets honest about the stakes, defines what makes something Domino, and tees up the tiny experiments that might tip a room from “nice” to “print.” Pull up the Karate chair; let’s go.
The Stakes
Before we can talk about fabrics, murals, or whether brinjal is too moody for a north-facing bedroom, I need to set the stage. The stakes.
This dream—getting my house into Domino—isn’t happening in a season of abundance. It’s not a charming weekend project, where I leisurely paint swatches while sipping rosé. No. It’s happening while my life is coming apart like a sweater snagged on a nail.
And the truth is, I hate chaos. I’m a calendar-and-list person. I like order, routines, ticking boxes. But right now? I’m living the opposite. I’m the one forcing chaos onto myself at the exact moment everything else is already unstable. I’m chasing down a diagnosis. I’m losing sleep in strange, broken intervals—two hours here, three hours there, the glamorous schedule of a raccoon. Some mornings I barely manage to shower before the tidal wave of emails and meetings hits. By 9 a.m., I’m already finished. This is not my natural habitat.
My full-time job eats time whole, with no leftovers. My husband is reinventing his career, which may mean uprooting us to Spain. Romantic, yes—but also: should I really be repainting the cabinets if there’s a chance I’ll be handing the keys to a realtor in six months? My business manager keeps insisting I make this “a real business,” and I laugh, because the truth is: this is not about making money. If anything, it’s about spending money I don’t have time to earn back. Financial stability is not the vibe here.
And in the background: my father’s death. Not constant grief, more like a quiet shadow. It lingers, reshaping how I think about time, about why I’m doing this at all.
So—no rest. No certainty. No balance. And yet.
And yet I have to do this. Because it’s Domino.
For the unindoctrinated: Domino is not just a magazine. It’s the cathedral of interiors. The place that made us believe design could be more than “good taste.” It could be story, joy, risk, magic. A Domino house doesn’t just look good; it breathes. If your home lands in those pages, it isn’t about budget or square footage. It’s about saying: look at this mess I made into beauty.
So those are the stakes: a job that drains me, a husband who might cart me off to Spain, money leaking like a bad faucet, a path still very much in beta, a diagnosis still pending, the echo of loss, and a tower of vintage teacups stacked higher than is advisable.
And here’s the meta truth: I’m writing this after twelve hours of work. I should be horizontal, drooling on a pillow. But instead, I’m here. Because even in the exhaustion, this makes me happy. The Domino Dream—ridiculous, impractical, indulgent—is oxygen.
And still—I’m pointing to the outfield, Babe Ruth–style, saying: this is what I came here to do.
Next:
What Makes Something Domino?
Pull up your Karate chair by Michel Cadestin for Airborne. This is the part of class where I level with you.
This is the Karate chair in case you were wondering
See, real life and Domino are two different planets. Real life is the pile of shoes by the door, the junk drawer that won’t close, the takeout containers in the fridge. Real life is fine. It works. But Domino? Domino is art.
And not just any art—it’s the kind of art that tricks you into thinking it happened by accident. That lamp just happened to land in that corner. That painting just happened to be the perfect counterpoint to that rug. But don’t believe it for a second. Domino is edited within an inch of its life. Every object, every pattern clash, every shaft of light—considered, reconsidered, and placed with the timing of an hour-long stand-up routine. It looks effortless, but it’s as deliberate as a film director’s cut.
Other magazines? They’ll give you nice. They’ll give you beige. They’ll give you rooms that are tastefully “done.” Instagram? That’s the quick hit—the single shot, the dopamine corner. Domino is different. It’s not decorating. It’s narrative. It’s a story told in twenty photographs. A Domino house breathes.
So what makes something Domino? Let’s break it down.
Lesson One: Story Beats Stuff
Anyone can buy things. Anyone can arrange them. But Domino doesn’t care about your Pottery Barn throw blanket (sorry, Pottery Barn). Domino wants to know what your space says. It wants to see your life translated into color, fabric, furniture.
→ Decorated room = nice.
→ Domino room = narrative.
Lesson Two: Tension > Perfection
Perfect rooms are boring. Fight me. A Domino room is about tension—the clash of a bold wall color against a dainty floral, the surprise of a vintage lamp in a modern space. It’s the risk that makes you lean closer. Think of it like a plot twist: you didn’t see it coming, but now you can’t imagine the story without it.
Lesson Three: Risk It for the Biscuit
Safe gets you compliments from neighbors. Risk gets you published. Domino loves risk. A tomato-red sofa. A wall mural you have to physically commit to. A dining room that feels like Wes Anderson storyboarded dinner. If your heart doesn’t race a little before you buy it, it’s probably not Domino.
Lesson Four: Pretty ≠ Iconic
Pretty is a compliment. Iconic is a legacy. Domino is after iconic. The kind of choices where someone sees a single corner of your house and knows instantly: oh, that’s so you.
That’s the bar. That’s the impossible standard. And that’s what I want my Domino story to say.
Surprise and sophistication, balanced on the head of a pin. Accessibility—come in, sit down—but also wild flights of fancy. Unexpected color. Vignettes styled so tightly they hum. Simplicity that still makes a statement.
Not just decoration. Not just Instagram. Domino.
Which means not just pretty rooms, but art.
But here’s the real challenge: can I—an overworked artist/dreamer/storyteller—make my highest art at home with small moves only? Sure, I could clear the decks and start from zero, but I’m not feral. I want to prove that surgical swaps, ruthless edits, and one or two brave choices can flip a room from “nice” to Domino-worthy. Inches, not renovations. Micro-moves, macro impact. That’s the experiment.
Field Notes: The House, As-Is (An Editor’s Inventory)
Pull up the Karate chair again; I’m going to be honest.
Kitchen
What it’s saying now: competent, hardworking, politely handsome.
Where the eye hiccups:
No clear protagonist. Everything’s supporting cast; nothing holds the frame. (Iconic deficit)
Value harmony overload. Too many mid-tones; not enough light/dark drama. (Tension deficit)
Shelf story creep. Useful objects posing as styled ones; narrative gets muddy. (Story blur)
Light reads flat at noon. Beautiful IRL, but the camera wants shape and shadow. (Editorial flatline)
Obvious fixes…
Dining (Incarn red)
What it’s saying now: big emotions, small gestures.
Where the eye hiccups:
Scale mismatch. Wall tone is operatic; art and pendant whisper. (Iconic deficit)
Color harmony = safe. Palette agrees with itself a little too much. (Tension deficit)
Tabletop reads everyday. No “pause here” punctuation. (Narrative lull)
Too much clutter!
Living / Salon
What it’s saying now: promise of wit; committee of objects.
Where the eye hiccups:
Too many co-leads. Conversation pieces compete; hierarchy is hazy. (Story confusion)
Color commitment shy. Orange wants the mic; the room keeps passing it around. (Risk avoidance)
Lamp silhouettes fussy. Lines fight the bolder forms. (Iconic interference)
Sightline stutter. From sofa to fireplace: no clean beat, then crescendo. (Editorial pacing)
Too much clutter!
Bedroom
What it’s saying now: charm in fragments; light is the boss.
Where the eye hiccups:
Value compression. North light + mid-value textiles = one big “meh.” (Tension deficit)
Hero identity unclear. Mural? Headboard? Textiles? One wants top billing; three are auditioning. (Iconic ambiguity)
Finish sheen fights the camera. Reflective reads cold; mood evaporates. (Editorial mismatch)
Hall / Passage
What it’s saying now: transit, not story.
Where the eye hiccups:
No connective tissue. Gorgeous rooms, but the chapter breaks are blank. (Story gap)
Missed mini-moment. Nothing to make you slow down. (Iconic opportunity lost)
Backyard
What it’s saying now: personality, daylight charm, party potential.
Where the eye hiccups:
Graphic backbone missing. Lush without a crisp counterpoint. (Tension deficit)
Night narrative undeveloped. Day sings; evening mumbles. (Editorial imbalance)
Cover angle not locked. Great vignettes, no single “that’s the shot.” (Iconic hunt)
The Working Method (a.k.a. How I’ll Move Without Promising Reveals)
Observe, then strip. Photograph honestly. Remove one third. Photograph again. (Editors call this “finding the sentence.”)
Name the problem in one line. If I can’t describe it, I can’t fix it.
Test scale, not just things. Blue tape, paper cut-outs, stand-in props—proof before purchase.
Chase the four checks. Story ▢ Tension ▢ Risk ▢ Iconic ▢ (Every move has to earn a box.)
Next in The Domino Dream
Dining Room — Reality vs. Domino
Incarn red is doing its job; the rest needs a nudge. Next week I’m trying a few small shifts—swapping a couple of pieces, clearing the noise, and changing the ground under everything—to see how far tiny moves can carry the room.
I’ll test, live with it, and share what actually sticks.
Hope: that with small changes, we tip this space from “nicely decorated” into Domino-worthy.
Your Turn
What is the wildest, most audacious thing you’d do in your home—if time and money didn’t matter? Go.
Say it like a tiny scene, not a shopping list. Paint the picture in a sentence or two: the color that would scandalize your HOA, the ceiling you’d lacquer to a mirror, the floor you’d checkerboard to the horizon, the chandelier with main-character energy, the indoor tree you’d plant in the stairwell, the Versace paper you’d wrap a powder room in just because it makes you grin. Tell me the move and why it thrills (or terrifies) you. You’re your own client. I’m not designing by committee—I’m cheering for brave.
Next week: Dining—Reality vs. Domino. Honest wides, blue-tape tests, pendant mock… and progress.
