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unexpected beauty

Deserted shack turned wabi-sabi haven—“A pinch of imperfection brings perfection”

By a twist of fate, interior design journalist Liti Wendelin moved to a run-down functionalist house and began her battle against ugliness. Her motto is: The more challenging the interior design project, the greater the enjoyment!

June 10, 2025Lue suomeksi

My first encounter with my house was on a bike trip. On a street surrounded by parks, I stopped in my tracks at a 1930s functionalist house hidden behind hedges. Amid the overgrown garden, it looked abandoned, sad, and neglected. The balcony was covered by a tattered tarp, and the wooden window frames had dried to a gray, brittle state.

In the empty doorway left by last summer’s removed balcony, a railing was installed. It and the exterior doors were both painted the same shade of blue.

In the backyard chaos, renovation debris surrounded an old sauna stove, while waterlogged rolls of wallpaper snaked through metal scraps, and broken pot shards jutted dangerously from the soil. I continued on my way and forgot about the forlorn functionalist house.

In August and September, lush hydrangeas form a floral tableau outside the dining room window. Under the gaze of a Thai Vishnu statue is a plywood movie theater seat found at a flea market.
A three-meter Italian sofa in the living room is guarded by Mister Nelson. The painting on the wall is the resident’s favorite work by Jaan Elken.
A rugged coffee table balances out the sparkle of decorative objects.
A marble chessboard is a keepsake from a trip to Egypt. Alongside the décor books rests a detective novel with its pages folded inward.

The next time I passed the “empty house,” there was a car in the yard. The lawn had been mowed, and a friendly-looking gentleman was raking around. He told me the house had stood vacant for years. When he learned I was interested, he grinned and told me where to find the key.

“You can use the house as your summer cottage.”

Over the summer, I visited the house a few times to admire its 1970s interior. The balcony looked about ready to collapse, but the interiors held so much potential. In the garden, there were apple trees, hundreds of grape hyacinths, enchanting poppies, peonies, and a giant rhododendron spanning several meters. That fall, I rented the house.

A Dutch Droog lamp provides light through a dozen milk bottles. Vintage Italian Plia chairs are an understated choice around the self-designed metal dining table. The painting is by Jaan Elken.
In summer, a maple tree covers the kitchen window, but in fall, the view extends to the sports park and skating rink. A translucent bottle collection and a massive Christmas ornament from IKEA let the limited light seep through the north-facing window.

The first project was to remove the balcony. I saved its blue, two-meter metal railing and moved it to guard the plantings.

Painting went ahead room by room. The doorway between the living room and the hallway was widened, and the wall separating the living and dining areas was taken down. The exposed support beams provided the rugged feel I was looking for.

The kitchen and foyer had pink-tinted marble floors, which in my opinion belonged in a luxurious bathroom. But light gray, steel, and aluminum muted the pink sweetness and cooled the kitchen’s color palette.

“Clean a little every day,” reminds this whimsical coat rack. Old, shallow baskets look lovely when hung on the wall.
In the kitchen, there’s room under the counter for a washing machine and laundry cabinet. A branch holds towels, alongside a towel-shaped lamp from Funktio.

The kitchen’s veneer cabinets were resurfaced. Maybe gray would have been ideal, but I chose white since the kitchen faces north and gets little sunlight during summer evenings.

I took down the upper cabinets and some of the lower ones and moved them to the center of the kitchen to form an island, then topped them with a sheet of steel. I removed the doors from the upper cabinets and hung them as shelves in my workspace.

The shower and sauna were in the basement. The house didn’t have a proper bathroom, just a small toilet upstairs. I wanted a shower on the main floor. Since the kitchen floor was tiled and there was a recess with working ventilation, I decided to put the shower there.

I placed a large palm in front of the shower stall for a tropical touch.

Wabi-sabi thinking is perfect for anyone who loves upcycling, because small flaws are welcome.
Wallpaper featuring a Chinese woman’s face covers a door that’s no longer in use. Sneakers, summer hats, and woven bags are kept visible, so they’re easy to grab on the go.
The run-down balcony was removed, leaving space for a French balcony. The blue metal panels are part of the original railing, cut to the right size and set in the doorway.
You can furnish and decorate the area in front of the French balcony just like any other outdoor spot for summer lounging.

Of the building’s two entrances, one was sealed off as it was no longer needed. During the war, two families lived in this house, one upstairs and one downstairs. The still-functional baking oven in today’s upstairs guest room indicates that room used to serve as a kitchen.

In that same room, there’s a small recess that once held the kitchen sink and stove. I placed an antique farmhouse table there, along with a porcelain bowl and pitcher so guests can wash up in the evenings.

A fluorescent tube light on the guest room ceiling was hidden by hanging a large white umbrella I got from a friend. I used the same idea in my workspace.

On the wall is jewelry artist Matti Mattsson’s workbench. The wrought-iron bed from the Fiskars antique market is dressed with H & M linen sheets, an IKEA down comforter and pillows, plus a throw from Casuarina. A Chinese rolling table pairs with a wooden trunk from Boknäs.
The metal frame of a spring mattress once served as a headboard and now acts as a coat rack in the guest room. The plywood box and chair are gifts from a friend; the Hillary Clinton mask is a souvenir from my sister in California. The old underpants and lace pillowcases are heirlooms from my grandmother. The duvet is wrapped in vintage mattress fabric.
In Liti’s view, a pinch of imperfection brings perfection to the décor.

This ramshackle old house is perfect for wabi-sabi. Just a couple of years ago, I was fixing it up without knowing about the Japanese aesthetic. Then a style-conscious friend walked in, exclaimed, “What a lovely wabi-sabi home,” and suddenly I understood.

It doesn’t mean messy spaces or piles of stuff in the corners. It’s about adding a pinch—or even a handful—of imperfection that gives extra character to the décor.

When I brought two beautifully crafted old exterior doors into my garden—each still with its mail slot—and slid sun umbrellas into those slots, the door became a four-meter-long table. Truly wabi-sabi. The same goes for the diagonal planks uncovered beneath layers of old wallpaper, which I immediately fell for.

When my favorite flowerpot cracked, I repaired it with glue, leaving the flaw visible. I generally don’t iron my linen sheets or tablecloths; instead, I lay them flat to dry, shaping the creases into small ridges.

Actually, almost everything in my home is wabi-sabi: the U.S. Army snow camouflage I use as a curtain, the old French garden table with beautifully rusted surfaces... and even my dear dog Nelson, whose left hind paw was injured during a hip operation. He’s not perfect, but he’s wabi-sabi—and very loved.

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