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When their son, Jay, was a baby, Joe McGuier, cofounder of JAM, and his wife, Kelly McGuier, who runs finances for the Brooklyn-based firm, were living in a garden-level rental in Park Slope, Brooklyn. “We had him in a glorified walk-in closet,” the architect laughs, describing the nursery, a setup that ultimately prompted the search for a larger family home with more light, space, and a sensible number of bedroom doors. McGuier recalls thinking: “We’re adults now; we’ve got a kid. Everybody should have a bedroom door, and we need a two-bedroom.” Serendipity stepped in on a walk through Brooklyn’s Vinegar Hill neighborhood, where McGuier spotted an ad for a converted toy factory—one that met just a single qualification. “It’s this old concrete building with huge concrete columns, high ceilings, and amazing light, but no real bedrooms.” At 1,000 square feet, the space was smaller than they’d hoped for, but they opted in anyway, persuaded by the 10-foot ceilings and lofty windows.
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In place of the bedroom doors they thought they needed, the apartment—essentially a studio with an outdoor patio—demanded a more inventive approach to separation. McGuier cordoned off the primary bedroom from the living area by installing floor-to-ceiling Belgian linen curtains by RH on a track, along with a sculptural, custom armoire designed by his firm and built by New Collar Goods. He used oversized art pieces—including a mixed-media collage painting found at Dial M for Modern in Chicago that clocks in at nine feet—that hold their own against the room’s proportions. A rarely used TV takes the form of a projector that disappears when not in use, freeing up visual space, while closed storage keeps the detritus of family life out of sight. “Anything we bring in the house, from a furniture standpoint, has got to have closed storage. You just stuff it full!” he says.
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The “rooms” came together piece by piece, and where they lacked cohesion, custom work stepped in. In the primary bedroom, the couple began with what McGuier describes as “ingredients that felt non-negotiable”: vintage Art Deco figural lamps, nightstands sourced in Ohrid, North Macedonia, and a midcentury Cubist reclining nude oil painting bought at auction. But finding a headboard to suit them proved elusive; with a king-size bed, he says, nothing quite landed in the right proportion. Working with his upholsterer, he created a wall-to-wall headboard clad in Schumacher’s cut-jacquard Tutsi. The effect is both visually engaging and place-making, outlining the bedroom as a distinct zone. As he puts it, he can still lie on the bed—head at the foot, facing the living room—reading and feeling “part of the action,” which he appreciates.
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If the bedroom reflects a moment of careful calibration, the rest of the apartment tells a longer story—one shaped by family life over time, from Jay’s toddler years to his current age of 9. A striking Danish rosewood wall unit delineating the living and dining areas displays some of the trio’s collected treasures, like a cast aluminum figural sculpture from the 1960s picked up in Chicago. An Icelandic wool blanket found on a family holiday sits on the sofa, itself a vintage find, thought to be Roche Bobois from the 1970s, discovered in the Netherlands. On a middle shelf in a reading nook sits “a furry little sheep” purchased by Jay on a vacation. A group of original Frank Lloyd Wright blueprints for a private Ohio residence were passed down from the designer’s grandfather, while a booklet titled What Is Modern Architecture (1942) came from his grandmother, who attended the MoMA show as an art-school student. “This is stuff that we have sprinkled all over the house,” says McGuier, “It’s our version of family photos. We all look at it and remember.” Now, what the apartment lacks in doors, it makes up for in meaning.
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