Written by Mike Albo • Photographed by Simon Upton • Produced By Anita Sarsidi
Located on a leafy street in Manhattan's West Village, the apartment building—all brown brick and dull stonework—is not the loveliest of edifices. And the hallway outside the door is dimly lit and colored a creepy yellow, as if it might once have served as a set for Law & Order: SVU. But all that drabness is forgotten as soon as the door opens to Sig Bergamin's abode. The place—a brash mix of colors, prints, and styles—practically jumps out and hugs you.
Bergamin, a São Paulo–based architect and designer, has filled his small one-bedroom home with items that swing wildly in temperature and mood: pillows and curtains in joyous ikat-printed fabrics, a stark white sofa, a curved chair upholstered in a somber dark purple velvet and a bright floral pattern, a dark Chinese wood armoire, a boldly patterned blue-and-white rug.
It's a restless assortment, but under Bergamin's masterful hand (and the orderly touch of his housekeeper, Elisabete, and her husband, Tanto), somehow the clashing patterns and styles create not cacophony but a comfortable repose. "I feel like I am in a dollhouse," says Bergamin. "I feel so cozy inside. I close the door and it's like a nest."
Bergamin, who has a low, gravelly voice and speaks in a loungey, broken English that automatically makes you imagine him barefoot and holding a cocktail, comes to New York on average about eight times a year for work—sometimes alone, sometimes with his handsome friend Murilo Lomas. Sweet photos of them together are arrayed throughout the bedroom. "This apartment is a test," Bergamin jokes. "When we stay in this apartment, we never fight. Even with that small bathroom! Too-small bathroom for two big guys!" The test bathroom, a typical New York water closet, has been made to feel as spacious as possible with gleaming white tiles and expanses of glass. Hanging on the walls is a collection of old photographs, most of them curious, ghostly class photos from decades past: Blakely High School, 1936; St. Stephens School, 1925. "I think it's funny," the designer says of those photos of long-ago students. "We can't do this now. Nobody stays quiet. Everybody talks, talks, talks all the time. Can you imagine 85 people and they can't move? Old times, old times."
Obviously there is a sense of humor to Bergamin's aesthetic, but it's mixed with an irreverent sensuality that keeps things chic. The best example is the photos in the living room: A big portrait of Gisele Bündchen, topless and in major jewels, is flanked by two pictures of the iconic and reverent Cristo Redentor statue in Rio de Janeiro. "I don't have fear about mixing everything," Bergamin explains. The pieces come from both local flea markets and high-end antiquaries. And the arrangements are constantly changing. "Every single time I come here, he's moved things around," Tanto says with a shrug.
Two lamps with geode bases—one a Brazilian tourmaline, the other a slice of amethyst—sport brightly colored and patterned lampshades that put them as close to tacky as possible without quite crossing the line. "I like funny pieces," says Bergamin. "Those lamps to me are funny." (There is probably a beautiful Portuguese expression for the kind of funny he is talking about: not clowny or comical, but as if everything around you is grinning.)
It's not often that someone calls New York City restful, but Bergamin considers this apartment his peaceful getaway from the pressures of his life back in Brazil. "In New York I sleep ten hours. In São Paulo, five hours!" He may do a lot of nesting here, but he doesn't do much cooking. The fridge is stocked as if he were a Hollywood actor: vodka, Ben & Jerry's ice cream, chocolate, cashews. "This is more a bar," Bergamin admits about his kitchen. "I don't cook here. I don't call in Chinese food, either. The smell for me, it's incredible. When I open the elevator and someone is cooking on my floor? Oh my God, I don't like it."
Instead, he enjoys strolling the picturesque streets of the Village and hanging out in the cafés and restaurants that abound in the area. "It's like Brazil in the past," says Bergamin, who was born in a small town 250 miles from São Paulo. For him, this downtown neighborhood evokes memories of his youth, walking on the streets, with dogs and trees and friendly people everywhere. Today, in São Paulo, he says, "we can't walk in the street. It's too dangerous."
In addition to his house in São Paulo, Bergamin also has a large apartment in Paris in a 17th-century building with five windows in the living room. Both those places make even bolder statements and employ even more fearless juxtapositions of color and prints. "In Brazil there is one room in the house with 500 pieces of fabric," he says with a laugh.
So despite how vibrant and alive this small apartment may seem to guests, it is, nonetheless, where Bergamin lives the simple life: "In Brazil I have 45 doors; here, only one."
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