And it is called, aptly, oh-so-aptly, Whimsigoth.
The house at the center of 1998’s Practical Magic may be among the Most Pinterested Fictional Property. A robust mood board movement puts The Owens’ Manse in a whole aesthetic constellation with candelabras, turrets, and American Colonial antiques. It’s an earned reputation, in this witch’s opinion. Though now a fetish object, that beautiful old burrow rivals anything Nancy Meyers ever designed, which is really saying something.
Remember that eat-in kitchen? With its breakfast nook, so perfect for making midnight margaritas, hosting lovelorn women, and flipping novelty pancakes? Or the yard, with its overgrown trellises and cliffside view? And let’s not even talk about the widow’s walk. Ideal for Solstice soirees and summoning cowboys with lovesick incantations.
Long before I was the age when fantasizing became a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and a dozen open Zillow tabs in the Hudson Valley, I was lusting after those eccentric, craftsman touches. But for those of us inclined to recreate the magic—practically—how might a mortal go about it? Let’s say you’ve already told your decorator, “I want it all Whimsigoth.” Here’s what to say if they have clarifying questions.
Whimsigoth is a colonial craftsman built in 1860 and last inspected in 1945. It’s bats in the belfry. It’s creaky floors.
Whimsigoth is maple, oak, and mahogany. It’s crown molding, built-in shelves, and stained glass.
Whimsigoth is mice, but you’re not mad about it. Whimsigoth is also ghosts, which can be trickier. But it’s whatever, you’ve made peace with them. After all, the place is literally held up by magic.
Whimsigoth is Stevie Nicks’ Belladonna, playing softly on a loop in every room of the house. It’s also actual belladonna, the poisonous, man-killing herb, just thriving away in the built-in-greenhouse.
Whimsigoth is shadowy corners and candlelight. It needs no TV nook, no laundry, no three-pronged outlets. Let the large hearth replace any need for a rec room. So long as you can fit a family-size cauldron over the flames, you’ll be able to make your own fun.
That said, all Whimsigoth communal spaces should be big enough tho host a grand piano, a loom, several rocking chairs, and a farmhouse table that cozily seats eight.
Whimsigoth is overlooking the sea. Vista-wise, its platonic ideal is the wind-whipped lighthouse peak of an under-loved New England beach town. Imagine a place where it’s always October. You shouldn’t be able to go anywhere without a floor-length cardigan, beekeepers’ gloves, and your good veil.
But indoors, Whimsigoth runs warm. It should always be humid enough to wear silk slip dresses in the kitchen.
Whimsigoth is No Boys Allowed, because in all likelihood male guests will die if they cross the threshold. At least until the exterminator deals with the beetle problem.
And speaking of w(h)ich—Whimsigoth is robust plumbing, because no way in hell are you ever cutting your hair.
Whimsigoth is a king-sized canopy bed in every room. And at least four flights of creaky old stairs.
Whimsigoth is not to be confused with GothMod—i.e., the Beetlejuice aesthetic. No Louise Bourgeoise sculptures or Yayoi Kusama dots shall darken these doorways. No enamel, no black or white. The cabinets are off-white and chipping. The linens are autumnal ochres, jewel tones, or mauve.
The resident Whimsigoth artistic referents are Hilda af Klint and Leonora Carrington.
On this note, Whimsigoth is not Anthropologie. I’m sorry, but Anthropologie wishes. Whimsigoth is John Derian.
Whimsigoth house needs no garage, because you’ll amble into town under a parasol if you need to give those PTA basics a scare. But Whimsigoth may need to add an ADU. “For when my sister comes to stay.”
And finally, Whimsigoth residents commit to observing certain rules. Police are never be talked to on the property, unless they are extremely handsome, unbound to procedure, and blessed with that one specific eye condition. And lavender should be planted by the garden gate.
Happy decorating, my little witches.
