HOUSE TOUR: Inside A Fashion Writer's Breathtaking Milan Apartment

Hunting for a great place in Milan is a little bit like nabbing the perfect plate of mozzarella in America: It's practically impossible. All the good apartments are taken; they have been for the last 400 years, and no one has any intention of selling the family palazzo with the frescoed walls, stately entryways, and soaring ceilings.

As an American who has lived in Milan for 13 years, I have by now learned never to take the first no as the final answer.

Journalist J.J. Martin in the dining room of her Milan apartment, which was renovated by architect Massimo Curzi.

My search for a dream home began back in 2005 and lasted a maddening two years, during which I walked into 93 ho-hum properties shown to me by no fewer than 32 different Realtors. Deflated by the sluggish inefficiency and lack of fabulousness, I agreed to see an apartment on the top floor of a 1950s building, even though it was billed as rent-only. But it boasted incredible light and wraparound terraces, and my husband, finally engaged by a property worth fighting for, sat the owners down and convinced them to sell to us.

A pair of 1930s armchairs flanks a 1940s floor lamp in the living room; the sofa is by Minotti, a 1970s mirror hangs above the original stone fireplace, the cabinets are custom made, and the oak floor is stained black.

And they did. The apartment had views of my two favorite buildings in Milan: BBPR's 1958 Torre Velasca and the 14th-century Duomo. The Torre was built in 292 days. The Duomo took 500 years. Regrettably, our project fell somewhere in between. We bought the apartment thinking there was very little to do, but suddenly walls came down, floors got ripped up, and bathrooms and kitchen were erased and rebuilt. The architect was a blue-eyed Italian with brilliant ideas on dividing the space and designing all of the built-in oak furniture, which was later painstakingly crafted by two 85-year-old men who worked by hand out of an old farmhouse in Pavia.

The dining room’s 1940s parchment-covered table and 1970s chandelier are Italian, the chairs are by Osvaldo Borsani, and the vintage vase is by Pierre Cardin; the 18th-century Sicilian plaster bas-relief was bought at the Parma flea market, and the walls are covered in hand-mixed concrete.

But our young architetto had little sense of operations, coordination, organization, or even grade-school note-taking. He tended to scribble meeting notes on his hand, which was more than a bit alarming. So I quickly assumed the role of project manager, client's representative, budget enforcer, appointment keeper, and all-around mood enhancer. The greatest lesson was that demanding something be done, or offering more money for it to be done on time (which is what my mother helpfully suggested by phone from Los Angeles one day), would only insult an Italian. The only way to get the construction workers, plumber, electrician, glass cutter, stone cutter, and carpenters to work in harmony with your wishes is to throw away the schedule and flirt like mad. Halfway through the renovation, I turned on the coquettish charm. And it worked.

A photograph by Maurizio Galimberti and 19th-century drawings hang above a custom-made sofa in the guest room; a wall is upholstered in a vintage fabric by Stig Lindberg.

In Italy, American-style, full-service decorators are a rare breed. Architects are usually doubly charged with furnishings, which is probably why most new Milanese interiors resemble slick design catalogs populated with Eero Saarinen tulip chairs and Eames lounge chairs—a cookie-cutter look I didn't want.

I am a fashion and design journalist who has spent years collecting vintage clothing, but seven years ago I knew nothing about decorating. What I did have was an eye for vintage furniture, which I began to procure exactly as I collected clothes: I simply bought pieces that caught my fancy, not having a clue as to how I would use them. Sometimes the random selections came together like a symphony—such as the enormous 1970s hula hoop–shaped chandelier I dug out of a dealer's dark basement storage that now hangs over a 1940s parchment-covered table found at the Parma flea market. But sometimes, the randomness went nowhere. I re-did our entry and my writing studio no fewer than 10 times. When the sweet Sicilian painter arrived for the sixth time in two years, I sighed and simply said to him, "Just give me the color of the sea in Panarea." Which he did. The home-brewed, shiny lacquered shade has not been touched since.

A bed by Poliform is dressed with a coverlet by Bellora in the master bedroom; the watercolor is by Ruben Toledo, the 1950s bedside lamp and maple console are Italian; the table lamp was made from a 17th-century candelabra, and the 1950s armchair is French.

I may not have hired an interior designer, but I found plenty of advice from every furniture dealer in town. Often they told me I was nuts, but sometimes I got an astonished look of approval—such as for a set of rusted iron armchairs I fished out of the city's junkyard. I brought them to an auto-body shop, where the perplexed mechanics promptly told me that they definitely could not paint them the same red as my vintage Fiat Cinquecento. But they did.

A 1970s Italian walnut desk from Flair Milano, a 1940s French chair, and a 1950s Italian sconce in the home office.

I continue to make tweaks, rearranging furniture and adding new chairs as my whims change. And although we all love neat, happy endings, my husband and I are currently engaged in a full terrace renovation to repair a leaking floor, among other homeowner snafus. The familiar Italian-style chaos of no timetables, insecure budgets, canceled meetings, and no note-taking is with us once again. But this time, I plan to fully flirt my way through the entire project.

The terrace, planted with jasmine and rosemary, offers a view of the 16th-century Chiesa di San Barnaba e Paolo and the 1950s Torre Velasca; Martin found the chairs at a local junkyard.

PUBLISHED IN ELLE DECOR ITALIA AND ELLE DECORATION CHINA.