Emily Eerdmans’s gallery was once a cult secret among New York’s design cognoscenti. Tucked beneath a landmarked 1838 townhouse in Greenwich Village, the art gallery-slash- interiors emporium was unmarked and ivy-hidden. That all changed this year. Up went a bold metal plaque (“EERDMANS”), and in waltzed a parade of chintz-masked patrons: Eerdmans had rented half the building, and now anyone jonesing for demilune consoles, whimsical oil sketches, or throw pillows painted to look like pugs can trip effortlessly into her taffeta-curtained world.
The East 10th Street entrance also now leads, unusually, to Eerdmans’s living quarters. In the early months of