The layout centered on compression and contrast. Tall, narrow proportions emphasized just how small this fifth-floor walk-up really is. I leaned into crooked angles, a steep stairwell, and an intentionally awkward window placement—inviting movement, but also reminding us of the couple’s new life squeezed into a less-than-ideal space. The door itself became a recurring player in the comedy, creaking open to let in neighbors, weather, and conflict.
Details mattered. The finishes felt worn but charming—peeling paint, uneven trim, and a makeshift skylight that gives the illusion of space. I wasn’t interested in nostalgia or caricature. This isn’t a perfect mid-century apartment; it’s transitional, in-between, just like the people inside it.
Functionally, the scenic design needed to serve physical comedy without turning the space into a cartoon. Every ledge, window, and door was measured against the rhythm of the script. When Corie and Paul fight, the set closes in. When they reconnect, it softens—without changing a thing.
For me, scenic design is about building a container for behavior. In Barefoot in the Park, that meant creating a space where love, frustration, and vulnerability could all play out—sometimes in the same beat. The apartment doesn’t just hold the action. It shapes it.
