THERE IS SOMETHING utterly charming about John Derian’s eclectic Manhattan apartment. It is one of those fascinating spaces where one could get lost for hours in another world—a world where French armchairs and Italian armoires co-exist, where a Swedish wall and Transylvanian linens intermingle comfortably side by side. There is a 19th-century canopy bed, open shelves filled with 18th-21st-century dishware, scatterings of area rugs and a well-worn chesterfield, oil paintings and other artwork, moody grey walls and plenty of wood, all bathed in a smokey, dusky light…
