I used to think upholstering an ottoman was something only professionals could pull off.
Turns out, the whole process is surprisingly forgiving—you can mess up the corners, restitch them, and nobody will ever know unless they literally flip your furniture upside down to inspect your staple work. Which, honestly, says more about your guests than your craftsmanship. The basic structure is simple: you need a base (wood, storage cube, even stacked milk crates if you’re feeling adventurous), foam padding that’s ideally two to four inches thick depending on how firm you want the seating, and fabric that can handle some abuse. Upholstery fabric is rated in double rubs, which measures how many times you can scrape it back and forth before it shows wear—anything above 15,000 double rubs is considered durable for residential use, though I’ve seen people use canvas drop cloths with decent results. The tools are straightforward: a staple gun, scissors, spray adhesive for the foam, and maybe a rubber mallet if your staples need convincing. You don’t need a sewing machine unless you’re adding piping or decorative details, and even then, it’s optional.
Here’s the thing—storage ottomans are probably the most practical version you can build. You’re essentially creating a hinged lid that sits on top of a wooden box, which means you can stash blankets, toys, or that collection of charging cables you keep meaning to organize. The construction starts with building or repurposing a box frame; I’ve seen people use old wooden crates, build simple plywood boxes with butt joints and wood glue, or even repurpose those cube storage units from big-box stores.
The Geometry of Corners and Why They’ll Drive You Slightly Mad
Wait—maybe “mad” is too strong.
Frustrated? Definitely. The corners are where every DIY upholstery project either looks professional or screams “I tried.” The hospital corner technique, borrowed from bed-making, works surprisingly well: you pull the fabric taut across the corner, fold one side down flat against the frame, then fold the adjacent side over it to create a neat diagonal pleat. Some people prefer the gathered method, where you basically bunch the fabric at the corner and staple it down, which creates a softer, more casual look but can get bulky if your fabric is thick. I guess it depends on whether you’re going for tailored or relaxed. The key is working your way around systematically—start by stapling the center of each side, then work outward toward the corners, pulling the fabric tight but not so tight that it compresses the foam unevenly. If you stretch it too much, you’ll see weird puckering or the foam will dimple. Not enough tension, and the whole thing looks saggy within a month.
Tufting Buttons and the Satisfying Violence of Upholstery Needles
Tufted ottomans have that Chesterfield elegance, those deep dimples where buttons pull the fabric down into the foam.
The process is weirdly therapeutic once you get the rhythm down—you thread a long upholstery needle (we’re talking 6 to 10 inches here) with waxed thread or dental floss if you’re in a pinch, push it straight down through the fabric, foam, and base at your marked button location, then pull it back up a half-inch away. You tie off the thread around a button on top and secure the bottom thread to a small washer or another button underneath the base, pulling tight enough to create that characteristic depression. The spacing is usually four to six inches in a grid pattern, though I’ve seen asymmetrical designs that look deliberately chaotic in an interesting way. Here’s what nobody tells you: your fingers will hurt. Those needles require real force to push through multiple layers, and after the third or fourth button, you start questioning your life choices. But then you step back and see how the tufting transforms a plain padded box into something that looks like it costs $400 from a furniture boutique, and suddenly the finger pain seems worth it. The button placement matters more than you’d think—too close together and it looks overwrought, too far apart and it just seems like you gave up halfway.
Fabric Selection and Why Velvet Is Both Perfect and Terrible
Velvet ottomans photograph beautifully.
They catch light in that luxurious way, all depth and texture, and they feel incredible under your hands—soft, almost liquid. But velvet shows every single mark. Every. Single. One. Sit on it and you’ll leave a compressed patch where your weight flattened the pile. Pets? Forget it. Their claws will snag the fibers, and while you can sometimes coax the pile back up with a steamer, it’s never quite the same. I’ve found that cotton canvas or heavyweight linen holds up better for high-traffic use, especially if you have kids who treat furniture as jungle gyms. Leather or faux leather is incredibly practical—wipes clean, ages well, develops character rather than looking worn out—but it requires different techniques since you can’t staple directly through it without the staples eventually tearing through. You need to use tack strips or adhesive, which adds complexity. Patterned fabrics hide stains and wear better than solids, which is why you see so many geometric or floral upholstered pieces in family homes. The pattern direction matters too; if your fabric has a clear up-and-down orientation (called a nap), you need to make sure it’s running the same direction on all sides, or the color will look different depending on the angle of the light.
Salvaging Furniture Bones and the Weird Joy of Thrift Store Archeology
Some of the best ottoman bases come from furniture that’s already lived a life.
I’m talking about old footstools with wobbly legs, coffee tables with damaged tops, even sturdy wooden drawers removed from dressers. You can usually find these for under $20 at estate sales or thrift stores, sometimes free on curbs during bulk trash week. The existing structure gives you a head start—it’s already assembled, joints are (hopefully) still solid, and you’re just refreshing the exterior rather than building from scratch. I once transformed a water-damaged side table into a tufted ottoman by removing the top, adding a plywood cap, and covering the whole thing in a remnant of indigo-dyed denim I’d been hoarding. Cost maybe $35 total, and it’s been in daily use for three years now. The salvage approach also means you’re working with wood that’s already settled and warped if it’s going to, unlike fresh lumber that might still be releasing moisture and shifting. You do need to check for structural soundness—wiggle it aggressively, look for cracks or separation in the joints, make sure there’s no active insect damage or mold. But assuming the bones are good, you’re basically giving something a second act, which feels surprisingly good in a way that buying new materials doesn’t quite match.
