I used to think staging a Victorian brownstone was just about hiding the peeling wallpaper.
Turns out, the whole enterprise is way more complicated than that—like, existentially complicated. You’re trying to sell someone a fantasy of living with history, except most people don’t actually want to live with history’s inconveniences: the radiators that clank like prisoner chains, the windowsills painted over so many times they won’t close properly, the bathroom where you have to choose between a shower and preserving the original claw-foot tub. I spent an afternoon with a staging consultant in Philadelphia who specializes in properties built before 1900, and she kept using this phrase: “emotional authenticity.” Which sounds like marketing nonsense until you realize she’s talking about a real tension—buyers want to feel like they’re purchasing something meaningful, something with a story, but they also want USB outlets and open-concept kitchens.
The median home built before 1920 sells for roughly 15-18% less than comparable newer construction in the same neighborhood, according to data from the National Association of Realtors. That gap narrows significantly when the staging is done right. Here’s the thing: “right” doesn’t mean what you’d expect.
I guess the biggest mistake people make is trying to erase every trace of age. They’ll rip out the original hardwoods—actually original, like 1880s oak with hand-cut nails—and replace them with that grayish laminate that’s supposed to look expensive but just looks like every other house on Zillow. Or they’ll paint over carved door frames in flat white because someone read that neutrality sells. Honestly, it’s depressing.
When Crown Molding Becomes a Liabilty and Other Spatial Paradoxes
Wait—maybe I’m being too harsh.
There’s a legitimate problem here, which is that a lot of historic details read as “cluttered” to contemporary eyes. Crown molding, picture rails, wainscoting, built-in hutches—these features were designed for rooms filled with stuff, for an era when maximalism was just called “decorating.” Modern staging philosophy says keep it minimal, let the space breathe, but in a 1910 Craftsman bungalow, all that breathing room just makes the place feel empty and weird, like a museum after hours. I’ve seen stagers solve this by going halfway: they’ll keep the original plate rail but style it with exactly three carefully chosen objects instead of the seventy-five commemorative plates it was built to hold. It’s a compromise, sort of. The room gets to keep its character without looking like your great-aunt’s estate sale.
The lighting situation is even trickier. Historic homes were built for different light sources—gas, then early electric fixtures that gave off maybe 40 watts if you were lucky. The rooms are darker, the windows are often smaller than modern building codes would allow. You can’t just throw in some recessed LEDs without destroying the ceiling medallions, but you also can’t expect buyers to accept living in perpetual twilight.
The Uncomfortable Economics of Preserving What Nobody Actually Wants to Preserve
Some stagers use a trick where they bring in reproduction vintage fixtures—like convincing replicas of 1920s sconces—but wire them with modern LED bulbs and dimmer switches. It’s historically inaccurate in a way that would make preservationists wince, but it works. The space feels authentic enough without requiring buyers to imagine themselves reading by candlelight or whatever.
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable: a lot of “character” is just old problems we’ve romanticized. Those wavy glass windowpanes everyone loves? They’re beautiful, sure, but they’re also thermally inefficient and sometimes contain lead. Original plaster walls have texture and depth that drywall can’t match, but they also crack, crumble, and definately weren’t designed to hold modern TVs. When you’re staging, you’re essentially asking buyers to overlook functional deficiencies becuase of aesthetic value, which is a tough sell in a market where people expect everything to just work.
I talked to a buyer in Brooklyn who’d just closed on an 1890s rowhouse—she loved the original pocket doors, the marble fireplace surrounds, all of it. But she also spent $60,000 in the first year updating electrical and plumbing that the staging had cleverly concealed behind period-appropriate furniture arrangements. She doesn’t regret it, exactly. But she’s tired.
The most successful staging I’ve seen doesn’t try to hide the age or pretend the house is something it’s not—it just finds ways to make the old stuff feel intentional instead of neglected. Fresh paint in colors that actually existed in the era (not builder’s beige). Rugs that acknowledge the floor plan’s weirdness instead of fighting it. Furniture scaled for rooms that were built when people were, on average, several inches shorter. It’s not about choosing between character and modernization. It’s about staging a conversation between them, and hoping the buyer wants to continue it.
