The Knowing Blandness of the ‘Dream Home Makeover’ Aesthetic

Welcome to Home Watching, a column about the wild and wooly world of renovation television from a self-proclaimed expert in the genre.

Much like pornography, you know a Studio McGee interior when you see it. Shea McGee, the brains behind the operation, who infamously started her company after gaining a following posting her first home’s remodel on Instagram, favors varying shades of white, accented with neutrals and natural materials. Color is off limits, unless it’s dark gray, black, or, on occasion, a deep, deep navy or evergreen. The ceilings are often white, adorned with reclaimed wood beams, and if the space allows, vaulted. The McGees favor ceramics, rough-hewn wood, and have never met a sheepskin rug they didn’t like. When viewed in aggregate, the aesthetic is unsatisfactory mostly in that it is unremarkable, especially in the kind of interiors the McGees often work with—massive new builds, where the entire house is a blank canvas, ready to be designed in Shea’s exacting aesthetic vision. 

Nowhere is this more evident than in the home of Liz and Neil, the couple featured in the third episode of Netflix’s Dream Home Makeover, which is now in its third season. The clients in question are repeat customers; the McGees worked on their Park City home, and have been tapped to lend their magic touch to their second home in Southern California, which appears to be just as big as the first. Liz and Neil have three children and are unfathomably wealthy, though what they do is never mentioned. It’s in this space that the McGees define their aesthetic vision—"upscale Napa farmhouse," Shea says, which sounds more like a marketing term than an actual design choice.

What this translates to is large architectural gestures that convey wealth—vaulted ceilings in the kitchen and the living room, a "wine room" with built-in bookshelves that meet the ceiling, and other flourishes that speak to the vast amounts of money this couple must have to maintain their bonus home. It’s not that any of these design choices are anywhere close to hideous, per se—Studio McGee’s signature look is quieter than the Property Brothers, but more sophisticated that Chip and Joanna Gaines’s farmhouse chic. Staged as they are, though, the spaces designed by Studio McGee lack any discernible personality. Children get giant bedrooms with queen-size beds; every kitchen has an enormous island, whether or not the space actually needs it. (While most kitchens could use an island, not every space needs one. Understanding this difference is crucial.)

There’s nothing particularly of interest for me in Studio McGee’s most high-end designs. (Their Target line, which includes this very nice quilt, is much more my speed.) But despite this fact, I’ve watched every available episode of their show, usually in one sitting. What is interesting about the third season, which recently started streaming, is that the McGees have crossed a very specific home renovation reality TV rubicon, where they are now being sought out by people who have seen what they can do on TV and want it for themselves. It’s this difference that makes the show that much more interesting; watching human beings settle into their roles as commodities is always a trip. Shea and her husband Syd are striving to be personalities much like Ben and Erin Napier and Chip and Joanna Gaines are, but because Netflix lacks HGTV’s oomph, they have the space to experiment with their public-facing personalities, as the stakes are lower.  

Luckily, though, their dynamic as a couple and as business partners still has a little edge to it, which is likely a virtue of being on Netflix rather than HGTV. Syd McGee, the husband, often wears an expression in the confessionals that looks like he’s being held hostage, but is sort of okay with it. What he does for the company that bears his name is unclear, but one assumes it is sort of important and likely necessary. (In fact, he’s CEO.) When Shea’s hands are in every single pot, and the results of their renovations are perfectly in step with her conceptions, Syd dreams of a  life in Southern California, on the beach, with early morning surf sessions and bonfires at sunset. Instead, the show jokes, he is chained to his wife’s side, indispensable in a way that is never defined.

But like any good home design show, the real main character is not the couple doing the renovations, but the end results. For the two years that I’ve watched this program, I’ve tried to dial down what one might call this aesthetic, which is both specific and generic—like every other high-end Airbnb listing on the market, or an antiseptic boutique hotel that prides itself on design. But it wasn’t until halfway through this season when one of the McGee’s clients hit the nail on the head. "It’s upscale-looking," a woman says of her newly-renovated basement, which is divided into three clear "zones" meant to delineate what kinds of leisure activities should occur there and why. It’s not quite upscale, but suggestive of it instead, a different kind of new money aesthetic. But if given the choice between Studio McGee’s all-white fantasia and a giant McMansion fit for a Real Housewife of New Jersey, I’d take gold restroom fixtures and Travertine tile any day. At the very least, it’s fun.   

Top photo courtesy of Netflix.

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