I know of people who buy houses, consult the interior designer or visit a furniture store, and order perfect rooms. I am not one of those people. With the exception of a 20-year-old sofa and loveseat, all of my furniture came to me as hand-me-downs, gifts, or flee-market finds reworked by my artisan father.
Struggling with the Buddhist idea of nonattachment, I feel a bit odd focusing on my apartment. It seems materialistic to think, “I need a new iron-based coffee table” or “I need twin red-shaded lamps for my antique dressing table.” But, our surroundings dictate so much of our days and nights. Our homes provide sanctuary, inspiration, and the backdrop of our memories. Superficial or not, I’m giving myself permission to think about my space.
When I moved into an upstairs apartment in a divided house built in the 1850’s, I was delighted with its wooden floors, its clawfoot tub, its two fireplaces with mantels to decorate, its high ceilings, and its spacious rooms and rambling hallway. My mother took one look at the place and burst into tears. Later, I heard her on the phone with my grandmother, saying, “Well, she says she likes the place.” And, I did! It had character, and its funky, uneven walls had been covered over so often with paint and wallpapers that I felt nothing I did would hurt the place. For the first time in my adult life, I had carte blanche and a couple of friends with paint rollers. I created a pumpkin kitchen, a purple bathroom, a sky blue bedroom, and a funky gold living room. My buddy hung my collection of old quilts in the long hallway, and I borrowed a splatter-painted table from a neighbor to use as a desk, facing the window that looked out on much more well-kept single-family historic homes in Huntsville, Alabama. That experience taught me that my living quarters needed to feed my soul, not fulfill the expectations of others.
Rather than any specific feature, it is the spirit of that place I miss most. My girlfriends nicknamed it “The Love Shack.” When I threw a party for my ex-husband’s 50th birthday, I filled the aged tub with purple-colored bath salts that turned the water into a pool that matched the walls and topped it with floating flowers. When it was Christmas, I put all my ornaments on a tiny tree and had the only blue lights in a “clear-only” neighborhood. Inspired by neighbors who were writers, actors, harmonica players, and artists, there, I created art, played my out-of-tune piano, and had lots of fun company who braved the rickety stairs for brunch, cake, and Tex-Mex dinners.
Since then I’ve been the only un-retired person in a four-plex in Iowa Park, Texas; I’ve filled the divorce-created blank spots in a mega-house in Boerne; I’ve worked with my interior designer aunt to create a “hookah” room in the 1920’s butler’s pantry of an old house in Waco; and now I’m in a new apartment in Dallas’ Uptown area. It is a lovely, safe, but generic place. But, I love it for its curved doorways, a nice balcony overlooking a fountain, and high ceilings that accommodate the art I’ve collected along the way.
At New Year’s I got further inspiration from a suburban house that had a gothic theme; everywhere you looked there were little vignettes, daring jewel-colored walls, over-sized movie posters, candles, and interesting things to look at! It was “a deep cocoon of private space to gather family and friends” (“Style by the Aisle”). It was definitely not a generic space, created not to offend. It was a personal space that reflected the inhabitants’ hobbies, style, and sense of fun. I made a resolution to carve out the kind of living space that reflected what I loved most: beauty, art, love, and travel.
My current obsession is an interior decorating style called “Paris Salon.” The idea is to “create a dramatic setting for family and friends to inspire discussion and thought,” according to “Better Homes and Gardens’ Style by the Aisle: Off-the-Rack Decorating for Affordable Chic.” In her book, “The Paris Apartment: Romantic Decor on a Flea Market Budget,” Claudia Strasser explains that “The Paris Apartment aesthetic is about meeting all your needs. Your apartment is like a friend or lover: It’s there to help you relax, to cheer you up, to make you feel comfortable, secure, and desirable.”
A couple of projects need my attention. I want to reupholster my great-aunt’s old chair with silky fabric and paint it glossy black. I want to add a red velvet seat to an old stool my mom gave me and paint its short legs with a crackling gold. And, I want to continue collecting and creating art for my walls.
This apartment is my refuge, the place I entertain my friends like Iris who sings operatic arias at my parties, the place I gather my writing circle to read Irish poems on St. Patrick’s day, the place I nap in front of a t.v. showing reruns of “The Saint,” and the place from which I work and in which I create art and writing. I would be the first to discuss the effect of Prague on Kafka, of France on Proust, of North Texas on Larry McMurtry. So, why shouldn’t I pay attention and spend some time on my immediate surroundings?
I have made some progress in my quest to create an apartment that “has real beauty and speaks to [my] soul” (Strasser), but I still have some items on my wish list–a writing desk filled with pretty stationery like the one that haunted the second Mrs. DeWinter in “Rebecca,” faded old Persian rugs, ancient candleabra, antique mirrors, and a hat rack on which I can hang a fringed scarf and my leopard-skin purse. It’s okay that the apartment isn’t perfect or finished or suitable for anyone else. After all, your home reflects the real you, and I am perpetually a work in progress.
“Salon Style fills walls from floor to ceiling with paintings, books, and travel souvenirs” (“Style by the Aisle”).
“Let your essential self–the fanciful, erotic, or outrageous personality you may hide from others–make your decorating decisions” (Strasser).
Prone to Wander 