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Eschewing the Ideal
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I just finished reading In the Night Room, an uncharacteristically unscary Peter Straub novel. Despite its lack of Straubian horror I enjoyed the book's storyline and characters and pretty much plowed through it in a little less than a week. (Pretty good considering that I'm still working and preparing for a move.)
While reading, I came across the following lines:
Of itself, this sentiment really isn't all that spectacular, but I found it to be a nice little summation of the way both Steffi and I feel about interior decoration and architecture.
As mentioned in my last entry, the two of us are spending the weekend in our new Blacksburgian home -- which still contains a lot of the current residents' personal effects. Among those (that we feel comfortable accessing) are three recent issues of Dwell Magazine, a periodical dedicated to creative architecture, design, and living. We're into that sort of thing (or at least the idea of creative living) and so we've spent a couple of hours poring over pictures of upscale homes and discussing the pros and cons of each building's interior features.
Both of us, however, had to admit that, while we found most of the imagery rather appealing and attractive, there were very few instances of interior decoration that we would choose for ourselves. The fact is, the pictures in Dwell are inspiring, but they're also off-puttingly sterile and ideal. It's almost as if the house's owner and/or designer eventually expects to see his or her creation in a museum of modern art (or in a photo spread for a trendy magazine, perhaps?) one day.
Scrutinizing one particular photo of an impressively bright and airy living room, Steffi and I must have spent five minutes trying to figure out where one might put down a glass of water -- only to realize that there was no good place for books, teacups, framed pictures, etc. -- i.e., all the things that make life...well...life.
So, like Straub's protagonist in In the Night Room, give me a little mess and a nice helping of texture. Perfection is just a little too scary.
While reading, I came across the following lines:
I want no part of the ideal, I want nothing to do with it. I've seen what it does to people. Give me the messy, unperfect world any day.
Of itself, this sentiment really isn't all that spectacular, but I found it to be a nice little summation of the way both Steffi and I feel about interior decoration and architecture.
As mentioned in my last entry, the two of us are spending the weekend in our new Blacksburgian home -- which still contains a lot of the current residents' personal effects. Among those (that we feel comfortable accessing) are three recent issues of Dwell Magazine, a periodical dedicated to creative architecture, design, and living. We're into that sort of thing (or at least the idea of creative living) and so we've spent a couple of hours poring over pictures of upscale homes and discussing the pros and cons of each building's interior features.
Both of us, however, had to admit that, while we found most of the imagery rather appealing and attractive, there were very few instances of interior decoration that we would choose for ourselves. The fact is, the pictures in Dwell are inspiring, but they're also off-puttingly sterile and ideal. It's almost as if the house's owner and/or designer eventually expects to see his or her creation in a museum of modern art (or in a photo spread for a trendy magazine, perhaps?) one day.
Scrutinizing one particular photo of an impressively bright and airy living room, Steffi and I must have spent five minutes trying to figure out where one might put down a glass of water -- only to realize that there was no good place for books, teacups, framed pictures, etc. -- i.e., all the things that make life...well...life.
So, like Straub's protagonist in In the Night Room, give me a little mess and a nice helping of texture. Perfection is just a little too scary.
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