Designed to Live

Interior decorating is a funny discipline to me. Is it art or is it an excuse to acquire? If a man’s home is his castle, are what he puts in it his vassals? And if so, how much is too much? Or not enough?
Flipping through Architectural Digest and Elle Décor has become somewhat of a bore. I used to thoroughly enjoy going through them, seeing the interesting ways in which people decorate their homes. Taking it all with a grain of salt has been par for the course, because taking any of it seriously would mean I’m slightly braindead, because to get your house into one of these yarns is to blatantly showcase one’s entitlement. Yet where it once was amusingly wacky, as of late, going through the pages has become somewhat revolting. Every home is a duplicate of the next, filled to the brim with tchotchkes and du jour boughie must haves, which clearly have no relation to the owner of the house. (Do children comfortably sleep in bizarrely shaped beds, with priceless pieces of art hanging above their heads? How does one think and move with bright colours at every turn and an object at every step? And who in their right mind is going to get cozy watching a movie on a sofa that’s all angles?) What’s more the ever growing army of interior designers who specialise in this, that and the other thing, are merely facsimiles themselves—glorified shoppers, if you will. With this mono-commodification of interior design, the sliver of reputable artistic skill attributed to it, is obliterated in the vortex of keeping-up-with-the-Jones mass consumerism. A pity really, because I believe how you decorate your home says a lot about who you are. It is one of the few canvases where we humans can wildly display ourselves without judgement.
I look around my apartment and am grateful. One, I have a safe, warm place to live, two, there’s an abundance of light. Over the years I’ve been fortunate enough to live in my apartment, the place has taken many incarnations. First, there was the scarcely lived space (I was so intimidated by New York City I lived in bedroom) of blue and red carpeting for the bedroom and living room respectively, all my landlord could afford at the time. The kitchen and the bathroom were in their original state, and only a few key light fixtures were replaced. All was good, until I had my first big break-up. I then hated the place and wanted everything to change, and over the course of nearly a year, my landlord allowed me to make changes to the apartment. First, came a total repainting of the of the apartment. Next, I got rid of the college age furniture, getting a proper kitchen table set, and living room lounger: the inimitable Poang chair. As my beloved Aunt’s had bequeathed me their old leather furniture from Roche Bobois, my Poang had to be leather too. After these minor changes, the flat felt more like mine, yet not quite. So, when the oven completely died, with my landlord offering to replace it and the refrigerator, I thought it was time to go big or go home. Unemployed, therefore with time on my hands, I took out the carpet, the ancient tiles underneath and with the help of a dear neighbour contractor, put in wood floors in the living and bedrooms, and black and white checkered tiles in the kitchen and hallway. To complete it all, I created makeshift shelves above the kitchen cabinets for more storage. I now had the space to happily cook the glorious meals my ex scoffed at. Let me tell you, this was massive facelift, and just in time too, because it was around this time I found out my ex had a baby with the woman he left me for.
I’ve always had a thing for books and music. Like a huge thing. When I’d drive back to college every year, my little hatchback was filled mostly with cases holding my CD’s. Those cases followed me to the Big Apple and it took me well over a decade to update their resting place from cheap chipboard bookshelves to proper CD size shelves. Now, proudly posed caddy-corner to my wall of book they stand. And my books, they are my babies, the hundreds of babies which when I have to move I shall have boxed in a separate shipping container. They have been safely housed for the duration of my time in this apartment, in super sturdy floor to ceiling bookshelves that my mother once had. These shelves are immovable objects, and when I paint the apartment, all books must be removed to shift them. My books are arguably the greatest loves of my life—second only to my CD collection—and probably the most insight a visitor will have into my personality.
My apartment is not bare, but it’s not chock-a-block packed. On my white walls are framed photographs and art print reproductions. My lighting fixtures are sleek, black minimal metal pieces, and my liquor cabinet is an inherited large antique teak Asian armoire. My kitchen table set is a retro 1950’s dining set, that sits brightly under the window next to the floating shelf of my much used cookbooks. Green abounds my flat, from vine plants cascading from bookshelves, to bushy whatsits on tables and in corners. My workspace is tucked in the corner of my living room, giving me a grand view of life outside, through the large light giving windows. Am I Scandi-chic, or boho-minimalist? I couldn’t tell you. I simply know who I am and have known through every up and down of my wicked life. For instance, about eight years ago, unemployed and grasping for stability, I got a secondhand bed frame with a headboard to prove I was a grown-up. Only to move into my Mum’s a couple of months later. My home is a mix-up, mash-up of second buys, New York City street finds and giveaways from my Aunt’s and Mum, and yet it is my holy sanctuary. A sacred space in a hostile city that allows me to be me. I must not lie, as wonderful as my house is, there is still something missing. I’m due for another reno and I really want this one to be a life-changer. One that no thing makes whole, but a sentiment.
My home has evolved with me without a fat checkbook or so-and-so to tell me where to place things, yet I acknowledge the immense privilege of having a canvas. I keep this in my heart and mind as I grow, because being mindful of the space I occupy and what’s in it, is being mindful of the greater world outside my doorstep.

Image: D'Arenberg Cube, McLaren Vale, SA, Australia