Christmas Comes Early

I was at a newish friend’s house for the first time and we were chatting when out of nowhere she asked if I was any good at art placement.

‘Not bad,’ I answered. (So long as you don’t look at the misguided holes in the dry wall behind the frames.)

She explained that she’d just painted the den and wanted to mix things up. ‘How about furniture placement?’ she asked.

I tried not to jump up. Rearranging rooms is my crack. Completely untrained in interior design, nothing makes me happier than lovingly changing the house whenever I’m home alone for a semi-extended period of time. It drives Keith, my spouse, insane.

Whatever.

Over four decades of work travel, he’s just grown to accept that pulling out his suitcase means coming home to new wall colors (named by stoned marketing executives— Goldeny Fields Forever, Desultory Desert Rose) applied (well-enough) by me. A hand-crafted toy chest made by his grandfather may also have been repurposed into a coffee table, the antique pine highchair made by the same craftsman has suddenly become a plant holder in the sunny dining room.

In my own defense, it’s not an unhealthy hobby. (Unless, of course, you’re the person who is always stubbing his toe on the-ever migrating rocking chair.)

Truthfully in terms of an emotional assessment, I will admit there have been a few occasions when I invested hours trying varying permutations of landscapes and portraits on the gallery wall only to wonder when I collapsed on the sofa to examine my work if perhaps everything wasn’t right back where it started. (It’s a little ‘out, out damned spot-ish’.)

But again, whatever.

Revamping the domicile reminds me of three-dimensional writing. Developing recognizable themes in a home is the same as crafting coherent sentences on a page. Only it’s tangible. You can actually feel it. (Also, it takes way less time.)

By casually draping a creamy chenille throw over the comfortable old recliner and then pushing it to the corner under a cozy lamp, exchanging addresses with a previously ignored loveseat used for overflow coats, and voila! the dynamics of the space have undergone a complete transformation. It’s a new room.

When writing, you subtly choose how to highlight a particular character over another. You don’t make a ridiculous scene of showcasing him (unless, of course, that’s who he is — DJT I’m looking at you). No altars are needed for your grandmother’s wonderful hutch, just move it so it’s no longer semi-obscured by the swinging kitchen door. Which chair looks best in conversation with the inherited velvet sofa? The polished antique oak or the shabby chic pale green? Are complimentary pillows enough to tie them together? The pieces shouldn’t run off in opposite directions.

Decorating your space is about curating eye candy. What’s the first thing you see? What are you displaying? Where? How? Why? Does it make you happy? Someone else? Is the effect soothing? Are hues related or are they possibly reflecting undiagnosed color blindness? Is there a story being told by the collections huddling on the shelf or is it more of a hodgepodge of items with unknown provenance? Which is fine — just dangerous. (Think: word getting out that your parents are out of town for the weekend. All sorts of ne’er-do-wells can find their way in.)

Also, FYI, nothing has to be expensive. (A lot of our treasures come from the Salvation Army.) It just has to be special for one reason or another.

To feed my addiction I have joined several home decorating Facebook pages. Basically people post photos of their painstakingly designed French country living rooms. Then other members send emojis of adoration or one liners that must be like stakes through the hearts of my landsmen.

‘Little OTT, don’t you think?

’

They’re like a bunch of mean-spirited editors.

Anyway, back to my friend. Seeing how up for it I was she said everything was on the table. So to speak. We began to play 52 card pick-up with gorgeous furniture and pieces of art. ‘Where should this go?’ she asked, pointing to a heavy bookcase.

Is this a dream? I wondered.

When I got home hours later, I told Keith about my Christmas miracle. The most fun I’ve had in ages, I declared. He was appalled.

‘You went to somebody else’s house and rearranged their furniture?’

‘She asked me to!’

Later, after his horror subsided he mentioned that perhaps my well-spent afternoon will have curbed my itch for a while.

He’s going on another trip soon. We’ll see.