Updates to the Living Room

As more people hear about The William Morris Project (thank you to all who are spreading the word) I realized that the biggest mess around here is my blog! If someone were to stop by via link to one of my William Morris posts, their first thought would undoubtedly be, “Huh?” I have no explanation, no links to previous posts, and no way for regular readers to track what I’ve done.

Oops!

I’ve also done a few projects around the house and don’t have a picture to show for my work. Double oops!

Take the living room, for example.

A few weeks ago I uploaded these images to Craigslist because, as my list so clearly states, I wanted to sell the mid century china cabinet we used in the dining room. Except we moved it into the living room to break up the world largest expanse of blank wall. Likewise with the two framed photographs.

I moved the cabinet from the dining room to the living room and then straight out the door to strangers from Burbank. See how I did that without any photographic documentation?

We have rugs now, too. More things to mark off the list without documentation! I’ll talk about the large, beautiful flat-weave that I refused to settle on another day, but suffice to say we kicked it into gear when Mikey looked around the room after all the Christmas decorations were gone and said, “I’m sad. This house looks lonely and empty.”

A shot to the heart, but only more so because he was right. With just two chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa, voices echoed off the floors and walls. It looked like someone was moving in or moving out, but not living here. Enter the large rug. For our anniversary we bought a Koldby from IKEA.

People have strong opinions about cowhides. They either love them, hate them, or think they are trendy. I can see all viewpoints, but they remind me my childhood. Being from Argentina, they were ubiquitous in our home. My mom has three on the walls in her office alone. I do think it’s funny they are so popular now. Crazy, when I think of how many people in high school and college teased me about them.

For now, our living room looks like this.

I had plans to sell this other china cabinet on Craigslist, too, but once the mid century cabinet left, I knew I had to put something in its place, at least temporarily. It will be a while before we can afford to replace it, but right now I am debating between an upright piano (I played for 11 years) or a low sitting set of bookshelves with an assortment of family pictures on top. Similar to this, but not quite so cluttered.

On Sunday, after my solitary walk, I went home feeling inspired. I unloaded the IKEA china cabinet and put everything on the dining room table. (Picture it, because I forgot to take a picture.) Then, the Mister and I moved the cabinet to its placeholder position and I spent the better part of an hour fiddle-faddling with the contents.

The bucket of white flowers is 12 years old. The vase and obscenely large candle stick (I mean, really) is around 7 years old.

Not willing to spend one red cent but aware of the decorating lesson I had just learned, I went around the house and tried to find accessories, which I generally loathe. Don’t get me wrong, I like accessories and think they make a house look homey. I just find most of them are insincere or staged for me. It’s a bit like wearing red lipstick. It looks good on everyone else, but when I do it I feel like I’m playing in my mom’s makeup drawer.

Basically, the story we have here is of a woman who was once timid, but now isn’t. She was once rushed, looking to make things work, but is now willing to wait until she finds just the right thingamabob to pretty up the coffee table. (Most likely books, rocks, and plants or a terrarium.) Also, she lives with people with severe allergies and is still looking for a candle that won’t make someone sneeze or get itchy, runny eyes. The odds aren’t looking good.

I have such plans for that large corner in the window. I see a round library or tea table stacked with books, plants, a vintage bust (I’ve always wanted one!), or even a globe. I thought this globe was snazzy, and didn’t even balk at the price. This project taught me to buy for life, and therefore prices aren’t as intimidating anymore. Only cheaply made, disposable items should have a too good to be true price, and that’s because you need to account for buying items two and three times over before you learn your lesson. If I loved it enough to buy it, I would save my money, sell items I don’t love or need, and wait until I could afford the darn globe. If it’s gone by the time I can buy it, it wasn’t meant to be. That’s neither here nor there, unfortunately, because I think the globe is too big. I would need something more petite for the size table I can fit in that corner. That’s okay–that gives me more room for a freaky bust!

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This post was part of The William Morris Project, a weekly series that details the steps I am taking to create an intentional home. You can see more of my goals and completed projects here. To learn more about this project, start here.

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Now it’s your turn! Feel free to share how you have lived according to the William Morris quote, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Made a plan? Cleaned a drawer? Bought a sofa? Let’s hear it with a link or in the comments.

A few guidelines:

1. Please link to a specific post, not a general blog address.
2. No links to giveaways, please.
3. A link back to this site is always appreciated. There are buttons to add to your post or sidebar, too, thanks to the lovely Alex, of Type A Calligraphy. Just copy the code and insert into your blog post or sidebar while in html mode.
4. Let’s use this weekly link up as an opportunity to gather inspiration and motivation. Click links. Discover new people. Say hi and good job. I know I will.

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Vignettes

Late Sunday morning was so nice. I had to run an errand, and though it would take me nowhere near our downtown, I asked the Mister if he would mind if I left him with the (sick) boys while I walked around and looked at antiques. He just rolled his eyes and said, “Please. You don’t have to ask. Go and have fun. Just don’t do anything crazy, like shabby chic.”

I pointed out that I don’t like shabby chic interiors so it wasn’t a risk. He then claimed I once sent him an email with a picture of a thrifted dresser spray-painted and made to look “chippy.” Men remember the oddest things. “Don’t forget to buy blue cheese” goes in one ear and out the other, but an email from several years ago about a white dresser? That gets burned into the brain.

I walked around all my favorite shops–not one carrying Rachel Ashwell–and had such a wonderful time by myself. I’m normally with the boys, or on rare occasions, friends. It can be hard to shop with children, of course, but the same can be said of shopping with friends. It was nice to linger at my own pace, speaking to no one, and hover over displays I loved without worrying about dawdling or keeping someone else entertained.

When I went to Campy Mighty, Nicole and I later went shopping on the furniture strip in Palm Springs. We went into one store that had the most amazing candle burning. I would have bought one, but the store that carried them was closed on Sundays. I haven’t been able to find a candle I like as much since, though a part of me worries that the memory of this candle exceeds the reality. I was pretty excited about the Flora Exotica candle, above, with its alluring packaging of black and gold and floral, but no. It’s scent is primarily honeysuckle, a smell I loathe. And so the memory of the Palm Springs candle glows brightly. To my husband: the only way I could have been less subtle is if I had I printed out this post, wrapped it around an anvil, and dropped it on your head from a second story window. Mother’s Day is in May.

The takeaway from my window shopping, aside from honeysuckle and lilac remaining my least favorite scents, is that our home lacks vignetting. You walk into some of these stores, and you are pulled in by the most interesting displays. They unfold as if the store houses characters in a book. In this corner lives Ruth, who likes to read cookbooks in bed, prefers her hand soap to smell like rosemary, and collects crockery–always in cream. Magda is agnostic but adores religious folk art, Santos dolls, and lights a Saint Jude veladora before her weekend meditations because (1) it reminds her of her grandmother and (2) sometimes she feels her love life is a bit of a desperate case. Across the aisle stands Jane. She likes bright, pure colors (all of them), cooks semi-homemade, and throws the best parties because she never tries to make everything perfect.

It hit me, in that big store full of characters I would like to meet, that decorating is just another form of storytelling.

Unstyled Life

I’m going to try and return the Unstyled Life posts to the format I originally intended: unstyled images of beauty around the house and home with little accompanying text. It started as a way for me to not fret so much about the “work in progress” status of our home. Over time, the posts morphed into essays on life, both serious and frivolous. I will continue to write, I couldn’t possibly stop if I tried, but I won’t do it on Fridays. Right now, my heart says I am pushing myself too hard. Not the way professional working mothers must push themselves, since I bring it on myself as my own commandante. I don’t pretend to shoulder your demands, but I feel a hard shove from behind nonetheless. My hat’s off to you. I need to slow down and think and hear and see without attaching to it a to-do list. I’m doing a wonderful job at creating an intentional home. Now I need to be a little more intentional about how I live within those walls. It is possible to drown in a glass of water.

Yes, that is the new table. I took this from the sofa while I gave Mikey a practice spelling test. I thought the light was pretty, and it was only after I took the picture that I noticed I never put the candlestick back after lunch or shelved my 30 year-old copy of Jane Eyre after finding it the laundry room. I didn’t feel bad about it, either. I closed my eyes and dozed instead, for just a few minutes, before I got up to make dinner.

Too Much Storage

A welcome effect of living by the William Morris quote and creating an intentional home is that eventually you reach a point where you have too much storage. I know, crazy-talk, but unless you live in a home without closets, it is possible. Possible with sweat equity and capital, but possible nonetheless.

Take the Leksvik, for example. We kept this in our dining room to store many things. Last week we finally bought a dining room table (hurray!) and that meant there was no longer room for what officially became the clutter-catcher. No matter, since I already had it placed on Craigslist. I knew by looking through its cluttered glass doors that whatever it contained I could keep more organized somewhere else. I moved it to the back porch and hoped for the best. As luck would have it, someone offered to buy Leksvik only two days later. SOLD!

They gave me two hours notice on the coldest, windiest day of the season, but beggars can’t be choosers. I thought I could tackle the Great-Clutter Catcher Purge of 2012! before they arrived, but it was so cold and windy I was afraid all the loose photographs and paper would go flying.

Also, I didn’t feel like it. It looked like a lot of work.

I put everything inside an old laundry basket and placed it in the living room. Then I wiped everything down and gave Leksvik a quick polish. You so want to buy furniture off me on Craigslist. I pretty them up like they’re on their way to their first day of school.

The laundry basket of clutter stayed in my living room for only 24 hours before I sat down to toss/donate/keep.

[Pause. Wait for applause.]

I separated everything into groups, too. Both cookbooks went into a kitchen pile. I had an unusual amount of Christmas items, so those went into a pile, too.

Oddly enough, this introverted recluse who hates to socialize owns an obscene amount of party supplies. I like the idea of parties, or so it would seem.

That’s it! It took me less than an hour to place everything (haphazardly) in their new homes. This was good. I planned to tackle my wrapping paper storage issues, so I’m glad I was able to first uncover the last of the hidden supplies.

I can’t end the post with such a mediocre image, so I thought I’d share something else I found during the Great Clutter-Catcher Purge of 2012!

It’s a picture of the Mister when he was Nicholas’s age. I can really see the resemblance. People often say Nicholas looks like me, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve always thought he looks just like my husband.

Now it’s your turn! Feel free to share how you have lived according to the William Morris quote, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Made a plan? Cleaned a drawer? Bought a sofa? Let’s hear it with a link or in the comments.

A few guidelines:

1. Please link to a specific post, not a general blog address.
2. No links to giveaways, please.
3. A link back to this site is always appreciated. There are buttons to add to your post or sidebar, too, thanks to the lovely Alex, of Type A Calligraphy. Just copy the code and insert into your blog post or sidebar while in html mode.
4. Let’s use this weekly link up as an opportunity to gather inspiration and motivation. Click links. Discover new people. Say hi and good job. I know I will.

<div align=”center”><a href=”http://pancakesandfrenchfries.com” title=”Pancakes and French Fries”><img src=”http://www.pancakesandfrenchfries.com/banners/useful_beautiful_wreath_375sq.jpg” alt=”Pancakes and French Fries” style=”border:none;” /></a></div>

<div align=”center”><a href=”http://pancakesandfrenchfries.com” title=”Pancakes and French Fries”><img src=”http://www.pancakesandfrenchfries.com/banners/useful_beautiful_wreath_125sq.jpg” alt=”Pancakes and French Fries” style=”border:none;” /></a></div>

 

Unstyled Life

On Wednesday afternoon I danced along the fine edge of parenthood we all have, the one that separates the parent you can be from the fallible adult you are. I do a fair job keeping my foibles and neuroses from affecting the way I parent. Like almost everyone else, I keep out that which I don’t want them to model with the help of a self-made retaining wall–but the Hero of Haarlem is proof that doesn’t always work. What you try to keep out will find a crack and trickle in. As a parent, it’s my job to see the leak and plug it.

I was helping Mikey with his picture of an allosaurus attacking a triceratops when Nicholas reached across the coffee table and reached for the pastels. He wanted them because he watched me explain to Mikey how they work, how you can shade and blend and mix to make color progressions and all around awesomeness.

“Nicholas, please don’t. Use your crayons, please.” He looked disappointed; he wanted to be like his big brother. I wanted to avoid a mess; I didn’t want them to get on the carpet or sofa. I didn’t want them to break or wear down. He reached for them again, and I sighed.

“Nicholas,” and I paused, trying to think of a nice way to say don’t touch my stuff. I couldn’t figure out a way to say please don’t touch my pastels from college, the ones I used one semester 19 years ago, the ones we found last summer buried under decades worth of memories in your grandparent’s storage unit. Please don’t touch those.

I felt ashamed.

Search for cracks. Find the leak. Plug the dyke.

When we were kids, my youngest brother and I used to roshambo over who would swipe the knife across a new tub of margarine. Neither one of us wanted to do it–it looked nice and new and pretty with it’s little dollop on top. After the first swipe, we could care less. Smart Balance for everyone! But there was something about that first swipe. Same thing with new clothing, or socks and underwear. I used to buy what I needed and then continue to wear my ratty t-shirts and socks into oblivion. I wanted my new stuff to stay new as long as possible. I thought I was over that silliness but, so it would seem, pastels bring out the cray-cray in me.

“You know what, Nicholas, go ahead and use the pastels. Use the q-tips and cotton balls like mama showed Mikey. And use these, too. These are called oil pastels, and you can blend them with your fingers.”

A happy Nicholas started coloring, and Mikey continued outlining his picture of a dinosaur, and I got up to stretch my back and crack my knees because sitting on the floor to color for more than an hour is almost as hard as parenting. The picture of Nicholas and me dancing underneath a layer of pastels (and crayons and pencils and charcoal) is worth the achy joints.