A Room of One’s Own. Or, Martha Stewart’s Nightmare
I spend every Christmas with my family in New England. Spending time in Rhode Island and Connecticut has become a ready retreat from the noise and bustle of Chicago. And upon every arrival, I am greeted by my old, beloved bedroom, which, consistently, is switched around every time I visit and always offers a new surprise piece of furniture or decoration.
I am writing this to document this space at this moment, otherwise no one would ever believe me. “Victorian Clutter” is the best way to describe this eclectic and bizarre room, which bears little resemblance to the minimalist / mission style I left it as when I moved out. Traces of what once served as my solitary space can be seen in the mission bed, and mission lamp still there. But the inherent mission style of the bed has been reduced by an early-Americana colonial blanket and multi-colored fleece throw that matches nothing, and couldn’t possibly match anything on earth anyway. The mission lamp rests upon a mission table covered by lace which also matches nothing, especially not the antique table dwelling in the corner, covered by a lime-green blanket with tassles that hang down to the floor. It gets better.
Six windows bear valances of a Renaissance tapestry design, and a ceiling fan which doesn’t work does little to waft the heat of the electric space heater around the room in wintertime. A computer desk bearing large horse figurines and random books and movies is the default centerpeice of the room due to it’s tall hutch. The thin carpet, a lovely hunter green, extends to the four wonderfully preserved and archaic paneled walls. The room is intimate and cozy, and for house guests who wish to play the music of Bach and his predecessors, a harpsichord sits in the far corner, resting quietly. Every bedroom needs a harpsichord, of course.
An Asian water-color painting by the bed compliments the double paintings of a historic Connecticut mansion on the adjacent wall. And of course, no room is complete without windows on every wall. That’s right! Even on the one wall where there shouldn’t be a window, there is, and it goes straight into my sister’s bedroom. Blinds on her side of the window and curtains on my side perpetually block the views for either party, much to the delight of the other party when both rooms are inhabited. This window is usually opened once a year, around the holidays when we’re both home and privately conspiring about Christmas gifts for the parents, and when our next Starbucks run should be.
Basically, my bedroom is a designer’s showcase gone horribly wrong. But I love it. It’s my space, and however the hell it’s decorated, it’s still one of the most pleasant places I could ever want to be. Completely free of stress and worry, my eclectic haven is the perfect getaway. Who knew something as ingeniously incongruent as this space would come together in such a perfect synthesis of harmony? It’s wild, but it works, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
