I’m scrupulously studying my living room over the screen of my laptop. My eyes dart from my living room to the screen, from the screen to my living room. It’s Friday night and my friends just bailed on girl’s night, so now I’m sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine and my laptop trolling my usual circuit of design blogs.
How is it that the innate style virus that so many people seem to have caught, has passed me over? I look at the room; it’s ruthlessly edited. There is almost nothing in my house that I do not like. And yet, it lacks, for want of more specific terms, the quirky and effortless charm of so many people’s homes that I see in magazines and on design blogs I stalk like an old boyfriend. I look at the screen and see apartment after apartment, room after room, amounting to the spatial equivalent of Jennifer Aniston’s hair: carelessly tossed back in that “Oh this? (gestures to sun-kissed mane) I’m haven’t even looked in the mirror today” way. (Groan.)
I’m sure some people look at pictures in fashion magazines and think, “I would never in a million years think to pair red shoes with that outfit, but that girl looks FIERCE.” That’s how I feel when I see someone toss a sheepskin over a Turkish ottoman next to an Eames lounge chair on top of a chevron rug, next to a cracked planter filled with desert succulents on top of a stack of rare books. It’s like: NONE of that should work. And yet, there it is, in the form of house porn. Such is the life of a closet interior design snob.
So how does one cultivate that eclectic I-just-threw-this-together je ne sais quoi without kidnapping the merchandiser from Anthropologie and taking her on a multi-state raid-your-gay-uncle’s-attic-flea-market-vintage-thrift store-shopping binge?