The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Dancing About Architecture

I'm in the mood to write. Be it the way the sun is blazing on my walls, or the chocolate which I let roll on my tongue, or the vanilla, Earl Grey tea I have steaming in the mug to my right, or all of these things, I want to type. Since I took three months away from it during the summer, I feel it's okay to purge.

There are the random thoughts that have been filling my head, like how I am starting to think that the internet might kill artistry by sheer virtue of the fact that no one needs to buy music or art anymore. You want to be a writer? Publish yourself on the internet. Information doesn't need to be bought in the form of books anymore, because the internet gives it for free. Are we killing ourselves with it? Will the technological advancements of society kill creativity and dull the diamonds in our midst?

Are we lazy when it comes to architectural design for the real folk? Have you seen many houses being built that actually look like some version of thought beyond the basics went into it? What happened to thick mouldings and high ceilings? What happened to interesting spaces and stained glass windows? Why does everything look hopeless and cold? I walked through my neighbourhood today, with M. and the wee one who repeatedly asked if we were 'going home yet'. It was gorgeous, the weather, and the trees look to be on fire so we walked down the streets where all the neighbours were busy in their yards, mowing and mulching, planting and clearing. I was happy to be out there, knowing that winter isn't far off and that it will be my hibernating season, so I bounced in my Converse as I moved along, knowing that my behind was bouncing along with some other kind of music. No matter, thought I, because I am with my loves on an October Saturday and the air was delicious and smooth and my derriere was as happy as that of a prancing labrador. But (nice segue, I know), I was arrested by the sight of the mini vans and the cookie-cutter houses. Everything looked...ridiculous. I flashed on 'Pleasantville' and smiled in spite of myself, because here I am surrounded by people who think they have to live like that. Maybe they truly don't have an imagination, or maybe they don't expect anything more, but when I peered in the windows I passed by, I saw a whole lot of beige beyond the glass.

I'm not going to say I am beyond it. I get caught by the need to conform now and then, so I understand it. Lucky for me M. is a complete renegade when it comes to living his life, but he does it in a quiet and respectable way. He is equal parts hermit, lover, artist, realist, sentimental fool, practical teacher. He doesn't try to fit in the way everyone else does, and I've always loved that about him since I had always been inclined to blend in, even when it didn't feel like a proper fit. We are homebodies who get excited over a wedge of Camembert and a fresh baguette. We get lost in our heads on the weekends, as much as we do the weekdays, and we prefer conversation to physical exertion. M. could spend every waking moment 'creating' , as he says, because he needs to do it to keep his sanity. Our house is filled with the treasures he has made along the way: the gondola in the living room under the glass case (he went to Venice to learn how to construct it properly), the painting on the red wall of the side of a house in Italy with a gatto negro wandering through the flowers, the painting of the fields of Coolea over our bed, with its greens and its grazing sheep, the hallway depiction of the canal in Venice, the portrait of me which hangs in the dining room, next to the antique pantry which is filled with plants and a tea chest, and it looks as though I'm lost in my head, which I probably was when he painted it. I am grateful to be surrounded by these beautiful things because each and every one are an extension of the man I love. It's his character in every piece, his soul, a snapshot in time. There is nothing generic about any of it, and the quality of each is unmatched. I could not take these things off the internet and feel like it wasn't a fraud. Having the real thing in front of you is a vital component in feeling satisfied. I love that no one else has a house that looks like this, with these same things in it, because each piece on the walls and every speck of dust on the work belongs to us alone. The fact that it is all so personal makes me incredibly happy.

I have an architectural book on movie stars homes. I flat out love old Hollywood, so M. bought me the book last Christmas. I think that one of my favourites belonged to one of my favourites, Katherine Hepburn. Her home was not conventionally beautiful, nor was it my taste in any way, but what I loved was that it looked like her. It was rustic and raw, but welcoming and homey. Think 'On Golden Pond', and you're getting warm. It was surrounded by long grass and wildflowers, and she had a fire in the fireplace every night, no matter how warm it was outside. She died in that house, in her own bed when she was ninety-six, surrounded by a home that exuded her loves and preferences in every corner, old blankets and stacks of books. Thinking about how comforting that must have been makes me feel like I'm wrapped in a blanket.

So, when I see the lack of imagination all around me, I get a little sad and deflated. I wonder if people will ever start demanding more. Isn't it ironic that when times were supposedly tougher, the inventiveness and originality of thought thrived? Why do we settle for...beige?

I love my backyard, and my non-cookie cut home, even if it isn't beautiful by contemporary standards. I have a pear tree with leaves that look as though they have been sprinkled with curry, and a garden that is covered with fallen reds and oranges from the other trees on the fringe, and I have butterscotch walls in the room in which I type. I do not own a mini van, though I can see why they're useful for some. I just hope that when people come to visit, they see elements of my personality around me, projections of my soul in the art and the colour. I want to be surrounded by this forever, the look and the smell of it, but most of all the feeling. I never want to follow the formula to reach the same destination as everyone else. In the long run, it doesn't make things easier.

Of course, some people might just really love beige. That's okay. We can't all live in colour, right?