my decorating ideal can be described as mystery point and click-game.
i love trinkets and oddities and curiosities (and also synonyms), unexpected details to catch the eye, dark wood and rich fabrics and persian rugs and walls full of books and vaguely unsettling art. i dream of a library with a carved stone fireplace taller than i, wingbacked chairs upholstered in green leather, plush velvet draperies, and a secret book-shelf door that slides open quietly behind you when you pull out moonchild from the third shelf to the left, revealing stairs leading to a hidden observatory with leaded windows. a conservatory filled to the brim with exotic plants, and in amongst the greenery a dainty wrought iron table and cushioned chairs, for afternoon tea. a music room in blue, with a grand piano, and if you find the right melody anything could happen. walls made of stone thick enough to turn the silence into a sound you can hear, thick enough to stay forever cool inside even if the summer outside wants to knock you over with heat. (cold, in the winter, blankets and hot chocolate and extra logs on the fire.) a fountain, and a hedge maze, and a walled kitchen garden. a dream.
unfortunately we live in a rented two room flat, not a mansion. (yet.) but one makes do, as it were. sometimes you have to make your own magic. bit by bit.
i’ve got the trinkets and oddities, and the dark wood (even though a lot of it is from ikea). i have one wall covered in book shelves, and risqué drawings and limited edition screen prints on the others. (the grumpy old man collects them. they are beautiful. we need more wall space. (we have a print of this in a very heavy frame above our bed. if it should fall down we shall probably be crushed. or possibly beheaded. (why is it beheaded and not deheaded?))) if i had a grand piano it would take up half the living room, but i have a guitar and a cello and spotify premium. i don’t have a garden or a conservatory, but i do have an insane little orange tree that keeps blooming and making tiny little oranges that are very sour and not good for much except happiness, and a balcony that turns scorching hot as soon as the sun comes out, but if you water a lot you can cover it in pots and grow strawberries and tomatoes and herbs.
i don’t have the perfect silence, but i suppose there are always ear plugs.
(i love when it is so silent you think you might have gone deaf except you can hear your own blood running through your veins and you move very carefully so you won’t disturb it, and if you do it feels like blasphemy.
the two very best silences i have found were in the sahara desert as the sun fell, and in the darkness of the pilgrim chapel at quarr abbey. tell me yours?)