For a long time now I’ve made work whatever I had or found for clothing storage; IKEA shelves, used bookcases with canvas buckets or piles on shelves. Recently I grew tired of that and began looking at antique stores, second shops and online for stuff someone didn’t want anymore. The more I looked, the less satisfied I became with what I found.
For as long as I could remember most of my furniture has either been bought at a tag sale, at IKEA, or was a piece of IKEA picked up at a tag sale. My couch is from craigslist, likewise my dining table, bookcases from a factory sale, the breakfast bar found hidden behind the furnace in the basement. I haven’t really been attached to things, spending my money on food, art, music.
Something has shifted though. Something about deserving. Deserving to have decent things. Wanting something made, cared for, cultivated to a beautiful finish.
A friend took me to a local shop that sold original handcrafted wood furniture. Next thing you know, three hours had passed. My hand ran along carefully made and varnished wood, silken, smooth. I flipped through books of different styles, stains, carved details, varied heights and number of drawers. I found my way to really wanting, realizing I wouldn’t find anywhere else the vision I had in my head. Two-tone stain, delineating the difference between drawer and frame. Light vs dark, form and substance.
So I bit the bullet and put down a deposit like I hadn’t done for much in my life. Whew, it was intense. I waited, worried if I could afford it, denied I had made such a extravagant purchase. Then out of the blue the call came that it was and when I would I like it delivered.
Not quite what I imagined, it was still stunning. Every time I entire my bedroom I have to touch it. I have something beautiful made just for me. Nothing else like it. Wow.