I am furnishing our loft.
Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I had a meeting this morning with our designer to pick out curtains and tables and sofa and rugs and pillows and duvets and all sorts of warmth for this mausoleum.
None of it will have a polished surface and all of it will be gorgeous and warm and inviting. I’m going to throw in a ton of candles for good measure.
What arrived, you ask, to start this manic spree? My chair. The chair that fits none of Sparky’s requirements for a chair. Meaning it’s comfortable with rounded corners and soft fabric. He, the chair, is inviting and warm and I can’t wait to sit and read a book in his arms.
I fell in love with Chairy (a new name to come) last June. He is a beautiful stone gray microfiber suede. He’s firm yet cozy. He’s big and he loves my butt and my toes as I dig them into the cracks when I sit on my feet.
Three years ago I moved in to our place. I had only a blow-up mattress and a conviction that if I lived with Sparky’s mother for another night, I would be on the next plane out of Germany. Oh and I had a working toilet. That was it.
September the previous year, Sparky and I walked in Ligne Roset and picked out a few pieces for when the construction was finished. This took days of negotiation and a few in store heated debates. We haven’t added to those few pieces.
Oh I have, but only in the most temporary Ikea sense. I bought a dining table one day for 89 euros because I was sick of not have a table. I added 19 euro chairs because I was sick of using my Aeron chair in the dining room. I bought bookcases out of desperation and a TV stand because I was sick of the milk crate Sparky refers to as high art.
My dad calls it minimalist. Sparky calls it heaven. I call it hell wrapped up in a pretty package. Our designer loves it. But I have to live in it. As Sparky is gone more than not, the museum look is on its way out.
Hell, I might even get another cat. I’m feeling a little crazy today, drunk on the power of one chair and silk samples.