How Can I Help But Be Restless When Everything Seems So Tasteless?
After the several hours this morning I spent entering in craft books, I have come to the conclusion that the world of do-it-yourself home decor is largely populated by philistines, but not even good sorts of deliberately oblivious philistines who eschew fripperies in favor of a stick and several stones perched around a board...instead the kind that pursue some level of personal decorative betterment, to the disasterous extent of stockpiling flimsy digests with half-rate photographs of projects suited only to some feminine bastardization of Pee-Wee's Playhouse. It's the before and after pictures that kill me, along with the lines about "restoring those family heirlooms". Restoring is not accomplished by artlessly drowning whatever character a piece had in several coats of rainbowed cheap paint. I'm not even sure there is a word to describe the sacrilege of that action.
A few excerpts.
"A pleasantly proportioned 1940s wooden table with turned spindle legs and gingerbread trim. When the flaking varnish is scraped down and the legs and trim are repaired, it becomes the perfect foil for a Victorian treatment." Sure it does. I can see the table engaging in witty repartee with the horrid botanical flourishes you plastered over it, and they'd both throw their heads back gaily and laugh, laugh, laugh. But, no, really, that all sounds like it could be very nice, except for the fact that you spongepainted it in teal, baby pink, and dull pastel blue. Victorian Shmictorian.
"A well-proportioned dropleaf table with several desireable features- solid base, brass feet, and drawers with decorative hardware. But flaking varnish, cigarette burns, and deep scars put it beyond the strip-and-finish category. an intricate paint job hides the imperfections." Or not. Contrasted with the other decor books I've thumbed through, this one has such a staunch belief in the omnipotence of craft paint, and in the utter horror of wear. I've seen chapters in other titles about repeatedly abusing wood with heavy chains in order to artificially give it a worn look, but apparently this table has reached such personal depths of misery it requires a garishly stencilled latticework to redeem it. I am doubting the legitimacy of the "finished" product. Oh, what the hell. "Finished" "product." Go ahead and thrown another set of quotes on it. It's neither.
"An unpainted small chest of drawers-not flawed, just bland. Furniture of modest proportions is ideal for busy, interesting treatments." And you're ideal for the placement of my modestly proportioned foot up your antimacassar, or at the very least, you're ideal to be held down and repeatedly sponge stencilled in multicolored puffy paint. Leave the chest to suffer other future indignities not brought about by bored and stifled homebodies yearning for mass-marketed creative expression. And while you're at it, all this talk of the proportions and modesty of chests and tables makes me question the underlying emotional state that repeatedly anthropomorphizes works of furniture ( a state that I unfortunately share.).
"Used for a stage set, this solid wood table, painted overpowering green in a heavy enamel, was chipped and peeling. it called for a simple, fresh treatment." So you covered it with white paint and fish potato prints. I'm inclined to believe any current calls emanating from this table's vicinity would be plaintive cries for help, cries that would eventually die off and be replaced by the quiet whimpers of a fixture longing to be put out of its misery with a good solid fireman's hatcheting.
"Lacking personality, this mediocre desk deserves some zip." No. It deserves to be left alone, having quietly put in its dues in some back room, buried under a child's school papers for years on end . I would like to venture, to hazard, to strongly imply that maybe you're the one lacking personality, dear compiler of innumerable vomitous creative abortions, if you feel the need to make every piece of furniture scream something unspeakably tacky at every hapless visitor who stumbles, unwittingly, into the gaudy horror of your newly decorated home.
If you, dear reader, have ever felt the compulsive urge to whitewash woodgrain, I understand. It seems like such a good idea, at the time. And heck, if you're under the age of twelve, it may very well be the most tangible form of self-expression you can come up with. But step back for a moment, before undergoing such a project, and ask yourself whether you truly believe anyone outside of your blood relatives will find the altered state of the piece a more worthy expression than what the original crafter came up with. I think this means that there is some sort of logical moratorium against altering objects to a point where they can no longer survive on their own, where they are helpless without the moral support of that charming wallpaper of maroon and peach teddy bears you so cunningly replicated on a dresser drawer's face.
(Exceptions are made for some forms of tole painting, as well as for children and those of a childlike mind.)
A few excerpts.
"A pleasantly proportioned 1940s wooden table with turned spindle legs and gingerbread trim. When the flaking varnish is scraped down and the legs and trim are repaired, it becomes the perfect foil for a Victorian treatment." Sure it does. I can see the table engaging in witty repartee with the horrid botanical flourishes you plastered over it, and they'd both throw their heads back gaily and laugh, laugh, laugh. But, no, really, that all sounds like it could be very nice, except for the fact that you spongepainted it in teal, baby pink, and dull pastel blue. Victorian Shmictorian.
"A well-proportioned dropleaf table with several desireable features- solid base, brass feet, and drawers with decorative hardware. But flaking varnish, cigarette burns, and deep scars put it beyond the strip-and-finish category. an intricate paint job hides the imperfections." Or not. Contrasted with the other decor books I've thumbed through, this one has such a staunch belief in the omnipotence of craft paint, and in the utter horror of wear. I've seen chapters in other titles about repeatedly abusing wood with heavy chains in order to artificially give it a worn look, but apparently this table has reached such personal depths of misery it requires a garishly stencilled latticework to redeem it. I am doubting the legitimacy of the "finished" product. Oh, what the hell. "Finished" "product." Go ahead and thrown another set of quotes on it. It's neither.
"An unpainted small chest of drawers-not flawed, just bland. Furniture of modest proportions is ideal for busy, interesting treatments." And you're ideal for the placement of my modestly proportioned foot up your antimacassar, or at the very least, you're ideal to be held down and repeatedly sponge stencilled in multicolored puffy paint. Leave the chest to suffer other future indignities not brought about by bored and stifled homebodies yearning for mass-marketed creative expression. And while you're at it, all this talk of the proportions and modesty of chests and tables makes me question the underlying emotional state that repeatedly anthropomorphizes works of furniture ( a state that I unfortunately share.).
"Used for a stage set, this solid wood table, painted overpowering green in a heavy enamel, was chipped and peeling. it called for a simple, fresh treatment." So you covered it with white paint and fish potato prints. I'm inclined to believe any current calls emanating from this table's vicinity would be plaintive cries for help, cries that would eventually die off and be replaced by the quiet whimpers of a fixture longing to be put out of its misery with a good solid fireman's hatcheting.
"Lacking personality, this mediocre desk deserves some zip." No. It deserves to be left alone, having quietly put in its dues in some back room, buried under a child's school papers for years on end . I would like to venture, to hazard, to strongly imply that maybe you're the one lacking personality, dear compiler of innumerable vomitous creative abortions, if you feel the need to make every piece of furniture scream something unspeakably tacky at every hapless visitor who stumbles, unwittingly, into the gaudy horror of your newly decorated home.
If you, dear reader, have ever felt the compulsive urge to whitewash woodgrain, I understand. It seems like such a good idea, at the time. And heck, if you're under the age of twelve, it may very well be the most tangible form of self-expression you can come up with. But step back for a moment, before undergoing such a project, and ask yourself whether you truly believe anyone outside of your blood relatives will find the altered state of the piece a more worthy expression than what the original crafter came up with. I think this means that there is some sort of logical moratorium against altering objects to a point where they can no longer survive on their own, where they are helpless without the moral support of that charming wallpaper of maroon and peach teddy bears you so cunningly replicated on a dresser drawer's face.
(Exceptions are made for some forms of tole painting, as well as for children and those of a childlike mind.)