April 27, 2003
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I’m writing this post, whoever cares to read it, from a perch in the hills of western mass in the most beautiful zen house i have ever had the pleasure of scampering in. And i did, right down the lenghth and breadth of it at four am.
Everything is immense, sinuous rooms traced with winding light…the architecture meanders from one curving wall to the next nook, graced with warm red woods and chinese antiques. There are seven bathrooms! I spent a good thirty minutes this morning padding around from bain to bain, just to decide which shower had the best light and fluffiest towels. I chose a glass nook with slate walls, dark resinous wood, and a stark skylight overhead, and now my skin smells like wet rock. Although at the moment i am settled rather cosily in an aeron chair (not all they’re cracked up to be), and downstairs there are a pair of eames chairs which i dizzily befriended, and the livingroom furniture is elegantly conservative, simple and sleek and modern and comfortable, and chrome and glass abounds, this all lives in harmony with the organic elements. Rock, warm rich wood grain (everything, floor, doors, closets, cabinets, clean lines and light; the staircase is wide and bright and spiraling, like the scaffolding of a conch shell wrought in wood), and trees and ferns, as if half the space were imported from some well loved japanese temple. And some of the luckier rooms and spaces and hollows are graced with treasures from the heart of the orient, an indonesian print here, a carved opium bed in the sun, an antique chinese cabinet, and the Ming dynasty horse who hangs out on the kitchen counter, mid stride. I gave him a kiss on the muzzle this morning.
It seems like something unattainable, the scale is immense, but never exposing, even with the gargatuan windows and lofted cielings. But it settles down at a human scale, becomes undulous and comfortable. And although the details are thought out to the minutiae (i spent a few moments last night contemplating the fact that the architect must have chosen to put a certain curl in one corner, and then added just the right sinuous sort of railing to the stairs), as if at any moment it could become a photograph in a domestic zine, it could be so cliche, a showroom with arranged passionflowers in a perfectly appointed glass vase here, the right sort of turkish cushion there, the oval bath with the indonsian lights and the italian chrome fixtures. But there are the little signs of inhabitation…the toothbrush resting by the sink, the messy papers and thumbtacks in the office, the pile of laundry in a corner, the crumbs and dirty dishes in the sink, a pillow tossed askew on the floor, fingerprints on the sliding door, things left displaced, pulled out, messy, alive.
