Last week I finally got back to the Adirondacks to see the (almost) completed results of a project I started last winter. It was one of those moments when I realized how lucky I am to do what I do.
I didn’t always feel that way.
What I do for a living is not necessary. About as critical as “couture”, interior design is hardly in the realm of life support. And in the midst of these last lean years I’ve questioned, with good reason, why I didn’t pick a more substantive career; one less vulnerable to economic fluctuations and fashion’s folly, one that actually “makes a difference”.
It’s all about mindset, of course. My mother, born and raised on a farm in upstate New York in the midst of the Depression (“Great” as opposed to the current one), planted clear values of what was important in life: people first, ideas next and things last. My father, child of immigrants, was the first in his family to go to college and he concurred. The underlying message was that the work we do should “give back” in some way- medicine, social work, teaching are all respected professions in my family. Extracurricular interests tended to athleticism rather than arts; teamwork over individual achievement. The underlying message was one of social responsibility and connection to people. I hold to those values- they helped me build a life foundation that is solidly grounded. But I also value creative expression and know that the world is a better place for the addition of color, form, texture and ideas that are personally responsive to who we are. I’ve also come to see that the “stuff” of life can reflect that as well- from the doorstopper that was in my grandmother’s house to my father’s stethoscope to my favorite morning coffee mug; shallow objects at first glance, fraught with personal meaning.
The process of regenerating one’s environment can be transformative in ways that can feed the center of our souls; our homes and businesses can become expressions of our inner spirit and reflective of our beliefs. It’s not all fluff: what we present to the world is a projection from inside to out. Spaces that are loved and cared for reflect that love and a sense of being cared about. Seems simple. And the objects we accumulate reflect the things that matter to us- as much about ideas as the books on our shelves.
Simple examples: a crucifix on a wall or a Buddha in the garden is informative. A gnome on the front lawn is as well. Take that same gnome on a journey around the world, photograph “him” and write a book…? Transformative.
Hence the pleasure of my trip to Glens Falls to see the results of that special project begun last fall. My clients are collectors with heartful perception; their belongings- paintings, pottery, sculpture, books- are talismans of their life together: storytelling in visual form. In their basement was a remarkable collection of photographic portraits she took in Bhutan, and the stories she recounts about each person echo from her heart and soul a connection to the world at large; his pottery is remarkable as well- reminiscent of Japanese pottery, its speaks of their connection to the literal earth of their gardens and the metaphorical earth of their travels. All of this was lost in a lovely sea of chintz, their remarkable landscape hidden from view by elaborate “window treatments” that governed the view like a 1970’s schoolteacher.
The goal of our renovation, changing surfaces only, was to take back these rooms and make them reflective of a different time, lifestyle and personal expression. It is successful- replete with Bhutan photos and Adirondack clay, the walls, windows, and furniture sing in harmony with their collection. My happiest moment in many years came when they told me how they “live” in their house now: rooms once abandoned to Schumacher sparrows have become favorite nesting places for afternoon reading and garden bird watching. I couldn’t be happier.
Lesson: stuff speaks from our souls and tells stories just as loudly as books. Surfaces tell the story of who we are in ways unexpected, even to me, a painter. Using them in personally expressive ways creates home. And that’s a key part of our well-being, not surface at all.
Full circle to my own house: in the leanness of these last few years I wasn’t ready to tackle grand plans, and as a result put off some minor but critical repairs. Last week, as my little garden came to full bloom and my last child flew the coop, I looked at my house anew and saw that it isn’t as sadly neglected as I felt. Maybe it’s the waist high irises, but it actually has a sort of shabby softness that just needs a few tweaks to make it charming. I decided it was time to fix that front door and make it speak of welcome, connection and sun. The can of red paint is sitting there waiting for this weekend. My new storm door protects, screens, lets in air and sunlight and is the portal through which those I love enter my nest; I decided it should be worthy of Passage. Small, subtle messages of caring and connection perhaps, but potent nonetheless.
It really is the little things that make a difference.
