It may have been an overexposure to early Frank Lloyd Wright, or perhaps too much time spent in boats, but when I was young, and until very recently, I was horrified by furniture. I always thought that a perfect domestic architecture would be heavy on the built-ins. Shelves, benches, various seats and berths—these were the things necessary to finish a space, to tune it for living, to show at least that the designer was not entirely ignorant of how and by whom a house would be used. Also to anchor it. An uncle of mine lived for many years in a very cool Anglo-built adobe in Taos, New Mexico. At the center of the main space was a large circular pit, dug out of the ground and contoured for sitting: a brutal sunken living room, it seemed so much more profound than the loose, impermanent wooden furniture orbiting all around it, sliding this way and that, imported things ready to take up any position, or be replaced.
This aversion grew worse. I found myself unable to endorse almost any purchase made by my parents for my childhood home—not because of taste (theirs is good) but because the new furniture, made far away and trucked in, always seemed somehow irreparably unfitting, and this in the kind of light-suffused, only lightly wainscoted Victorian interior that can generally support any style in style. But new furniture would just squat there. Some would engage in silent battle with previous purchases that had not yet been Âassimilated—the 1970s laminate dining-room table at war with its black steel 1990s chairs, say, or the new bookshelf glowering at the old. Read more »