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Barnes: Decorating the floor -- taking on the next challenge
M.A.
Barnes
Published in the Athens Banner-Herald on Sunday, February 10, 2002.
Šopyright 2002 Athens Banner-Herald
In keeping with my decorating skills as they developed -- very slowly, I must admit -- my decorator friend who took me on as a charity case finally got the right ''feel'' to my home. She got colors that ''walked'' from one room to the next. I have never caught them doing that, but she has a better sense of these things and assures me that this element is in place.
So I can report my Feng Shui is in order. That means something like if you put furniture one place you feel bad, and you move it somewhere else, your life is more serene. Feng Shui is for me!
Then, came the rugs. I haven't had a drink of alcohol in more than 20 years, but buying my rug for the dining room almost drove me to drink. I wanted a red oriental rug. Simple, I thought. With my cool, gold-toned, white-yellow moonlight-whatever paint my decorator friend used for some rooms, I thought I could surely have something red. But first the dining room had to be repainted, proving the old adage, ''Before you do something, you have to do something else first.'' We looked at about 10 splotches of paint she'd smeared on the wall, and all the ones I hated, she loved. She finally picked something that looked to me like a cross between camouflage green and road kill. It turned out a gorgeous deep khaki (her words, not mine.) Most of the paint colors sounded more like lunch anyhow -- eggplant, banana, persimmon.
I about had heart failure when that brown paint started going up. I was afraid it would look like a cave in Afghanistan. Or Halloween. But she was right one more time. It looks really rich. And it walks (maybe I dreamed that ...).
Then and only then did we go rug shopping. Do you know how many rugs there are out there? Thousands. Millions. Every size, shape and color. Except red. There's orange and brick and bloody burgundy, but no red. There's pink and mauve and fuschia -- but I challenge you to find red. We went to every store on the planet that sells rugs. We'd bring home four or five rugs from each one, spread them out, put the furniture back on them and then sit and stare at them. Then we'd roll them up, roll out another one, put the furniture back and sit and stare again. I kept dozing off.
I'd always say, ''But I want a red rug.'' She'd say, ''That IS red,'' or ''There's red in it.'' I'd say, ''No it's orange-red and it's ugly and it's mostly blue with orange.'' I got opinionated in a hurry. She'd give me a hard look, then we'd frown and stare, roll up the rug and go find some more rugs. She said this was how it was done. Rug dealers must take medication to stay calm.
Then the worst thing happened. I got hooked. No pun intended. I discovered real, hand-made Oriental rugs with wonderful, exotic sounding names like Masadi, Serapi, Tabriz and Sarouk. Then I started reading and learning. I was on a roll. Persian rugs are absolutely fascinating ''art on the floor.'' I watched videos about how the rug weavers sing a song (which is how many stitches of each color they use). Then I started saving my money -- big time. No crummy machine-made rugs for me. Amazing how quickly I acquired taste -- I think that's what you call it.
Now my house is filled with gorgeous hand-made rugs from Iran and Pakistan. And they're red, by George. Or mostly red. And they look mah-velous with the expensive paint on the walls. Everyone needs a friend they can trust to sell them Oriental rugs and I found mine. Hafeez gave me books on rugs, good prices and charmed me with his sophistication. And he brought me red rugs from across the world. Not orange ones.
My decorator friend then asked me to collect a bunch of things that really meant something to me. She should have learned not to ask my opinion and just go ahead and do what she wanted because it would ultimately turn out wonderfully. She was aghast at some of my prized possessions. I liked my bird nest. I don't know what happened to it now that I think of it. My grandmother's ugly black flower pot got used, but my scarecrow clock made out of mirrors really threw her. I'm really fond of it, but she got one of those smiles that looks a lot like a gas pain. Well, she asked ...
So now I've gone from ''who gives a hoot,'' to obsessive. I bore the socks off anyone who will listen to me rave on about my lovely little home. I never paid much attention to it before. Now I just stare at it and think how lucky I am. Now I'm using words like ''open, with warmth and coolness,'' and ''cozy'' and other decorator terms -- including ''eclectic.'' I sweep my carpets instead of vacuuming them. How quickly things can change. Since I ran out of floor to put rugs on, I now have a magnificent tapestry on my army-uniform-green-brown wall. Well, I'm making time payments on it, but it will be mine if I live long enough!
So be warned. Once you start on the decorating thing, there's no place to stop, no place to hide. All of a sudden the balance of the room must be addressed with plants, colors, height, taste, colors that walk, texture and all the things I never knew existed. I even redid the wood floors and rewired the house. Now the refrigerator doesn't blow out when I plug in the toaster!
At least I snuck in and did my bathroom in black, white and red. Everyone says it looks like a boy's dorm by Harvey Wallbanger or Tommy Hellflinger or whoever that guy is that makes shirts. But I expressed myself. My expression wasn't tasteful, charming, sophisticated or elegant, but it was red.
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