Where I live now does not feel like home. I don’t know when someplace I’ve lived ever has, except perhaps as a very small child. I have never, for example, felt homesick. Each place is a necessary yet temporary storage space I work with but do not have possession of, and do not make my own. Or some combination of cannot and will not make my own.
I have an idea of home, though. Of my home, which I partially define as a place I have chosen, toward which I feel belonging, which belonging is a function of being free to mold it as my own. My environment can have a powerful effect on me, and I like the process of imagining how best to take advantage of that. It is also an extension of my style and myself, so rendering my preferences endlessly interesting and significant to me. Worth jotting down, worth devoting pinterest boards to. You know.
I have the feeling that, as with so many things, and hearing the gripes of homeowners, the imagining here might be the best part. So! Better enjoy it while I may.
In years of browsing I’ve considered many thousands of details but fear not, today I will share with you just one. It is a high priority item in my who-knows-how-distant-future: an oxblood tufted leather sofa.
I don’t imagine I would come by one cheaply, so the current vision is of an essentially bare living area, my entire furniture budget having been spent on a single item. I rather like the austere opulence of that, though. Austere opulence is a good phrase for the style I gravitate toward, home-wise.
I mean, and oxblood tufted leather sofa and hardwood floors. High ceilings. Good light. Some wine glasses. Voilà. Home.
Something like this:
Or…this:
I like a lot of what is going on here, actually.
Are you seeing it?
