I found these two books while I was cleaning house. I purchased them when I was barely out of graduate school and between jobs, and I remember not only reading them again and again from cover to cover but also avidly poring over the photographs within their pages every night in bed, dreaming about my own, future house, swearing to myself that I would have one someday, and hoping that I would be able to decorate (and redecorate) it myself.
I set the books aside, eager to review those illusions of my past and wondering if, upon going through their pages again, their magic would still be there.
I did exactly that tonight. And the magic was no longer there. Not only that--none of the photos appeal to me now, and I am quite shocked to have done up my house so differently from everything, literally every color scheme and furniture arrangement and styling technique, in these two books.
Perhaps it is because, this time around, the reality checks involve people other than myself--my family, their own preferences, and their needs.
Indeed, one cannot build oneself a house and afterward live in it alone.
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