The Garret

“Arrange whatever pieces come your way”
-Virginia Woolf

I have never embraced small spaces in a home. Give me a swing, a stage, and room to roller skate in the living room, I say! Loft living changed me-for better or worse-to love "wide open spaces". Then came our move to Chestnut House.

Even before I lived with Ron, I was drawn to open floor plans. My last "bachelor" apartment was a studio with no walls impeding me, unless you count the four holding up the ceiling. Light streamed in from a big bank of West-facing windows, and my furniture "floated" happily about the space, oblivious to the fact it was somewhat contained. Small spaces remind me of prisons. The Man in the Iron Mask, the Tell-Tale Heart, even Marie Antoinette, sequestered in an eight-by-eight cell, longing for her Manolos, stripped of her children, her panniers, her hair, her bonbons, and eventually her head. Rooms, history taught, never treated royalty well, and were to be avoided.

Then came our move to Chestnut House.

Our first order of business was to knock down every wall that stood in our way. Ron, sledge hammer in hand, would crash through the drywall as I ordered "take it way!" With gusto and glee we opened up our living space. Walls fell, ceilings disappeared, even a few bathrooms and kitchens were erased. As the destruction ensued, I felt the house start to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Previous blogs have focused on the public areas of Chestnut House. By now, you've read about our attempt to "open the place up", but that's only two-thirds of the story. The third floor, formerly stanchioned off and relegated to storage, got it's first taste of freedom this week - and, in the process, taught me the value of "rooms".

An odd concept, rooms. John Fowler said, "It is the Sun itself that creates the shadows." In our attempt to turn the the house into a "lofty" space, I forgot the very "Gothic-ness" of a room of one's own. Wonderful art happens when you sit, confined with your thoughts, your walls, and the tools of your trade, to create. For me, those tools are sewing machines, beading hoops, and yards of fabric and trims waiting to become something. For Ron, a pen, a pad of paper, a comfortable chair, and an enviable imagination.

We chose "our" spaces this week. Ron set about turning the third floor "tower" room into his sanctuary-his place to read, write, and escape. His desk. His chair. His sun-filled study. I meekly knock on the office door when he takes his refuge there, conscious of "his space."

For me, a room at the back of the third floor is now being turned into the design room of my dreams, complete with the items that inspire me most, and all the tools to turn my ideas three dimensional.

Walls are no longer my enemy. I am still convinced most of them need to go...but some of them are more cocoons than cages.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)