For reasons known only to whatever weird pagan deity controls the human impulse to move on with their lives, everyone I know who has ever moved has chosen the most absolutely inopportune time to do so. And so it came to pass that today, the most unspeakably steamy (if not the hottest) to date in 2005, I helped a friend move.
Fortunately, the friend of whom I speak is a reasonably well-organized person and also a person who does not believe in accumulating large amounts of unnecessary crap. As she is moving in with another friend, she also had the good sense to divest herself of possibly-duplicated crap. Therefore, we really only had to move a few boxes of things, a couple of lamps and fans, one particularly belligerent futon which took every opportunity to injure us, and a legless orange velour chair that could only make its 1969 origins more plain if it held up a little placard that said “California Or Bust” right under a peace sign.
James Lileks, who won my eternal admiration with his “Gallery of Regrettable Food” (and promptly cashed in some of the aforementioned admiration by endlessly worrying about suicide bombers and terrorists), recently followed regrettable food with regrettable decoration. “Interior Desecration” is a celebration of everything we loved in 1972 and grew to loathe by 1980. My friend’s orange chair — in its somewhat dilapidated state, right before we threw it into the dumpster — was for a short while, this evening, my decorating madeleine.
The clothes of the early ’70s were Godawful enough, but it’s easier to go to a department store and buy new clothes than it is to replace a sofa.
Which is unfortunate, because early ’70s furniture probably scarred the minds of my generation more than the tail end of ’Nam, Ronald Reagan, two Gulf wars and ’80s puffy-sleeved evening gowns combined.
The stuff was plain nasty, and it pervaded all walks of life. More plebeian sorts had this burlappy (“Early American,” I’m sure), plaid-ook upholstered furniture. It was actually comfortable, for the most part, but a little scratchy and inevitably smelled like wet dog after a few months, whether or not its owners had a dog. The Early American thing was big, since the Bicentennial was approaching, so the middle class was way into furniture that supposedly evoked the colonial era. Some of it might have been vaguely Colonial, but I have observed that very little actual Colonial or Federal furniture features upholstery emblazoned with George Washington’s bust and off-color pictures of the Liberty Bell, the Declaration of Independence and butter churns. (Sad to say, my parents had such a sofa. It was hideous, but at least it didn’t smell like dog, and we did have a dog. Although, in very unpatriotic fashion, she was so terrorized by the fireworks in 1976 that she peed all over the house — thank God, not on the sofa.) Other fashion trends included the particularly hideous “Mediterranean” furniture. I’m pretty sure that Italy, Spain and Greece all considered declaring war on the U.S. for having been associated, however vaguely, with what surely must have been the ugliest furniture to ever roll out of Grand Rapids and High Point. Beyond these department-store style offerings, High Couture of the early ’70s offered stuff so bizarrely ugly that most of it thankfully didn’t even make it as long as 1977.
Most furniture styles, no matter how absurd or grotesque, manage to make a periodic comeback. My beloved Sheraton and Chippendale styles have remained somewhat fashionable since their very inception. My ultimate favorite, Empire furniture, went out of vogue in the 1830s only to reappear in the early 1900s. The various Victorian styles, most of which resemble medieval torture instruments, quickly faded from view only to reappear in — you guessed it — the ’70s. The era seemingly required ugly furniture. Victorian things, though, embody a certain taste and style; to like their ’70s counterparts requires a complete brainwashing.
When we tossed the orange velour chair I had one of those momentary trains of thought that blissfully derailed before it got anywhere. It occurred to me that this, too, having passed, would come back. Should we save some of this stuff in the basement, and sell it as “retro” when it comes back in style? I recalled happy childhood with the Bicentennial sofa and shag rugs. I considered “stoneware” mugs full of instant cocoa in the kitchen floored with linoleum patterned with “bricks.” Perhaps, I thought. Perhaps a split-level in Timonium with a rumpus room in the basement, fitted out with an 1890 upright piano painted Day-Glo pink. And a redwood-railed pool in the backyard, and “sculpted” moss-green carpet in the “family room.”
Thank God, we heaved the chair into the dumpster before any more of the chemicals designed to preserve its upholstery had a chance to seep into my pores.
Fortunately, the friend of whom I speak is a reasonably well-organized person and also a person who does not believe in accumulating large amounts of unnecessary crap. As she is moving in with another friend, she also had the good sense to divest herself of possibly-duplicated crap. Therefore, we really only had to move a few boxes of things, a couple of lamps and fans, one particularly belligerent futon which took every opportunity to injure us, and a legless orange velour chair that could only make its 1969 origins more plain if it held up a little placard that said “California Or Bust” right under a peace sign.
James Lileks, who won my eternal admiration with his “Gallery of Regrettable Food” (and promptly cashed in some of the aforementioned admiration by endlessly worrying about suicide bombers and terrorists), recently followed regrettable food with regrettable decoration. “Interior Desecration” is a celebration of everything we loved in 1972 and grew to loathe by 1980. My friend’s orange chair — in its somewhat dilapidated state, right before we threw it into the dumpster — was for a short while, this evening, my decorating madeleine.
The clothes of the early ’70s were Godawful enough, but it’s easier to go to a department store and buy new clothes than it is to replace a sofa.
Which is unfortunate, because early ’70s furniture probably scarred the minds of my generation more than the tail end of ’Nam, Ronald Reagan, two Gulf wars and ’80s puffy-sleeved evening gowns combined.
The stuff was plain nasty, and it pervaded all walks of life. More plebeian sorts had this burlappy (“Early American,” I’m sure), plaid-ook upholstered furniture. It was actually comfortable, for the most part, but a little scratchy and inevitably smelled like wet dog after a few months, whether or not its owners had a dog. The Early American thing was big, since the Bicentennial was approaching, so the middle class was way into furniture that supposedly evoked the colonial era. Some of it might have been vaguely Colonial, but I have observed that very little actual Colonial or Federal furniture features upholstery emblazoned with George Washington’s bust and off-color pictures of the Liberty Bell, the Declaration of Independence and butter churns. (Sad to say, my parents had such a sofa. It was hideous, but at least it didn’t smell like dog, and we did have a dog. Although, in very unpatriotic fashion, she was so terrorized by the fireworks in 1976 that she peed all over the house — thank God, not on the sofa.) Other fashion trends included the particularly hideous “Mediterranean” furniture. I’m pretty sure that Italy, Spain and Greece all considered declaring war on the U.S. for having been associated, however vaguely, with what surely must have been the ugliest furniture to ever roll out of Grand Rapids and High Point. Beyond these department-store style offerings, High Couture of the early ’70s offered stuff so bizarrely ugly that most of it thankfully didn’t even make it as long as 1977.
Most furniture styles, no matter how absurd or grotesque, manage to make a periodic comeback. My beloved Sheraton and Chippendale styles have remained somewhat fashionable since their very inception. My ultimate favorite, Empire furniture, went out of vogue in the 1830s only to reappear in the early 1900s. The various Victorian styles, most of which resemble medieval torture instruments, quickly faded from view only to reappear in — you guessed it — the ’70s. The era seemingly required ugly furniture. Victorian things, though, embody a certain taste and style; to like their ’70s counterparts requires a complete brainwashing.
When we tossed the orange velour chair I had one of those momentary trains of thought that blissfully derailed before it got anywhere. It occurred to me that this, too, having passed, would come back. Should we save some of this stuff in the basement, and sell it as “retro” when it comes back in style? I recalled happy childhood with the Bicentennial sofa and shag rugs. I considered “stoneware” mugs full of instant cocoa in the kitchen floored with linoleum patterned with “bricks.” Perhaps, I thought. Perhaps a split-level in Timonium with a rumpus room in the basement, fitted out with an 1890 upright piano painted Day-Glo pink. And a redwood-railed pool in the backyard, and “sculpted” moss-green carpet in the “family room.”
Thank God, we heaved the chair into the dumpster before any more of the chemicals designed to preserve its upholstery had a chance to seep into my pores.
posted by Daniel | 11:59 PM
2 Comments:
Plus, you promised me we could do the basement in 1950s rumpus-room style! Do go cheating on me with the 1970s, of all strumpet decades!!
Injured while moving?? Talk to me about hell couch!! And what about spit chair?? Glad to know you lived through it....
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