My husband maintains that, once again, we're on the cutting edge culturally. The WSJ ran a piece today on "The Artfully Disheveled Home." Out: professional decor. In:
[C]leverness over money, taste over expense, personality over hired expertise, idiosyncrasy over polish . . . . The fantasy of the undecorated house is Tuesday morning as it is actually lived, not as we would like other people to imagine it; it is the idea of energy, of chaos, of motion, of mess (well, mess within very circumscribed and aesthetically pleasing limits: children lying in a pile of books, artfully unmade beds, one piece of clothing strewn across a couch).Our version of "un-decoration" is fabrics artlessly covered with tasteful dog hair, casually draped with the fascinating detritus of our complex lives, covered in a quirky patina of grime, giving our home that charming "lived-in" look. Boy, howdy.
I go further and apply this aesthetic to my person. Maybe I should start a magazine.
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