Interior Tour

I've been taking a little tour of the views in my past and present. Not the fancy vacation viewing sites, though I have had some wonderful ones. But the domestic views: what I look at, gaze at, when sitting around the house, be it the view out a window, an indoor view, or a view out into the world with the TV.

Right now, at 5:30 AM, I am sitting in the bent plywood Eames chair in the still-mostly-unfurnished main floor of our new townhouse, gazing into the dark windows, seeing mostly my own reflection, and then scanning around the room at each piece of furniture, as yet unanchored into a cohesive arrangement in this big open space. (But they are scooching toward each other, somehow.)

Most of the time I flop into the upholstered chair in the corner. There I find myself turning half way round in the chair and gazing out the window at the treeline. The treeline here is close in: just outside the fence of our small yard grows a crop of what Texas Sue calls junk trees. Those are the kind that grow fast but don't get a nice trunk and full canopy like a real, quality tree. But I am happy to have the junk and watch birds flit in and out of the top layers of green.

It reminds me of the view from our little home perched just below the top of Bernal Hill in San Francisco. That house had a ton of problems and I was very (very, very) glad to sell it off in 2006 and move on. But it had some wonderful views. From the small attic window, the tree line was in the distance, at the very top of the hill, which was a sort of nature preserve. One of the highest trees there was home to a hawk. I remember so clearly watching the hawk soar and perch, soar and perch. The attic was my office: I was talking on the phone or not writing a paper or doing nothing at all, and all the while, my eyes following the hawk. How long do hawks live? In my memory, this one had residence as long as we did—ten years or so.

My views from the main floor of the same house tell the story of my deteriorating mental health. A partial view of the city was one of the main attractions of that house, during our mid-90s search for a place to call home in SF. And for the first couple years, our furniture was oriented to take advantage of that view. But over the years, the blinds were closed down more often and the TV became a primary view in the room. And then I remember weeks and months on the sofa, staring at whatever was on the mantle at the time. I kept my Huichol yarn painting there for a year or so, and circled around the image, telling myself the story of purification represented there. Just before I got the right medication and treatment, and started literally and metaphorically seeing the light again, I was down to a pinpoint of a view, a crude metal support for the mantle itself. I would obsess about its ugliness, as representative of the whole house's problems.


The next house, rented in a less sunny neighborhood of San Francisco, had a damned ugly view out the window of two asphalted playgrounds. The plantation shutters let in plenty of light while masking that view. I was watching the inside, anyway. I'd done this huge thing: getting "real" furniture after years of marked up odd lot leftovers and just empty space. I loved to gaze at my Eames chair (right now, now holding my butt up) and my beautiful sculptural Noguchi coffee table. I don't care if I fulfill another Starbucks-drinking, Honda-driving stereotype—I love my mid-century modern icons. We knew from the minute we moved in that the house was a temporary home. But those objects could travel with me and were icons not just of a design period, but of the huge transition we were making. We were there getting ready to leave San Francisco.

In our current home, in addition to the treeline, I am watching the lawn green up as we give it some water a couple times a week. Of course I am among those who consider lawns to be wasteful and bad for the environment. Yet, I root for the grass. (small guffaw there, please; or a moan if you must.) I was expecting xeroscape and hated seeing that grass in the beginning. I still want to dig some of it up. But it's too hot out there. I will use any excuse. And anyway, now want to see it all green up. Shame on me.


Image: Cornell, Joseph
Untitled (The Hotel Eden)
c. 1945
Construction
15 1/8 x 15 3/4 x 4 3/4 in.
National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa

© The Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation / Visual Artists and Galleries Association, Inc. (VAGA)