When I was a kid, my eyes were inexorably drawn to the gaudy: shiny baubles hanging off ears, anything pink, strings of pearls roped with gold chains, red hair, beads, feathers, ribbons, flashing neon and purple paisley. I loved looking at pictures of hookers and pimps and Prince; the panoramas of Times Square made me long to live there.
I was lucky to have come of age in the '80s; I suited the bigness, the loudness of that era. My hair was streaked and spiral permed, laced with neon ribbons. My wrists and ankles were strangled with jewelry, bells at my waist, rings on my toes — I made noise when I walked. My Romanian nana told me we were half gypsy, so I came honestly by my style sense, which was less Madonna than hippie whore, nothing left unadorned.
promotion
By university, my fashion sense was dying to transfer to the walls of the rooms I inhabited. But in my dorm, we weren't allowed to paint or change the décor or furnishings, so I began to cover them up as best I could. The closet doors were festooned with Indian shawls and wrap skirts. I draped the utilitarian mirror with diaphanous scarves and necklaces, threw down rugs on the scratchy carpet — anything to cover up the white, white walls. A Queen poster and a classic Klimt did the trick, as did a shimmery orange tapestry blanket that I suspended over my bed.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Things got worse after I finally moved out on my own. My first stop after renting my first solo apartment in Washington D.C. was the paint store. It was the beginning of Clinton's second term. Nirvana was still huge, but I couldn't glom onto the grunge aesthetic. Too brown, too plaid, too depressing. My stint in D.C. represented the height of my Circus Period; yellow-on-yellow striping for the foyer, two kinds of orange in the kitchen, canary dining room, dark-blue bathroom, and a Kelly-green living room. Anything white, bland, or plain was covered in color. Even the refrigerator. I loved watching people react when they walked into the place. They would take their coats off in slow motion, necks craning to take in the scene.
Kinder guests would keep it vague. "Boy. You've been busy." Or, "It's . . . amazing?"
The less-kind would be more direct.
"Jesus Christ." Or, "Why do I have a powerful urge to lie down?" Or just plain, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck."
