Despite the bald optimism of the palette, I can’t think about this style era without feeling sad. My rooms screamed for attention louder than I did. There was no mystery to them, no subtlety. I suppose it’s what we do when we’re young: we splatter ourselves, our politics and preferences all over our clothes and walls as though to announce, “This is me! I like this music! This artist! These colors! Vases! Clocks! Paintings and prints! Do you like them too? Do you like me?” I never trusted the slow unveiling process of intimacy, leaving small crumbs of myself under the assumption that the curious would stick out the journey. I was the type who upended her entire toy box at the feet of the new kid I wanted to be friends with. My apartments were painted for maximum distraction, minimum intimacy. White walls signified a kind of vulnerability, like silent spaces in conversations, another thing I had a hard time tolerating.
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White walls signified a kind of vulnerability, like silent spaces in conversations, another thing I had a hard time tolerating.
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When I moved back to Toronto I threw up a similar circus vibe in my new apartment: yellow-striped foyer, this time a red-on-green kitchen and a dark-brown living room, washed with beige overlay to look like a cave. Then I painted the bedroom baby blue, with “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” written out in white across the four walls. I don’t know much about feng shui, but I imagine lining the chamber in which you’re supposed to find rest with a depressing poem written in shaky handwriting is like hiring someone to slap you awake every four hours until you cry.
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| Entrance to the dining room |
Around this time, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Maybe it was all the time spent sitting very still in plainly painted waiting rooms, but I began to notice my walls, to see and feel them when I’d come home from a wrenching medical visit. I started with my bedroom, which was baby blue and a place in which I spent much of my time lying on my side blinking back tears. I had abandoned my D.C. apartments fully painted, so I had no idea how difficult it was to cover bright colors with white again. But rolling on the white was a revelation. I couldn’t cover the yellow foyer fast enough, and by the time I got to the kitchen, something like a decades-long storm cloud had begun to lift and disappear. The paintings, photos and posters I had removed to get to the walls were never put back up again. I sold most of the vases and lamps and ashtrays and throws.
My mother was dying by the time I got to the living room. I had a few days to pack a bag to help her cope with her last few weeks at home before she was moved to palliative care. Grief is a tricky thing. It can take you down with it, or it can push your reset button. Around that time, I was told by a therapist that my irresistible need for white walls was a need for a tabula rasa; it was a primal way to prepare to grieve. Whatever it was, it marked the beginning of the end of the Circus Era. I left a white apartment to go to a white hospital to say goodbye to a woman whose color was draining from her body by the day. Just to push the metaphor a little bit further, it was in the dead of the coldest Canadian winter in decades. I drove to the hospital surrounded by white, and white was everywhere in the wing where people died. Not so in the childrens’ wing. There, the walls were festooned with goofy colors, everything designed to be luridly distracting and falsely festive.
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| The kitchen |
My mother died. The funeral was sad. I came home, grateful to enter a spare white space, pared down to bare essentials. A toaster on the white counter. Towels (white) hanging in the bathroom (white). A mirror leaning on the wall (white) outside my bedroom. Six years later, I’ve allowed one wall in my new loft to be painted a pale robin’s-egg blue. But other than that, the walls are white. The circus has left town. n°
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