Molly Fischer, at the Cut, defines for us the millennial decor paradigm and wishes it would go away.
You walk beneath a white molded archway. Youâ€™ve entered a white room.
A basketlike lamp hangs overhead; other lamps, globes of brass and glass, glow nearby. Before you is a couch, neatly tufted and boxy, padded with an assortment of pillows in muted geometric designs. Circles of faded terra-cotta and pale yellow; mint-green and mustard confetti; white, with black half-circles and two little dots â€” aha. Those are boobs. You look down. Upon the terrazzo nougat of the coffee table, a glass tray trimmed in brass. It holds a succulent in a lumpy ceramic pot, a scented candle with a matte-pink label. A fiddle-leaf fig somewhere looms. Above a bookshelf (spines organized by color), a poster advises you to WORK HARD & BE NICE TO PEOPLE. In the far corner, within the shrine of an arched alcove, atop a marble plinth: one lonely, giant cartoon jungle leaf, tilting from a pink ceramic tube. You sense â€” in a way you could neither articulate nor explain â€” the presence of a mail-order foam mattress somewhere close at hand.
All that pink. All those plants. All that white. Itâ€™s so clean! Everythingâ€™s fun, but not too much fun. And there, in the round mirror above the couch: Itâ€™s you. You know where you are. Or do you?
Ed Hopperâ€™s old lady nude at the link.
( . )( . ) -zowie!
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