The end of furniture fascism

It was the joy of our household and dominated it for two decades, a classical artefact nestled within a very nondescript piece of architecture (our family house!), the sacrificial altar that was the sideboard. The elephant in the dining room, there it sat brooding darkly and majestically, overlooking every nuance of our little lives. Only the best was good enough for that piece of Victoriana, lace runners and crystal bowls and family photos and ornaments. The pair of doors on its sturdy pedestal fronted a trove of damask table linens, and best and second-best crockery and cutlery – ye gods, the Penates had nothing on this! The sideboard was actually hewn from a fine piece of wood, but its classical references demanded a symmetry of arrangement on top and all about it that our chaotic lives simply could not live up to. As I grew older, I hated the thing more and more.
You are not perfect, it seemed to glower at every turn. You are not ordered, symmetrical, classically lovely or harmoniously beautiful. Nor was I – thank heavens then for modernism, an Enlightenment that heralded lighter and more rational furniture. No more domineering artefacts; no symmetry, centring or classical gravity sucking everything into its black hole. In my now modernistic realm, the family of five Billy bookcases is beholden to me.
I am the master of my furniture, not its miserable servant. I can reorganise my Billys at a whim, reconfigure the shelves to my dictat, push the bookcases together or move them apart. In summary, the shelves morph in accordance with my ever-changing needs. The shelves are all at one a showcase for my essays into conceptual art, a resting place for my executive toys and a safe harbour for my literary volumes – in short, my furniture shows the world who I am. (to be continued)