We spent the past weekend with family in south-west Virginia, in a house that was bought to be a project-house. The house has good "bones", open and connected spaces, plenty of rooms and a luxurious garage. It's convenient to the interstate and convenient to the gorgeous surrounding hills. The neighborhood is quiet and improving.
But the house is a project. The last time we were there, I drew this sketch (above): two floors. I crossed out all the rooms we couldn't use. An office was finished and functional. However, two small chairs set at a cafe-style table in a non-functional kitchen. A single sofa in a living room faced a television. Upstairs, bedrooms and baths were in any one of the following states: newly finished and shining, storage, or demolition.
At that time, we visited within a paradox, within the contrasts of that project house. We were welcomed and happy to visit, yet no room had chairs enough for four. We ate wonderful food, yet we didn't have a table to share. We rested peacefully, yet we awoke onto bare plywood floors. The kitchen was the center of the home, but an oven was removed, flickering tube bulbs were bare, "white" cabinets were in shadow and dirtied with age and style. The unfinished spaces crowded into the useful spaces. Piles of debris filled the rooms where we wanted to live. We had a happy time with our family, but a difficult time with the architecture.
This time was different. The score of finished rooms increased. We celebrated together at a dining table in a dining room with walls painted a modern color. We again ate wonderful food, but mostly ate out, comfortably. The cramped, dark, shadowy kitchen was fully gutted: cabinets and awkward island chateau happily removed. In its place, a fresh setting of new floor tile was progressing hopefully. The unfinished spaces seemed to be in check - a tide had turned. What was unfinished now highlighted the wonderfully fresh, newly opened rooms. We sat in the comfortable dining room and looked at the contrast outside. It was as if snow was falling cold and heavy outside, but we were inside and we were warm. It was order within disorder; it was a better percentage of done to undone.
And there was more. We could think about other things than the house. We thought about family. We enjoyed the holiday. We rested. We enjoyed the outdoors and we explored the town.
I thought about art. In this newly opened dining room, in this comfortable space, a single work of original art set against the head wall. It was not hung, it was not pulled apart from the room, it was not an applique on a wall; it was set, on a buffet, leaning into the room. Art was in the room with us.
It was a painting of a seated nude, seen from behind, hair tied behind the head. Colors were pale and thin. It was an academic piece, the folds of fabric artfully done, the hair carefully articulated, the body represented with some blushing modesty. The painting surprised me, for example, as our family ate breakfast together. In the lulls of conversation, or in moments when I preferred not to be engaged, the painting was asking to be observed, starting a conversation. And the painting had a story - we learned about the day it was painted, and we discussed other family's reactions and suspicions, and we reacted together ourselves. Of course I could not be caught staring at the work, lest my intentions be misinterpretted, but I was thankful that the painting was there. The painting let me feel less unconfortable in some ways with my in-laws. It reminded me of school, of studying, of trying new things, of real personal expression on a canvas, of conveying what cannot be carried in words. Perhaps simply an image of someone unclothed reminded me that I was clothed, as a speaker might envision when in front of an auditorium of colleagues. To be certain, it did remind me of beauty, and beauty always lets me relax.
And, there was more art. Our hosts had set provocative and interesting books on our nightstand, to be enjoyed, and we did enjoy them. Kindness also leads to rest, and we were thankful for that.
