Jean-Honore Fragonard's painting The Swing
I am not a minimalist. I have tried, really I have. The other day I went to get ready for an event and I pulled out my oh, so chic and understated eggplant sheath dress, I added my not too large, not too sparkly stud earrings, and then it was time for shoes. For about a millisecond my hand hovered over the classic black pumps with the not too high, not too low heel, and with a mind of its own passed right over them for the buttery yellow suede stilettos with the six inch heel. I eschewed the sensible cardigan and threw on my antique coral silk shawl embroidered with a garden’s worth of colorful flowers, and since the earrings seemed a trifle lonely, I topped it all with an engraved Indian cuff bracelet. It was minimalism only by Liberace’s standards.
If you want to live in an all white room with bare windows and a black leather chair go for it. I don’t judge. As for me, I need my books, and photos and curtains on the windows to keep the neighbors from viewing my clutter. My closet space runneth over and that’s just the way I like it.
Thanks be to Michele B. for writing an anthem for those of us who love wretched excess and irrational exuberance and letting me be the first person to record it. Sometimes more IS more.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject…I’m still looking for your stories of glorious excess. Click here for details and maybe even free chocolate!