Finding My Spice

Once upon a time, Sweetie and I lived in an apartment in Chicago. It was a two-bedroom on the 27th floor of a highrise overlooking Lake Michigan. If you look at the picture, it's on the top floor right in the middle of the long (south) side. I could walk around completely naked anytime I wanted and there wasn't another neighbor high enough to look in on me. And isn't that the true real estate value of a place? It was a HUD building at the time, which meant unbelievably cheap rents for poverty-level immigrants and students (we were in the latter category). Our neighbors to the left were from Poland, and the ones across the hall were Romanian. Every time the elevator doors opened (when they worked--nothing like schlepping up and down 27 flights of stairs) a different smell came in. Cabbage on one floor, tortillas on another. I'm a bit of a socialist anyway, so after the homogeneity of Lincoln Park's upwardly-mobile college grad scene, this was a welcome change. I left the yuppy taint of advertising behind me and embraced the uptown bohemian urban life of poor grad students and struggling masses yearning to be free. We even became community activists, organizing protests, petitions, and marches to protest our beloved building from losing it's HUD designation and going condo. We were like Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton in "Reds."

Sweetie is a philosophy professor now, but back in the day he was a crazy-sexy artist with a beard and long hair. He debated about piercing an ear and ultimately decided against it since he taught at BYU during the summers, but I did try to persuade him. Our apartment was very cool. It had black floors and the entire south side was windows. All along the walls, we had shopping bags from every store we could find. Saks Fifth Avenue, Marshall Field's, Bloomingdale's, Crate & Barrel, Neiman Marcus--any store that had a cool bag I would go in and sweet-talk my way into free art for our walls. I was shameless. But there was one bag that eluded us--the beautiful blue of Tiffany's. I saw people coming out of that store with tempting little bags full of some wonderful creation or another, and I became obsessed with that place. I watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's", tried to spot the unforgettable sterling bracelet on people's wrists, even toyed with the thought of buying an incredibly over-priced key chain just so I could have a bag. Then providence shone down upon me.

Our friend Albert was a doorman at an upscale condo building on Oak Street, just down from the Drake Hotel. A widow in his building died, and after her family went through her things, they told Albert he could see if there was anything he wanted. So of course, being the great friend he is, he had us meet him there. This is actually a great story which I will use for a later post, but suffice it to say, there, on a closet shelf, was my beautiful Tiffany's bag. A heavenly light emanated from it, at least in my memory. I cradled it in my arms and took it home to it's rightful place on my wall where it stayed until we moved to Utah.

Now, all our lovely bags are saved in a suitcase in my closet. The walls are decorated with grubby fingerprints and tape residue from the art that is produced in a houseful of children. All beautiful in their own way. But the kids are getting older and I'm waking up after a long sleep. Sweetie's paintings on the walls and the easel with a half-finished canvas still hint at the artistic souls who live here, but it has become more of a whisper. I miss the thrill of the hunt for the perfect bag, color, and mood I'm trying to express. I've forgotten what I like, what clicks, what turns me on (design-wise, of course. I have a pretty good idea about the rest).

I'm going to start by painting my laundry room a beautiful Tiffany-blue.

The title of this post isn't original to me. I borrowed it from c jane. Pop over to her blog to see how she is getting her spice back.