I hate algorithms. I loved Pinterest until more than half my feed became, Picked for you.
Yesterday, I searched for red painted chairs. Today, you guessed it, my feed is mostly red chairs. I don’t want another red chair. I have one already, a sentimental ladder back my dad rescued from a junk pile. I love it. But one is enough.
Why did I type red chairs in the search box? Images. I search when I write. I want the perfect red chair to sit behind a computer psychic’s work desk. I want the perfect red chair next to the fireplace in my main character’s log cabin. I have the perfect red chair for me in my own house.
Why does social media insist I’m so meager that I can’t think for myself? What if tomorrow I need to describe yard art? A six-foot, ceramic alligator? Will the Bots-That-Be throw reptiles in my face for a month?
Friday: Cherry swims before school. It’s up to me to pick her up at the pool and get her to first period Biology before the tardy bell. It’s usually not a problem, except for the monsoon that hit San Antonio between 7:40 and 8:15 a.m. Oh, one more thing. Rush hour traffic.
Saturday: I read a book and cleaned two swimming pools. Must sleep.
Check Pinterest or any shelter blog. Gray is all the rage. (I’m not talking about the movie. That Grey is the British spelling, a proper noun.) Even though Pantone’s color of the year is Marsala, interior designers on the web prefer smoke, graphite, and flint. They caption photos, “Moody gray walls are dramatic with a small pop of color.”
Imagine a ruby throw slung over the foot of an ebony bed in the center of room painted pewter. It’s a black and white glossy with a single dash of interest. Of course, the color pops. It’s a giant red arrow directing everyone’s attention to the bed. Mmm. Sexy.
The home goods industry isn’t the first to capitalize on the emotion of a limited palette. Steven Spielberg used the technique in Schindler’s List. He shot the opening scenes in gray-scale, except for one beautiful little girl wearing a red coat. The audience follows the child through the decimation of the Krakow ghetto. Later, when we recognize her lifeless body in a pile with other lifeless bodies, we’re devastated because we know her. She’s wearing red. Now, Her life’s extinguished. The world is colorless.
Not so sexy, and notthe visual association designers had in mind when they painted all of those bedrooms gray. Even without Spielberg’s images, the trend reminds me of a generic hotel room. Stark. Neutral. Forgettable. I don’t want my home to look like a hotel, and if I have to stay in a hotel, I want my room to look like home.
We’re on a home improvement binge here at Crispville. I haven’t mentioned it because the repairs take over everything. I don’t want to turn Crisply Spoken into that kind of blog. To quote Seinfeld, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I love Young House Love and Remodelista. They fill a hole left by the demise of my favorite glossies, Domino and Cottage Living, but I spend too much time contemplating the perfect shade of gray or penny tile versus subway. Click this link to my Pinterest Boards, and you’ll see. I should be writing.
But … nothing on YHL compares to the soggy sheet rock behind my washing machine. I only thought to take a picture after it crumbled onto the linoleum. I want to show the pipe configuration to my plumber. He’s buying a timeshare in Vail with the cash I’ve spent to unclog this drain.
The iron skeleton reminds me of my novel synopsis. After chipping away the details, the structural problems are obvious. Time to get off the internet and write.