Pretty Little Style

There is an ephemeral joy that comes from pretty little things - you know, knicknacks and do-dads, bits and bobbles, this and thats. Just the sight of a dainty pastel robin's egg or a crackled, white-washed picture frame can turn a mood, create an ambience and although that joy will fade, it always returns.

I adore pretty little things - such as the ones in this pic - but I'm not good at collecting them. Honestly, I'm not even very good at displaying the ones I'm given. No matter how hard I try, I just don't have an eye for detail and although I'm desperately trying to cultivate a sense of style, I'll ever intuit one.

Color scares me. My wardrobe consists primarily of blacks, greys, browns, and whites. I'm trying to branch out (I bought a pair of teal tights at Target the other day... to wear with my grey dress, of course) but it's not easy. Thankfully, the previous owners of our flat put color on the walls so at least I've got that going for me. Choosing a paint color to cover 500 square feet would absolutely cripple me.

Decorating scares me. It seems so, well, just so permanent. Buying furniture is a massive undertaking not only because it requires many decisions but also because once purchased, the cost alone anchors the piece in place. That $1200 couch is going to stay with you for a long time out of sheer guilt alone. Our kitchen needs a major overhaul on our minor budget and I don't even know where to begin, which is why the ugly white laminate countertop will continue to peel away from its surface.

But still, I want pretty things. I want my wardrobe and my home to look like those of my friends whose styles are so innate that their homes, wardrobes, even their handwriting, exude it.

I covet Erica's personal style because it is the outcrop of her patient, thoughtful nature (her shoes are kept in gorgeous little shoe bags and her jewelry is worn in a manner that accents the delicate lines of her features); patience is one particular quality that escapes me, therefore my shoes always need re-heeled or recycled and my jewelry highlights my expertly torn cuticles and ink stained pinkie finger.

My friend Amy can spot a gem in a pile of rubbish: give her a pile of home interiors catalogs and she'll find the one perfect item, such as a collection of pale blue milk glass jars, that when placed atop antique kitchen cabinets (the ones she and her father had the foresight to remove from her grandmother's farmhouse before it was razed) look as though they, too, were rescued from an estate sale.

Aym belongs to the same school of patient style as Erica, which is why she had her cabinets stripped and restored to a chic "eat your heart out, Pottery Barn" condition before they ever entered her home. For some reason, I never enrolled in that school so unlike the two of them, I take what I get and then fool myself into embracing its condition.

Like when I tried to create a Craftsmanlike atmosphere by "cleverly" thumbtacking a post card of the Chateau Frontenac above my grandmother's antique desk (which is in desperate need of refinishing and probably isn't a real antique). Needless to say, the effect was more elementary school arts and crafts than the aforementioned 20th Century movement.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? For those of us who are stylistically challenged, developing a sense of style is as difficult as it is for a non-writer to try develop a stylistic voice: it takes a hell of a lot of effort to make it appear natural and not forced or contrived.