The Story of Things

I think it was their shape that caught my eye. All of those angles drenched in shiny lacquer. Standing there in the middle of CB2 staring at them, I was transported to a handsome library drenched in dark navy walls with antique leather chairs and brass finishes. I could see the boxes resting on a shelf next to a collection of wine-colored books; the flicker of gold lettering on the bindings complimented the sheen of their hexagonal neighbors. As I stood in that library studying the boxes, wondering what was inside, I imagined what they would look like on a low, wide coffee table in a sun-drenched living room in a Hampton’s beach house. Inside, there would be seashells.

This is how I shop. Things speak to me. I think about their stories and envision their potential. When it comes to curating things in my life, I don’t rely on logic for guidance. I don’t ask myself questions like, Where will I put it? or, Does it fit with my decor? My only requirement is that I love something beyond reason. After all, great style doesn’t need a reason; it’s a reflection of the heart.

I wandered around CB2 for a little while, running my fingers across the fabric on the grey sofa, examining the glassware, all the while thinking about my hexagonal boxes. There was definitely a connection there. I had already decided to buy them; I was just waiting for them to call me back so we could go to the register together.

The salesperson wrapped them in thick paper and carefully placed them in the bag. I could feel the excitement building inside of me. I couldn’t wait to hear what they thought about my place! I wondered where they would want to sit. Maybe the bookshelves upstairs? Or the library table in front of the loveseat? I would just have to wait and see what felt right. As I walked out of CB2, I could see my apartment through their eyes and was suddenly hit with the familiar embarrassment and shame I feel when I’m about to bring a new thing home to a messy house. I vowed to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning.

Things should connect us to something inside—a feeling, a story, a piece of ourselves. First and foremost, they should be functional. They have to have a role in the household. This jar holds the walnuts. This basket stores the bath towels. But our belongings should also support us in our lives. They should spark our imaginations and cheer us up when we’re having a bad day.

If our style reflects our story, then each piece should play its part. Which pillow do you grab when you want to rest your head on the couch? Why? What determines which mementos from your travels you decide to showcase on your side table? Why did you buy that rug? Maybe it feels good against your feet. It softens you.

My new boxes are now sitting on the library table downstairs; the roundness of it juxtaposes their sharp angles. They love to bask in the sunlight that streams through the front windows. Stacked on top of each other, they can see across the kitchen island and watch me cook. I like having them close by. I’m not sure what to put in them yet, but already they’ve inspired me to embrace something new. I invited them into my house but they’ve made me feel at h(om)e.