I've made peace with the clash of colors that my mother's 1930's Persian presents. There is perfection, and then there is life—and they aren't the same thing at all. When you love something, you make it work. Though I will say this: I had a moment today when I wanted to clear all the soft furniture away, and bring in one of those modern black leather Mies van de Rohe chaises. Simple, elegant, part psychotherapist office, part voice studio—which amounts to the same thing. But nothing is going anywhere for now. And in two weeks, everything will move for Thanksgiving, when I will open the dining table to seat 8 or more. Sometimes you have to mix it up.
Then there is the table behind the sofa that was bought as a desk, but never really used as one. That changed recently—so, now I have a dedicated space to write. The table has two leaves which I have in storage at present, their presence not being needed even if it makes the surface a bit narrower—which I don't mind a bit. The runner on top came from a friend who told me that it came from the Paris flea market—and once graced a church altar. The pipes in the pencil holder? They belonged to my father, though I should note he never smoked. Rather, he loved wood, and collected them for their craftsmanship. The watch was his too—English c. 1900 that I wear occasionally.