Thirty or more years ago, when I was very young and about to move into my first apartment, I needed stuff. I think this is a legitimate use of the term need. I had very little. I went to garage sales and bought kitchen items – the usual fifty cent mixing bowl (recently broken, so it had a good long life) and old plastic colander (still in use). I inherited furniture, dishes and linens from friends and relatives. I built myself the quintessential bookshelf out of plywood boards and bricks – although I did splurge for some fancy patterned cement blocks, because that’s just the way I am. I found an apartment for a whopping $241 a month that I loved, despite the fact that the kitchen sink was located in a closet and was so low I had to sit in a chair to do dishes (not an activity I was particularly committed to). It was an old building with high ceilings and hardwood floors, the rooms were begging to be filled with things that complemented its quirkiness and borderline shabbiness.
I was studying design at the time, so obviously I needed (perhaps not a legitimate term, in this case) to finish off the place with some beautiful things. So I began to search. With no real budget, this was a challenge. As a practical compromise, I bought cheap fabric, built a frame, dripped and dibbled some old paint and created a painting of some magnificent size. It wasn’t good, but it filled a wall.
But, I needed more. I wanted more.
It was shortly before I moved that Bryan, my future husband, and I were having dinner with my Grandma Loewen. She was a character, as was my grandfather (his ability to craft all manner of functioning mini-vehicles out of trash is legendary….but that’s another story). She was a generous soul. The kind of grandma that knew all her neighbours, was exceptionally hospitable, and would start her prayers at five in the morning so as to have enough time to cover everyone. After dinner, knowing I was about to make up my first home, she suggested we go visit one of these neighbours. Off we went. When we arrived, another old lady guided me over to her storage closet. Inside were two area rugs. Kind of fancy, Persian style rugs that were probably purchased at Eaton’s in Winnipeg thirty years earlier. She told me she didn’t need them anymore and I could have both for $35. I couldn’t believe my luck. Now, $35 was actually a pretty good sum to me at the time, my job paid $4.33/hour, but I felt it was a worthwhile investment. I’m glad I did.

Those rugs have graced our home ever since. I love those rugs. They are a fairly typical Kashan style design, in deep red with details in dark blues and greens, and although not hand knotted, were probably pretty good quality when first purchased. They’ve enjoyed their second life with me in seven places. They’ve been to every event we’ve ever had in our home. They’ve know all our pets and all our guests. The larger one is falling apart now, and should probably be replaced, it is threadbare in spots and the fringe is essentially gone resulting in increasing unravelling at the ends. We have regular conversations about whether to do so, but simply haven’t made the commitment. I rarely walk into our living room without remembering my Grandma Loewen. And that is something.
With rugs in place and an assortment of used (bordering on ratty) furniture assembled, of course I needed art. I mean, beyond my own attempt at a Jackson Pollock rip off. So the search continued. I was no stranger to being creative in establishing visual interest in a room. We need not go into great detail, but there was that childhood incident when I insisted on hanging those old styrofoam McDonald’s containers on strings from the ceiling. Credit goes to my parents for not discouraging an odd design sense in my early development.

Original art was not in the cards, and it pains me to admit this, but I became a book slicer. Looking back, I kind of regret this. Knowing what I know now about the value, both monetarily and historically, of old books, I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to own an x-acto knife. Too late now. The first transgression, probably not that big a deal as it wasn’t likely a valuable book although still a book, was a collection of prints by Belgian artist and illustrator Jean-Michel Folon. Folon was a twentieth century painter who did fantastic posters for all kinds of events and this book was full of reproductions that could easily (apologies to my book loving friends) be sliced out and framed. I don’t know what happened to the book or the rest of the prints, but two remain on our living room wall all these years later. I still love them Their colours. Their graphic nature. Their liveliness.

Book two was a different story. Brace yourselves. Here it comes. It was a beautiful book. Each page representing a month of the year. Lovely images illustrating the character of each month - warm colours, soft old paper. A glimpse into life in 1912. With reckless abandon I chopped it up. Probably my greatest (art related) regret. I know I only paid about two dollars for it, but it was an act of thoughtless desecration. What I would give to have that book now in its complete, unvandalized form. After doing a bit of research, I now know that it was a collection of woodcut prints on ivory Japanese paper. There are copies beyond my budget available to buy, and several prints identical to ours in the collections of notable museums like the Art Institute of Chicago, where the artist attended night classes. Done by Gustave Baumann, these prints illustrated a book of poems written by James Whitcomb Riley called, All the Year Round. Four prints remain on our walls, what’s become of the rest I do not know. A few musicians playing tunes in a summery park, a shocked man at what I imagine is his tax bill, laundry gently drying in the winter sun, and a bit of relaxing before the fire. Apparently this special little book project was not a great success, and Baumann referred to it as a ‘dismal flop’ but for us, it is a picture of life in a time long gone. Who inspired these pictures? What was their life like? Have we changed much since 1912? Maybe, a little, but then again, not really.
And so, the collecting began in earnest. This pursuit of the beautiful. The things that fill our spaces with warmth and memories, comfort and interest. I look back on these early purchases with fondness. They do not reflect what I see in current design magazines or the media, but they do reflect the lives of those who came before. They speak to the emergence of an appreciation of others’ craft and talent. They represent the beginning of a philosophy. Beauty is everywhere, seek it and you will find it. Understand it, and the ability to share its rejuvenating power will emerge and grow.
Your story of early apartment decorating reminds me of my sister, Lois, and her lifelong necessity to create her own space (she started out with an old barn for an art studio at a pretty young age). Obviously for you both, this way of habituating has brought much joy and contentment. I love the Oma stories...still miss her. Thanks for sharing. Sari