When I was an intern at the L.A. Times a dozen years ago, I had an all-white bedroom. I liked to lie on my white bed, beneath white mosquito netting, and consider the fragrance of the white Casablanca lilies I kept ever-present on the nightstand. Often, I played Pavarotti. This all-white room (in my friend Kim’s sweet beach house) felt like all I’d ever need in the world. (I was 22, OK?)
When T and I moved into our new house, the walls were white and I wanted almost everything else to be, too. The result was pretty, but all the furniture was fading together. I needed drama and contrast. And so last weekend, I had black paint on the counter and an encouraging friend on my sofa. On a wild, gleeful spree, I painted one of the walls black.
I love it. My friend loved it. Her event-planner husband pronounced it fantastic. My mom and sisters – ultimate test – all approved.
Tyson is not sure.
I explained to him why it works: the room is large, the ceilings are high, and half of the walls are floor-to-ceiling windows. The place is flooded with light. All the furniture is light and bright. The black makes the shape of the furniture pop.
Am I crazy? Do you like it?
P.S. This weekend at the grocery store I was greeted by a cardboard bin of pumpkins – real, stacked, orange pumpkins. (I squealed and posted a photo immediately to Instagram — are you following along? I’m @JaimeeRoseStyle) Anyway, another major pumpkin find: pretty silver-leaf pumpkins at Michaels. They come looking like this. And they come in gold, too. You don’t have to do anything but display and pretend you silver-leafed them yourself.
But now really, I want to know: the black walls . . . would you, could you? Am I nuts to be so in love?