Sarah's House

My friend Sarah's house exists on that existential plane of cool, artsy, and eclectic that only deigns to exist, in my weird overgeneralized estimation, in odd independent films about people who wear beret's non-ironically and dont really brush their hair much, possibly with subtitles. In fact, I was the first to show Sarah what a hair straightener looks like... and she is 31. Her house is all about the rare find. The quirky. The antique. People who blaze this trail, this lifestyle, this choice of decor, are typically really interesting individuals with penchants for the tiny details, and, in Sarah's case, a deep seeded love affair with mason jars. Her Jamaica Plain abode walks that fictitious line between a garage sale in 1973, Grandma's attic, and the oddly comfortable mis-matched space you never knew you kinda wish you lived in. With walls and statements you kinda wish you'd thought of. From the homemade candles, to the old LP's actually looking like they are used and enjoyed, the soothing soft jazz thats equal parts dark, eerie, and sexy, all comfortably paired with stone-ground chocolates purchased at an unmarked boutique in Somerville... its a laid back cool I secretly aspire to, and have honestly accepted I'll never be. I am OC and leopard and hot pink and flair and overstatement. I am pop and pomp. I come by it honestly. Moss green does not immediately occur to me as a wall color. (A font color on the other hand...)
I dont see a homemade valentine in the tiny shreds of a used magazine, or find the beauty in a bevy of old hair combs.
But I have learned to appreciate this art of the minutia, this idea of an unassuming corner brewery cafe selling the absolute brownie of dreams, contributing to to an ever-growing avoidance of an "It" place, life, crowd.

Or maybe its just time for a re-mastering of concepts. To take a second look.

Thanks Sarah. For sharing your kale soup and your house of tiny dreams. It is your east coast I'd always hoped to find.