The Flattening of Design

And how we find our way back

My introduction to design began with swaths of color. My first apartment was the second floor of a late 19th-century Tudor in downtown Rochester. The living room was painted mustard yellow, the dining room was a rich ruby red, and the office and bedroom were cornflower blue. The kitchen? Amber, a black line, and then a deep green with teal tile and walnut cabinets (what?!). I was in college, and painting was out of the question; I didn't even consider it. Nor did I yearn for white walls. Of course, I would live in this kaleidoscope of color. I filled each vibrant room with hand-me-downs from my parents and vintage finds from a dusty local warehouse—a jumble of periods, textures, and tones. Each piece had character. There was not a sliver of beige in sight.

20-year-old lauren in her ruby red dining room

The colors! What is going on in the kitchen? Not pictures - the blue rooms. And what happened to that floor lamp? I want it back.

Lately, I've been thinking about that apartment. I only lived there for a year, from 2007 to 2008—pre-Instagram, pre-Pinterest. Finding photos is challenging, but thanks to some friends and a party I definitely don't remember, I have a few. When I moved out, I left color behind. My next apartments got progressively grayer, more beige. And yes, I'll admit it: Z-Gallery. I embraced industrial chic for a time—iron dining table, cowhide rug, mixed with all white pottery with boobs, lips, butts, and horns (you know what I am talking about). A downward spiral. I've been trying to claw my way back ever since.