I was assigned to Dupont Circle. A few us who would be in nearby areas met at a photographer's house. I had never been in a house like this.
It was stylish. Looking back, I can't remember what the style of the place was. Probably modern, but it could have been anything because of what it wasn't. It was a bona fide city apartment and the first I had seen.
We sat in the small living room, tired and a little nervous. The photographer's wife, girlfriend, someone, silently brought us a tray of cinnamon rolls. There was probably coffee and orange juice, but it was the tray that transfixed me. Simple and elegant, I had never seen food served on a tray like this before. The combination of simple (I am quite sure that the cinnamon rolls were from a can) combined with an item I considered refined and a little pompous was completely new to me. I remember her being vaguely foreign, perhaps French, with long black hair. Her disinterest in our day combined with the courteous breakfast only added to the intrigue. And the silence. I could be wrong but I remember us eating our cinnamon rolls in a silence.
I made a mental note that has stuck with me for so long it must have been a mental flag firmly rooted in my developing ascetic. The tray was key. And it could be purchased quite cheaply I was sure.
As we prepared to leave, I carried my empty plate to the kitchen and was completely startled by what I saw. Behind the half wall that separated the living room from the kitchen was a bed. On the floor. It was unmade but seemed terribly sophisticated to me. Looking closer I saw that it had a frame, very low to the ground. This comfortableness with strangers walking past your unmade bed to the kitchen was something new. People I knew retreated into their rooms and worlds.
A few short years later I would have my own studio in New York. Despite my significant efforts, including the tray, it never quite lived up to the charm of that first studio apartment.
No comments:
Post a Comment