In the white room

If you were a little girly-girl in the 1960s, I'm sure you remember the White Bedroom Suite. It had everything a girl wanted, and it was white. Pure, pristine, and feminine. The canopy bed was a froth of lace; the dressing table had a mirror over it, and the desk was a confection that would thrill any girl into doing homework.

Of course I wanted it. I don't know if the girl in the frilly pink robe with the beautiful doll was in the ads, or a product of my imagination, but she was my idea of perfection. I knew that if I had a room like that, I would keep it spotlessly clean and I would be happy forever.

It was not to be. Looking back, it was an utterly impractical room for a real little girl, but it entered my consciousness in a way that even Barbie couldn't touch. I don't long for an impossible figure; I want an impossible room.

I've updated that dream; the canopy bed has been jettisoned, and I no longer have any use for a dressing table. But I now own a white work area in my brand-new studio. It has two workstations flanked by three storage sections; I have nine small drawers, two large drawers, and a bookshelf shelf. (Or I will, once I finish putting the drawers together!)

It's white, but it's a practical white; it's all powder coated, so it's easy to wipe up any spills. It certainly cost less than any single component of my dream bedroom; but it's perfect. My workstations are high enough to work either standing up, or perched on a stool; and one workstation is under a north window with a view of the hills.

It's a dream come true.