Last night I went on an Internet treasure hunt for “vintage desks,” “vintage writing tables,” “retro desks,” and, in what should be read in a tone of pure desperation, “COOL WRITING DESKS.” What was I actually doing? I was seizing up in panic that I have nothing to contribute, to offer, to say that is meaningful, to talk or write about. I was responding to the certainty that everything I do and have done and maybe will ever do is just an off-brand imitation of something else—a Pradow, a Vera Wong, a Versanni. I was sweating over the fact that even when I do manage to write something I’m pretty sure it’s the wrong thing, or maybe not wrong per sey, but it’s not the best thing, not the shiniest-smartest-savviest-funniest-GREATNESS-LAUNCHING thing that I’m supposed to be consistently making just like all of my creative heroes did without a single sour note in their life’s work. My brain tells me this logic is as real as gravity and sweat.
What could be holding me back? The desk. Of course. Yes. The desk is the proverbial albatross; it is the leaky faucet, it is the sticky grocery carriage wheel keeping me from careening forward to success, stopping me from reaching my artistic zenith; is the loathsome tank that stands between me and the shiniest-smartest-savviest-funniest-GREATNESS-LAUNCHING thing that I’m supposed to be consistently making.
Because the desk I use is not even a desk. It is a White Crafting Table from the Martha Stewart Living Inc. line of junk that I bought over ten years ago. It is large and wide like a drawbridge and just as thick. It has two drawers so at least I have a place to stash all the fancy journals I buy and never use. Why do I own such a thing? I struggle to recall or maybe have blocked it out entirely, but I have to guess it had something to do with a search that started with “vintage writing desks” and ended up with me convinced that this anti-desk, this UN-desk, was “different in a cool way.” Had I absorbed anything from all those hours I spent as a kid watching Brady Brunch reruns, I would have recognized this as a classic, CLASSIC, Jan Brady move destined to backfire with spectacular fashion. Evidently I had not. I even bought two white matching bookcases to complete the inane ensemble.
Not long after I had gotten all this furniture set up in my study, I showed it to a friend from out of town who was staying with us for a few days. He glanced around the room.
“I knew a woman in the music business, back in the 90s I think, with a set up like this,” he said. “Big desk. All white. Yep.” I could tell from his tone that this wasn’t a compliment. It was more like one of those observations made by a friend or partner or family member who thinks they are being helpful in some kind of circuitous, non-confrontational way, but really they are just being an asshole, but sort of nice about it.
When he left I saw the room through his eyes–cartoonish and odd, like a kid who draws a picture of what they think AN ARTIST’S ROOM is supposed to look like. The next day I ordered a tablecloth. It was the only thing I could think to do to cloak the ridiculousness of the white Crafting Table from the Martha Stewart Living Inc. line of junk. Over the years I’ve also cycled through tablecloths, searching for the one that might actually tie the room together alla The Big Lewbowski. The current cloth has lasted the longest. It is a country style print with sprigs of lavender and little yellow flowers. If Maria von Trapp walked in she’d strip it immediately to make new shorts for the children.
Also, did you know that “vintage desks,” “vintage writing tables,” “retro desks,” “COOL WRITING DESK,” are expensive? I found a hopeful candidate on Etsy. A mid-century modern desk inspired by Swedish design. It was quite a looker with amber-hued wood, a top that curved around in a lulling swoosh, and a series of three small drawers, one painted black to give the desk a wink of additional charm. I was smitten. It had character. It held promise. I practiced saying the phrase mid-century modern to myself to make sure I could pull off a smooth delivery. The piece was already on the upper-end of my price range, but I felt it would be worth it if it meant I could finally get around to unleashing the full force of my creative prowess. And then I clocked the shipping cost: nearly as much as the desk! No wonder they always talk about starving, underfunded, barely paid artists. When you can’t even afford a decent mid-century modern desk inspired by Swedish design there is something gravely wrong with the whole culture!
Overall I love my study. It is cozy and has great light. I have two windows that overlook the other houses in our neighborhood. I never procrastinate and stare out into my neighbors’ backyards, judging their choice of patio furniture, mocking the kid detritus–basketballs, scooters, helmets and pads, and brightly colored plastic cartoon objects that definitely require batteries–strewn all over the place like Disney World diarrhea. No. This is where I CREATE, where I show up and DO THE WORK, where I journey into my truth in order to MAKE MY ART. At least I would if it weren’t for this goddamn desk.
The desk taunts me. The desk mocks me. I can tell. It rejoices in my mediocrity. It relishes my creative paralysis. I alone have defeated you! it cries, though the cries are muffled because of the tablecloth. Still, I hear them. This tell-tale desk! You ruin everything! I would chop you up into little pieces of kindling if I had an axe and if I wasn’t sure that whatever you’re actually made of wouldn’t release carcinogenic fumes. But you would deserve it. Robbing me of my genius, siphoning my potential! WHO ELSE ARE YOU WORKING WITH? THE DULL AREA RUG? THE UNCOMFORTABLE PLEATHER CHAIR THAT DOESN’T FIT BECAUSE IT’S MADE FOR AN OFFICE DESK AND NOT A WHITE CRAFTING TABLE FROM THE MARTHA STEWART LIVING INC. LINE OF JUNK?
You won’t get away with this!
Or you might.
Because, anyway, I think the real issue here is that I don’t have the best pen.
As always, you make me laugh out loud. I'm late to the party here. Wednesday was a , whirlwind, and Thursday—did this happen? I constantly fear buying furniture because it requires me to take measurements and use math. Desks included. Not to mention building furniture, because let's face it, I still live like I'm in Ikea mode, even if I now use Amazon, cause I'm not schlepping the hour to Ikea and dealing with recycled air and Swedish meatball smells wafting in the air. I currently use a desk I fear will one day soon turn to rubble under the weight that comes from the pressure of monitors, calendars, laptops, random water bottles, strewn notes, and expensive hand cream I never use.
And like you, I never stare out of my window at the neighbors. NEVER! I'm all work and no distractions.
Alright I think maybe the desk was worth every penny and all the creative angst along the way for this essay to have been spawned!!!