Interior Design and Never-Ending Sighs

Choosing to live in a place that is virtually empty is both nice and excruciating.
Nice because I could make a nice wardrobe for myself to hang my too many clothes in. Nice because you can keep an empty space empty.

Excruciating, because I have to care about what I want my kitchen to look like.

My initial response "Like a Kitchen?" failed to convince the jury, so they sent me to Hell. Well, "Hell" is just another four letter word to describe that other four letter word IKEA. If by some miraculous mistake, all intelligent people in the world were wrong and there would be a God, then my personal Hell would be eternity in IKEA.
I dreaded going, postponed it with a phoney excuse of being impotent and/or incontinent, but in the end, I decided I may want something else than doing dishes in my bath tub and eat toasted bread all the time (I don't really, but the World wants me to want that, I swear!).

I remembered my last visit at IKEA in Belgium and it was exactly the same the first time I went here in Berlin, now about four weeks ago. As soon as I entered, I immediately forgot what I had come in for. I started getting irritated by the whole concept of interior design (I am quite sure this is why I wanted to make my own wardrobe for instance - I had no intent of giving some dead Swedish billionaire my money for a wardrobe that wasn't what I had in mind - but at least, for my wardrobe, I had something in mind). To me, a kitchen is a kitchen is a kitchen... is a kitchen. If it has a sink and a stove and maybe a fridge (oh the luxury!), I'm a happy camper. I don't care what it looks like, I don't care about having my tap signed by the Chinese child labourer who is forced to act as the representative of some Italian designer, so I won't spend more than the minimum amount on those things.

So again, the first time I came home with nothing, apart from a 99 cent toilet brush and some hate for mankind (that would change into love again soon, but still). But I had to return, I had to go back, I knew that if I wanted to spend as little time as possible caring about this, I'd have to go back.

And there I am having to choose. I stand there looking at taps. I feel like I have to fart a bit. I scratch my bum until the gas gently releases itself into the store ventilation system. I try to find a reason to care. In the end, I go for functional and cheapest. But it turns out that that one just "happens to be out of stock", but we have this one that's only 30 euros more expensive than the other one. Is 30 euros extra worth not having to come back here? YES IT IS, I scream and immediately show a nipple to underline this. Am I cheap? When it comes to this, I am, yes.
But the point is, I really don't care. I am a practical person, if something I don't care about is "acceptable", I will go for it - I won't make love to it, but I hardly feel that's necessary for a piece of furniture. Suddenly, I found myself having to care about all of these things and I just wanted to weep. Maybe "wanting to weep" is a bit soft, I found myself "wanting to burn down that IKEA after having locked everyone inside", yeah, that's more like it. But of course I didn't do that, mostly because I didn't carry any matches.
I try to imagine the world of design, people wanting to die for some oddly shaped chair that isn't even comfortable. That's probably even worse than IKEA, because the shit isn't only on display, as it is in IKEA, it's also coming out of people's mouths. And I couldn't possibly be held responsible for the smashing of those mouths if I would be in their presence.

So...
Only today, three weeks after I bought the damn sink, I got my tap installed and connected and working. Of course, I had chosen a sink without a hole for a tap, but they don't tell that at IKEA, they make you come home home, realise that there is no hole and then having to find out that they actually sell a tool for making said hole. Immediately, I felt the urge to go and damage a hundred of their horrible mass-produced photos of city landscapes, each one more stereotypically bland than the next. This is not a crime, it's constructive vandalism at best, at least the mass produced photos have something unique about them now. Besides, they want to force people to buy their extra tool anyway, anyone who had to come back for this (even though he bought the more expensive tap specifically NOT to come back!) would think about making them pay.

Making the hole in the sink involved some unpleasant drilling (I guess this is a pleonasm (though I assume Erik might disagree with that *VERY dirty laugh*)). I hate the sound of a drill. I tried it for a few seconds on the sink last week and it just annoyed me so much, that now I got myself some earplugs before I decided to try it again. Once I was "in there" however, I enjoyed watching the aluminium/inox top flame up and melting from friction, misshaping the drill piece as well, but in a beautiful coming together of melting metal and violent fire. I do like welding more than drilling, but, without the sound, it would have been the same. The power of welding is more subtle and mystical.

Because of having to make decisions about things I don't care about, I also postponed decisions I do care about, like where I'd put my darkroom. First it was my laundry room, then it was part of my studio (but that would be a shame), now it's part of the staircase and that's where it's going to stay.

Still, gradually things are looking like a Timmy-Boy lives here. Chaotic, functional, private, but pleasant.

One thing I love about Germany is their gigantic DIY stores (gigantic compared to Belgian standards). I guess I like raw matter more....