When I look up at my little bungalow when I get home at night, this is what I see.
It may really look like any other older home in the Avenues {top left image}but to me there is something magical about it.
Maybe I've imagined it so many times it has become a secret shared between the house and me and it seems to shimmer between reality and imaginary. What could be if only the weathered wood was painted a pretty color and the brick {I know this is bordering sacrilege} was painted a pretty warm grey.
Maybe I've imagined it so many times it has become a secret shared between the house and me and it seems to shimmer between reality and imaginary. What could be if only the weathered wood was painted a pretty color and the brick {I know this is bordering sacrilege} was painted a pretty warm grey.
I would take great pleasure in yanking out all those nasty bushes and dated wrought iron to build retaining walls out of stacked stone to compliment the sand stone porch steps. I'd plant a beautiful xeriscape type garden on each level with herbs and blossoming bushes. Instead of a lamp post, spotlit stairs and architectural details. Instead of a storm door, something inviting like high gloss terracotta orange.
The porch would have a thick colorful rug and beautiful lighting with cozy chairs to curl up in to enjoy the view of the city below.
And the details...OH! the details. From unique house numbers, to window treatments to accent the colors used on the exterior... It is never quite the same dream twice, an ever evolving thing that changes with my mood and the inspiration I've run across during the day. I hold up an idea like a dress to see if it fits.
What would I do with all that free space in my head if I weren't dreaming about design?
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