Confessions of a Chair Junkie

Chairs draw me like a moth to a flame. I simply cannot explain their allure. Maybe it's because they sometimes have arms that seem to beckon, or maybe it's their almost human form, but one thing is for sure, I have been enamored of chairs since I was a little girl. Especially french ones. Whenever I spot one my heart skips a beat. I could even go out on a limb to say this addiction may be the underlying reason I went into design. After all, the reality is all those chairs couldn't live with me in my house, so I needed a way to find homes for all the chairs I loved.

Once when I was a young mother, I heard there was a good yard sale in the community. It wasn't right by my house, but I thought a little walk would be an added bonus. Once at the sale, my eagle eye scanned the offerings. The usual tables of glassware, old crockpots, clothes everwhere. Just when I thought it was a bust, there it was. Underneath a stack of folded jeans, I spotted my prize. Covered in black Sparvar and a really bad black naugahyde upholstery job was a little chair saying to me "Help, save me!". So I asked the lady what her best price was, and she she said, "Oh, that old chair? I just put it there to hold the jeans. I'll take a couple a bucks for it."

Well now, can you just picture me trying not to do the happy dance while digging two crumpled up bills out of my jeans pocket? The lady looked at me like I was an idiot and she had made the smartest sale ever. Here I go, down the street with my black-on-black naugahyde chair, balanced upside down on my head, Kenya style. My husband watched me come up the driveway and when I proudly set down my fabulous find, he just shook his head. "Great, just what we need. Another chair."

So that is the story of just one quest to find my fix. Here is my little chair, unburdened of the black paint and wearing one of the many fabrics it's had since the day it came home with me. I feel like maybe I am the Mother Teresa of chairs.