It’s still cold outside, but it’s what one would expect for late February. We’ve reached that point in winter where the thrill of ice and snow has faded away (if it was ever there at all). The coats look tired hanging carelessly from the entryway rack, their outer shells dull from yet another season of fighting elements. Pilling scarves piled on top add to the tired display. Radiators clank in unison across the apartment, well worn into their duty to ignite the air to near oven roasting temperature. They’ll soon have their seasonal break, but not for a month (or two) to come. The time between radiator and air conditioner is short in New York City — a miraculous few weeks of window-opening worthy breezes replaced by the constant hum and rattle of the air conditioner’s compressor, another machine working to find twenty-first-century comfort.
Seashells, far from their native land cling to the porcelain tile wall while holding silk sprigs of ivy precariously above a toilet warmed by maroon shag carpet covers. A lace doily rests gently over the edge of the toilet’s top providing the background for the symmetrically balanced display of silk and porcelain flowers. The toilet’s sole function masked behind a purply mass of artificial flowers and lace, mocking you as it clutches its pearls and asks, “how dare you?”
Typology of Place 