The first frame is Schock's office in Washington. This was featured on Gawker.
Somebody said the theme is from "Mad Men" but I'm not so sure about that. Somebody else said "Downton Abbey" theme but I am not seeing that either. It looks to me simply shaggy chic - hipster - post modern expression of seriously poor taste. The article said the decoration was provided free but then still cost tens of thousands of dollars for leather chairs and granite countertops and such. That cost doesn't bother me so much as how little that bought. This whole wall treatment can be done with one trip to a flea market. Gild a few old wooden frames, pick up historical photos or rip them yourself. I get it. Post modern. Frames and pictures but not used appropriately. The walls say welcome to all that history. All that, everything at once, inside and out, backward and forward, compressed in time, blown out of their frames, tossed in the air and flung on the walls, appreciated as collected accumulated wisdom and industry. So why hold back? Why so conservative? Oh, Republican.
The feathers have to go.
I know people who like those feathers for decoration. Hunters with feathers around all over, it's part of it, part of hunting, and wings and bird's nests and decoys as home decorations. This one looks like a feather duster stored in a vase, and the smaller one makes it worse. If hunting, then have something better, like rattle snake tails, or scorpions or what have you, something fierce, unusual and extraordinary.
The little framed photo on the short stack of books a contrived designer neuroses. Nobody will touch those books. They may as well be glued or made of plastic. It's cheap designer kitsch. Same with the pile of books on the table with the crystal tray or whatever candy tray as book-anchor that says, "don't bother this precious designer vignette, you oaf." You don't want that.
The one ironic non-historic piece on the wall of non-art, horizontal stripes filling a frame. Out. Pick a theme and stick with it throughout. Historical figures, it seems. They needn't be serious. They needn't be all politicians. Mickey Mouse is an historical American figure. If you want something disarming and insist on something ironic. Highly influential. He belongs in an American history pantheon as much as anyone else. The pastel horizontal stripes do not. They are a cop out to design idea.
I didn't remember correctly. I recalled the walls painted gold or bronze color, not grey. I recall industrial gears and oversized watch gears that were not necessarily enmeshed, just arranged as a flattened machine. The whole wall sort of like this except different sizes and gauges.
I think this is the Dr Who clip. It is the only thing similar that I can find. I'm disappointed. They do not look like gears as I recall. They look like hubcaps.
Ever go into Hubcap Annie's on Colfax? Fascinating.
A bit expensive too. But I guess if you need the exact hubcap, it's probably a good deal.
4 comments:
It's just fucking garish. Frankly, why do representatives and senators have offices anyway? They should just have a spartan room with a desk, a chair, and a windows. That's it.
that room would mess up my rods and cones.
How about some earth tones?
This picture of Mr. Schock's office reminds me of an episode from my childhood that my brothers and sisters used to recount merrily when our mother was present to react:
We were on vacation, traveling somewhere -- if memory serves -- in the vicinity of Erie, Pennsylvania (meaning, somewhere 100 miles along the highways in that area, in any direction). When we were kids, we would take driving vacations, and my father would try to "get in" as many miles as possible, while my mother was always the one saying, "Foxy (her pet name for him), we've got to stop." She would make this point frequently, with rising impatience. I'll leave you to imagine the state of things with the five or six children populating the middle and "way back" seats in the station wagon, and the whole scene.
As the youngest, my memory of this particular "stop" is vague; I was in the "way back." My mother, way up front, had persuaded my dad that yes, we would stop -- but where? Again, if memory serves, we were at that moment, on the hunt for lunch. The reader in 2015 must realize that in those faraway days, circa 1970 or so, highway exits were far less populated by recognizable, predictable restaurants. (This is a big reason why McDonalds became so successful.) In fact, the Interstate itself was still in its adolescence. They didn't have the helpful signs you now see, telling you what restaurants are off a particular exit. (Perhaps those are a result of my parents' prayers, back then. Who can say?)
So what you often had to do was take a stab and get off the Interstate or the Turnpike, and see what you could find. So we were rolling down a lesser highway, searching for something promising. Recall, also, my parents were both mindful of cost, as well as suitability for a us kids.
How I wish I could remember either the sign or the name my parents saw; but when you ride in the way-back, you can't see those things. You see the cars behind you, and you make faces. In any case, we pulled into a parking lot, with a fairly large, boxy, nondescript building set well back. There must have been a sign; and I'm guessing it was...ambiguous.
The point I really started paying attention was when we passed from the entry way toward the dining room. Three things stand out:
> A giant, gurgling fountain, we walked around. No hands allowed in the fountain!
> There was fur--really thick fur--on the walls. Like heavy shag carpeting.
> Everything was bathed in pink light.
I'm left-handed, so that means, in a booth, I either sit on the outside, or against the wall. I was against the wall, petting it. Really, what could be cooler than this?
It's been awhile since my siblings and I recounted this story. I can't recall my father's reactions, but I can imagine it. When I asked him about it many years later, he didn't really remember it, he claimed. Nothing of the food comes to mind, but I recall my mother not wanting us wandering about too much in a place she called a "fancy house."
Perhaps Mr. Schock recalls this place and was nostalgic?
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