The thing I love most about this, though, is not the Swedishness of it, or the newness of it, but rather because it reminds me quite forcefully of my parents apartment when I was a little girl. We lived our bohemian, Buddhist, revolutionary artist life on the outskirts of Harlem in the seventies, in an apartment building that was condemned just a few years later.
It looked a lot like this, but with worn wood instead of painted floors. And our sofa, the mattress covered in patterned linens and pillows, sat on a door much like this. It was however propped up on cinder blocks. I think if I were to do this look today, which I might, I think I love it, I prefer the wheels. We even had a table that was much like this one, but again, the pretty wood sat on cinder blocks.
We had photographers lights every where, and paper lanterns. And many photographs, since my dad was a photographer and film maker. But behind the sofa, we had an old granny square afghan, possibly the reason why I hold a fondness for granny square afghans and really, really should finish the one I am working on now.