Okay, so Claire linked to yet another adoring article about perfectly-groomed tiny houses this morning. Their precious interiors, architecturally-fashionable boxiness and clearly professional construction did not make me in any way hostile. No – I’m far above that. Bastards.
But it did remind me of a loverly little piece that – by total coincidence – I read yesterday…
I f’ing love the idea of downsizing and living a “simple life,” but seriously, where do you put your shit? You still have some clothing and shoes and towels and all that jazz, right? Or do you just wear overalls now? Overalls and Birkenstocks and one towel that you share with your entire family. Where do you wash that towel, hmm? Do you have a tiny river that runs behind your tiny house? I bet you do. I bet your whole Goddamn property is whimsical.
And I know your house isn’t that clean all of the time. In your pictures, it looks like you only own a tiny sofa, several throw blankets & pillow, one cooking pan, one antique book and one framed photo of you laughing in front of your tiny house.
The writer does go off on some flights of sarcastic fancy here and there, but also asks questions people really thinking of building one of these artist-studios-posing-as-houses might want to seriously consider before pulling the trigger.
And no, I don’t mean the one about how it’s all fun and games until somebody farts. Though possibly that, too. My main problem with all these tiny house articles involves the same question I have about every house or apartment ever featured in any fashion magazine anywhere: What’s with all the throw pillows? Do people really live in that? Because it looks more like it was built to be looked at.