PLAYING AGAINST TYPE
There was a time in my life when all I desired was an entirely white home — white floors, white walls, white furniture, even books sheathed in sleeves of white paper. It was an aesthetic I’d seen successfully carried out in magazines by artistic homeowners often living in New York City lofts with soaring factory windows. When we bought our first house in Toronto, we decided to live in the space for a few months before taking on a major renovation. The walls were a deep burgundy and the floors were a dark-stained, cheap parquet. Prior to moving in, I persuaded my husband to give everything a coat of white paint — including the floors — so at least the house would feel bright and clean. Three coats later, the…
