The Coffee Table

The Quest for the Perfect Coffee Table

My coffee table taunts me. Sitting squarely in the space created by the “L” of my chaise sofa, its defiance is strong. One might think that this inanimate object, a distressed wooden trunk, could not hold such power over a person; for me, its force is captivating. Its power may lie in the promise it holds, the challenge it provides, or the ideal it presents.

It started out innocently enough, with that perfected ideal screaming to me from the glossy pages of magazines—the coffee table: all-encompassing, all-knowing, all-telling. The perfection of the exactly placed combination of books, magazines, and objets d’arte. The stuff that speaks volumes about your intellect, personality, and taste. You have seen those stacks of pretty books, the ones that balance their aesthetics and topics in a perfect blend of studied nuance.

A stranger visiting my home for the first time may wonder, Who is she, exactly?

“Well, let me just show you,” says my coffee table. “Just glance over at me, and you can tell at once that she embraces art, history, architecture, and philosophy. She is not a one-trick pony; she has books on various topics!”

It started out naively enough, with the bright hope of youth, as I fervently believed that things were what they seemed at first glance. The very presence of the coffee table books indicated a certain type of person! You know—a perfect one. Those people, the perfect ones: they know which books will show just how intriguing, cool, and intelligent they are. My artful placement of perpendicular stacks (with an occasional bold accessory) could define me.

It started out simply enough: an art history book from college, a coffee table book of my favorite artist, and a glossy black and white number with New York’s architecture. What about books I was actually reading? Well, they didn’t belong there. They were merely paperbacks, dog-eared, and the wrong proportion to lie with the glossy, dust-jacketed, luxuriously oversized coffee table books. The absence of inappropriate material, such as the lowly, pulpy paperback, could guarantee my lofty position as the designer: the lover of form over function.

It started out properly enough; I always left space for the occasional coaster and beverage; it is, indeed, named a coffee table. Not too much space was allowed, though, for beverages must be kept contained and restricted in this contrived landscape.

As I tried to achieve and maintain my ideal, it began to come undone. Remote controls, folded laundry, and sweating drink glasses consistently found their way to the tabletop as they searched for a home. So, maybe the ideal cannot be attained on an everyday living basis; perhaps the ideal is reserved for visitors. If so, then what is the point of the perfectly appointed coffee table? If one cannot look nonchalantly perfect at the drop of an unexpected visitor’s hat, then the purpose of the quest is simply defeated. How could sweating drink glasses and my husband’s rolled-up socks live amongst the skyscrapers of New York City? I began to question, as conflicting thoughts rolled back and forth in my head, the function of that studied coffee table form.

What began as an unattainable (to me, anyway) ideal, ended as a realization. It is more important that people have knowledge, heart, and appreciation in their own heads and souls than on display.

My coffee table silently admonishes me, “Isn’t it better to actually be cool and intriguing instead of having to prove it?”

It adds, “Form follows function”, as if to remind me of what I already knew. Damn stupid ass coffee table, always has to have the last word.