I live with a designer. She's only 16, but she's been an artist and a designer since birth, and I can see, easily, that she may one day be the next Vera Wang.
When you live with a designer, you are being advised, quite frequently, to "change that shirt," or to "put your hair up instead" or to "move that painting." It's not about control; it's about an aesthetic that is sensed, and must be satisfied (or, at least, must be suggested).
As I started decorating for Christmas yesterday, with our resident designer away for the weekend, I laughed several times, knowing that it was very likely that I had misplaced the crèche, that the camels were somehow askew in their suggested desert trek, that Mary's hair was probably a fright, and whatnot. When she returns home this evening, I will start seeing the subtle changes that will occur every time she walks through the rooms.
I share this with you in my attempt to explain my own experience of reading Edith Wharton's work.
Ms. Wharton was, first and foremost, a designer.
Yes, she was a writer, of course, and, naturally, an observer, but she also designed clothing and landscapes and structures. It was never happenstance for Ms. Wharton that she mentions the wisteria, or the material of the dress. These were the details she could never ignore, was incapable of ignoring.
The last words of this novel are literally: "he bent his head and put his lips to a fold of her loose dress."
Folds of dresses and sleeves that fall to reveal silky shoulders are significant here; the entire novel is about the struggle between the sensual and the pragmatic. How each of us, whether we are writers, artists, playwrights, directors, musicians, gardeners, or designers, is constantly striving to achieve the balance between what inspires us, and how to get it "down on paper," so to speak.
Paper is everywhere in this story! It litters the floor, it is stacked on surfaces, it is written on, it is crumpled up, it is run through fingers, it is in great abundance, there is no paper to be found!
Our cups runneth over; our cups are empty. We are thirsty, we are bloated, we are fit to burst.
What a fantastic tribute to the creative process, published in 1932 by a 70-year-old Edith Wharton.