Feline Design
Upon adopting a cat five months into the pandemic, my living space changed in a number of predictable ways; spots were cleared for water and food bowls, an extension cord was swapped out for a wall plug adapter, erasers and other choking hazards put into a jar out of reach. As the months have piled on and now collapsed into a year, I’ve found my room evolving past the initial, purely utilitarian adjustments prompted by my new roommate.
Out of basic safety, my plant choices have shifted from pots of cacti sitting on the floor to trailing plants hung from the curtain rod. The top of my dresser, usually mostly clear, has become a display shelf for tiny objects that once had a less communal home: candles, clips, a spool of wire and finger-sized wooden hedgehog. I am constantly -and inconveniently- hyper aware of where I place my cups of water and tea, and have moved my coaster from my bedside to atop my radiator after a number of spills. My work location has shifted from my bed to the kitchen table, out of reach of swatting paws and keyboard-nap-seekers.
Perhaps predictably, my cat has become my design partner, playing an active role in how our space is used. Our design process has taken time to develop. Sometimes I know to institute a change immediately after her meowing brings my attention to it, and other times the cues are more subtle; avoiding a particular part of the room while frequenting another will lead to an evaluation of why and an adjustment to the less-frequented space. Certain changes have taken longer to adopt than others, such as learning to position the curtains so that there’s a patch of sun for a nap every afternoon.
Some design adjustments have been mutually agreed upon. My wood floor has proven to be too hard for me to sit on comfortably, and too slippery for my cat who walks with a mild wobble, so we opted for a large area rug that extends under the bed and to the door. Also mutual, I was running out of space to keep my plants in enough sunlight and out of biting range, so shelves were installed.
In my room everything has a precise, but cluttered, home. I know where things are and why, even if the locations may appear illogical to a visitor. Having autonomy over one’s living space allows for the development of a personal design process: a hyperindividual system of logic that responds to daily rhythm. Living with a cat has forced me to redevelop this language and reconsider what my “ideal” room design is, even going so far as to influence my aesthetic preferences.
Portrait of the designer in question.