Is it possible to suffer from design schizophrenia?
I sometimes think so, since I am the proud owner of both a city apartment and a house in the country that couldn't be more different from one another in style, in furnishings, in feel. The apartment is a study in restraint, full of pale colors, burnished woods, and precise, clean lines. My farmhouse, on the other hand, features boldly colored walls, dozens of flea-market finds, overstuffed everything, and piles of magazines and books, all of it accented with birds' nests, rocks, and feathers found in the woods, and dozens of old, anonymous photographs.
So which one is the "real" me? I'm not sure I could tell you. I love them both, and I feel completely comfortable in either. Does that mean…