The unadorned life

I’m not sure what people expect when they enter my dorm room, but whatever it is, they don’t find it. Inevitably, my guests pause in the doorway, gaze about in feigned politeness, and try to mask their discomfort with a mumbled joke.

No, I’m not a slob (not really, anyway). And no, I’m not a serial killer (at least, not the kind who keeps the bodies). But I am hopeless when it comes to decor. I don’t know burnt orange from burnt sienna, piggy pink from tickle-me-pink, or razz-ma-tazz from razzle dazzle rose. In fact, I used to think those were stripper names before I bought a package of crayons.

My room has been called drab, bare, anonymous even. If the walls are peeling when I move in, I do nothing to disguise them. Roommates often argue shades up versus shades down, but that doesn’t matter much when there’s a half-inch layer of dust coating the windows. I refuse to use exciting bedsheets—a terrifying night spent on a Goosebumps-themed comforter turned me off to that fad years ago. In short, Martha Stewart, BC ’63, would slap me if she ever visited.

What does my dorm room say about me? I like to think it reflects a down-to-earth sensibility. Of course, I also like to think I can sunbathe in a Speedo on South Lawn, but Public Safety (and apparently “public decency”) insists that I’m wrong. Maybe I should be asking a different question: Does my dorm room say anything about me at all?

Over the last two years, I’ve met Columbia students who subscribe to wide-ranging philosophies of decoration. There are the Platonists, who model their rooms after the ideal form of a college dorm room (MacBook Pro, Bob Marley poster, empty beer cans). The Marxists, proudly displaying Communist flyers and tiny statues of Lenin. And the Nietzscheans, who hang dartboards in the shape of Jesus and keep whips in their room.

But, as easy as it is to generalize, these labels don’t hold up to scrutiny. They peel off, if you will. Platonists are best friends with Aristotelians, Marxists intern at investment banks, and Nietzscheans go to church every Sunday morning. Decor just doesn’t tell the whole story.

Simply looking into my room, you couldn’t possibly guess that I play competitive squash and model for Abercrombie & Fitch. Now, to be fair, that’s not entirely true. I don’t really know the rules of squash, and I’ve never appeared in an A&F advertisement (they pay me not to wear their clothing). But there’s no way you’d figure that out either.

If you were to delve a little deeper, though, you’d learn a lot about me. Check out my mini-fridge, and you’ll see pastrami sandwiches, knishes, and Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda. Inspect my cabinets and find my large collection of gimmick T-shirts. Open the bottommost drawer of my desk, and you’ll discover … actually, that’s none of your business.

Now, I’m not suggesting that you should root through your neighbor’s dorm room. That’s illegal, and it’s very awkward when you get caught. All I’m saying is that the carpet doesn’t always match the drapes.

Looking over this column, I wonder if it’s time I bite the bullet and add a little panache to my room. It might be fun to develop a sense of style. I could go to Bed Bath & Beyond to purchase some colorful throw pillows and scented candles. I could visit one of the shady vendors who lurk around campus and buy posters of Daniel Radcliffe in Equus. Or maybe I could pop into Ikea and get a piece of furniture whose Swedish name I can’t pronounce … nah, that’s just not me.

And, besides, there are some advantages to my minimalist approach. It’s easy to move in and out. I always get back my full room deposit from the housing office. And, most importantly, I never get robbed.

So the next time you swing by, don’t judge me. I’ve witnessed enough throat-clearing, dirty looks, and (occasionally) groaning to last me the rest of college. I’m proud of my decor, and I’m not going to change it. Unless, of course, you want to decorate my room. In which case, please contact me as soon as possible.

Jeremy Liss is a Columbia College junior majoring in English and comparative literature. He is the creative editor of The Current. Liss is More runs alternate Thursdays.