The funeral was a long time coming. For 10 years the two domestic servants had served useful and productive lives. But now the large stuffed chairs, both white in their prime, needed to go to chair heaven – a peaceful place where no one sits on you in a wet bathing suit.
“But they’re so comfortable,” my family whined each time I brought up the need to replace the chairs. One sat in the office, and the other, more popular, in the family room. “And the dogs love them.”
“Which is half the problem,” I said.
Ten years ago, when my childless male designer suggested I buy two white chairs, I could not have foreseen the havoc that two kids, two poorly trained dogs, 10 years of compounded newspaper ink, 17 bouts of flu, 45 packs of markers, and 2,957 cups of coffee would wreak. I have had the chairs professionally cleaned, but the remaining stains resist removal like cellulite.
The family room chair even has an ink stain where someone, who refuses to step forward, sat with a black felt-tip marker, then thoughtfully poised the pen so it bled into the fabric and left a Rorschach-like inkblot.
“It’s a cat.”
“No, a key.”
“I see a new handbag.”
“You’re all wrong. It’s the Dow falling.”
Besides the stains, the fabric is so worn that feathers flutter out when you sit down, as if you’ve landing in a goose nest. I’ve considered slipcovers, but it would creep me out to sit down and think about what might be growing underneath. Meanwhile, I’ve tossed throws over the chairs, so I don’t have to look at them, and pinned Do Not Resuscitate signs on them, while I search for replacements.
My husband, Dan, doesn’t see the need for replacements. To him, the chairs look as fresh as the day they arrived. He’s the same way with his shirts and shoes. He doesn’t notice when they’ve deteriorated until people start handing him dollars on the street corner. I’ve come to see this as a positive trait in a man. I figure if I look just as fresh to him as the day we met, well, I’m not messing with that.
But chair death must be reckoned with. I’ve overheard that the average life for moderately used upholstered furniture is seven years. After that it’s probably time for rehabilitation or euthanasia. I call Karlie Adams, a Denver interior designer who possesses perfect pitch taste, and ask her about sick, dead and dying furniture. Basically, she says, you have four choices: clean, slipcover, recover or replace. Here’s how to choose:
Clean: Success depends on the fabric and the damage. A white linen that’s 10 years old probably won’t look much better. But a sturdier tapestry fabric with some acrylic in it can refresh beautifully.
Slipcover: If the lines of the chair are still good and not dated, and the scale still works in your home, then slipcovering or recovering can be a great option. Slipcovering can cost far less than (or up to about half as much as) reupholstering. But do this only if you like a messy, shabby chic look. This casual touch can look fabulous in an English or French Country home.
Reupholster: Once people discover the cost of reupholstering, they often just buy a new chair. This option costs about as much as buying a midpriced chair. But if your chair still has great lines and was high-end to begin with, reupholstering makes sense. A good upholsterer can even refresh or replace the filling so chairs get their original shape and feel back. There’s also the peace factor to consider, said Adams, who has a client who said her family would be furious if she got rid of their favorite sofas and chairs. Even though recovering them was more expensive than replacing them, that’s what they’re doing.
Replace: If the lines of the chair don’t work anymore, the chair wasn’t high quality to begin with, or you’re just ready for a change, tossing the piece and replacing it may be your best bet.
I dealt my family a compromise. I’m replacing one chair, mainly because I got a red-hot deal on a new chair, and I’ll slipcover the other. Thus, the once white chair with the inkblot went to the big furniture store in the sky. May it rest in peace.
Join me next week when I bring home what I thought was The Perfect Chair, and got a lesson in legs.
Marni Jameson is a nationally syndicated columnist who lives in the Denver area. You may reach her at marnij@comcast.net.
