The previous owner of our home had a penchant for Victoriana; frilly things and sparkly surfaces, that was almost diametrically opposed for our predilection for Contemporary Modern, and the bedroom ceiling fan was like a vulture poised to tangle with any sheets or bedspreads that might get close to it.
Bright tendrils and leafy things exploded from the center-spout like some demented herbacious Avatar-plant, ready to grab at bedsheets or put out an eye, and painfully glare-ridden candelabra bulbs swathed in heavy cheap-glass globes made a bad attempt at lighting the room.
It was the design equivalent of the “Teacup-Weaver” hold – pointless, ineffective and labored – like a bad 70’s sit-com. Seriously NOT our mug of joe, so today I swapped it out for a four-blade unit that’s closer to the ceiling. It’s quiet to look-at and moves the air – and the lighted portion in the center isn’t…demented.
Over the weekend we also eliminated a couple-three (four actually) gaudy hallway ceiling lights that looked like a bunch of cut-glass punch-bowls with gold trim and a bright nipple. Not erotic, just painfully over-illuminated. Bleh! So now we have some nice, flat, unobtrusive down-lights that get the illumination job done without imposing a horrific or nightmarishly gaudy presence.
Lighting makes such a difference, and the mood has changed entirely, for the better we think.