Monday, October 19, 2009
A good portion of my waking hours are spent in Milton Bennion Hall. It is a rather dreary, poorly lit place, littered with amber and white 50s brickwork, lonely whiteboards, fake linoleum. But the redeeming feature of the interior, the element I have connected with since the day I started working here, has been the doors. Each was a unique pastel color, and these solid swatches of blues and greens and oranges used to cleave the otherwise horrible hallways. They were not tasteful; they were inexplicably and endearingly and serendipitously wonderful, like when you let your 4 year old dress herself. The paint was not peeling. Nothing else has been changed. I walked in this morning to find every door painted deep, cadmium red.