A startling discovery in the Atlantic: apparently not closing your curtains, or not even having any, is a status symbol. “Americans who earn more than $150,000 are almost twice as likely to leave windows uncovered as those making $20,000 to $29,000,” the article explained, quoting US Department of Energy research, and highlighting examples of the affluent curtainless (“Patagonia-rocking and $28-cheeseburgers-served-in-mason-jars-eating herds” is one withering description of the uncurtained demographic).
But have you ever bought curtains? They’re viciously expensive. In everywhere I have ever lived, if the previous occupants have been kind enough to leave any, we’ve kept them for precisely this reason, regardless of style. Cerise padded satin? Giant swirls? Yes, and yes, with heartfelt thanks. Surely having and closing curtains, showing off your pricey blackout and thermal linings, is more of a statement?
There seems to be a notion that if your interior is sufficiently chi-chi, not having curtains lets you show off your good taste while retaining plausible deniability about the showing off. I’m not sure where that falls on the stealth-to-ostentatious-wealth spectrum: it’s no glitterball Maserati, but flashier than Kendall Roy’s cashmere baseball cap.
There’s a magnanimity to letting us look, I suppose. My father lives in west London and some of his anti-curtain neighbours offer spectacular gawping potential: grand pianos, built-in bookshelves that make me emit an involuntary gurgle of desire, luxurious-looking dogs lounging on luxurious-looking sofas. It’s like an animated World of Interiors over there.
Here, the (last owner’s) curtains remain closed all winter – there’s no daylight to let in anyway, and my husband’s energy conservation efforts mean he’d rather we live like mole people. In any case, the decor merits no gawping and no one needs to see me mummified in fleece eating microwave rice from the packet, staring at the TV.
Speaking of which, this revelation implies the rich never watch upscale detective dramas. Because in those, a brightly illuminated picture window through which someone is seen getting wine out of their Sub-Zero megafridge, pouring it at a bespoke marble countertop, then settling into a Ligne Roset statement sofa is an inevitable prelude to murder.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
