Unhappy Hipsters

Unable to speak, the baby telepathically plead with the man not to put him back in the green-plastic-pod bassinet.

(Photo: Hertha Hernaus; Dwell, February 2009)

At first, she had attributed the strange scribble on the blackboard to her forgetful memory. Now she descended the stairs each morning with dread, petrified of what the poltergeist wanted to communicate today.

(Photo: Elsa Young; Dwell, May 2008)

She longed to luxuriate in a curvaceous claw-foot tub, surrounded by flickering candles.

(Photo: Gunnar Knechtel; Dwell, September 2009)

One day, after a particularly dull afternoon, she would yank hard enough on the vertical drawer to wrench it off the track, sending everything crashing to the floor—and tell her husband it was an accident. But not today.

(Photo: Jack Thompson; Dwell March 2008)

Silence had become their only weapon.

(Photo: Unknown, Dwell)

Beyond all the inherent superficialities, there was the task of decoding profile subtext. She wondered why she’d ever considered online dating.

(Photo: Dean Kaufman; Dwell, December/January 2007)

The frequent window washing and dry mopping required to keep the room sufficiently spartan became more than she could bear. The bed suffered the consequences.

(Photo: Gunnar Knechtel; Dwell, September 2006)

Without the shades, they might have to face the terrifying prospect of actually speaking to one another.

(Photo: Dean Kaufman; Dwell, September 2009)

He’d spent years cultivating a perfectly messy study. So to find that someone had stuffed a red volume on the umber-only bookshelves? Well, the proverbial shit hit the fan.

(Photo: Dave Lauridsen; Dwell April 2010)

It became his morning ritual. He woke, stepped to the window, and fantasized about the day he would be free of his knotty-pine cell.

(Photo: Hertha Hernaus; Dwell, July/August 2008)