Dream House of Silk: Visiting the House of Jim Thompson, Bangkok

If I were to build a house in Southeast Asia, the house would be made from elegant old traditional buildings found in the nearby countryside. They would be simple. Any lumber, stone, brick, or tile would gathered up, disassembled if necessary and numbered, floated up a river and down a klung to rest and be reassembled together in a place that looked out on a garden. The entire house would be a reflection of the warmth of the place and the people. The windows would be open—no glass or screens. And the large wooden floor-to-ceiling carved doors would fold open and closed together to openly unite the inside with the outside or not. All of the furnishing would be comfortable and tell a story: of Kings and elephants; Buddha and naga. I would have guest rooms so that I could share this space. I would have fish in the urns in the garden, and little rooms spread around the property connected by paths surrounds by plants. The dining room would be a room of special interest, with details to entertain, so that evenings could be spent talking and telling stories, while the tropical gardens below would refresh the evening air. The daytime would be spent in work. Making things, reviewing work. Perhaps a nap in the afternoon while the soft rain fell. In the morning, a cup of coffee to start the day.

But I would not build the house looking out over the village of the weavers who had woven my fortune. Master of silk, collector, entrepreneur. Master and slaves. I would not sit in my living room and inspect the goods, counting my money on the backs of the poor. It is an old world way of being in the world. An inequality of privilege; ultimately getting lost in the jungle and never finding your way home.