I went shopping last week at our church’s Community Service Outpost (think Junque Shop) and came home not with a star for our Christmas tree (which is what I went after), but a wreath. (And for only 25 cents!) And not a Christmas wreath (which was also on the list), but an every day wreath. It is bedecked with faded hydrangeas, faded ferns, and faded roses.
I came home and hung it above our fireplace, moving Girl With a Pearl Earring to another wall much more suited to her size (if not importance). Here, let me see if I can get a picture of it with the computer’s camera. Voila!
Okay, so it’s not the greatest picture, but at least you can see it.
And then, last week I inherited (long story) a set of stoneware dishes with faded tulips and hydrangeas.
And then I spent an hour this week wandering in antique shops looking at sprigged teacups.
And I’ve surprised myself. I really like this stuff. I mean, I really really like it. Perhaps the years of living in a blue cottage (bright blue carpet, pastel blue striped wall paper) and now in a yellow-yellow-yellow-with-too-much-orange skiing cabin have dulled my sense of inner stylistic preference. Surrounded by all this color of other people’s choice, I’ve been drawn to more serious styles like Italian or Spanish. Stark, strong, natural materials. Earth tones. Something not imposed but organic.
But what if the truth is that deep inside I really like silk flowers and lace, ruffles on my sheets and curtains, and shabby chic? Have I been suppressing my true self? It took me years to admit that I like pink, that I greatly esteem pink. (Anyone know what classic book/movie I’m borrowing from there?) Am I now going to go wild and turn my house into an English country cottage garden?
And what am I going to do with all of my black picture frames with white matting?
Anyhow, here are two blogs that capture some of what I’ve been talking about…
So, I guess that means that for Christmas I should ask for a crystally chandelier or a piece of white furniture with the edges rubbed artistically (boy, I can just hear my Great-Grandma’s comments on the shabbiness of chic).