Give me Shaker, not Chippendale.
Having been raised in a home decorated in Danish Modern, I have always gravitated toward clean lines: painted walls in neutral colors, spare furniture, clean uniform planes.
I was unsettled by the unnecessary: the curls and flourishes and gilding, the scale and echoing separations within these man-made spaces, the sheer expense involved in generating such tangible adornments. I don’t like the cold heaviness of rich materials like marble and onyx and iron.
This has never been so with that which cannot be purchased, a realm in which I adore the trills and grace notes.
Wildly impractical petals and leaves quiver like the flibbers my brother and I would cut from rolled-up Boston Globe newspapers when we were little.
A chorus of cartoonishly plump coral and violet clouds announces an ordinary daybreak.
Overwrought plumage and intricate songs entice birds’ mates.
On the band field at dusk, my young daughter’s carefully varied breaths add trumpet notes that resonate and dance in the air so I can hear them still.