There’s a deep-seated need within mankind to create art. Even those who say they couldn’t create art if their life depended on it, do it every day. For some, it may just be the neat arranging of towels or a particular cleanliness or a chaotic mess, in which they know where every single thing is located. Or it may just be the artful arranging of food on a dinner plate. It’s true that some must try harder than others to invoke art and some are just “naturals,” but there is a real need for art in the human spirit.
|Placed just so.|
I haven’t got any oil paintings in my house. There are no special display lights on the walls gently titled toward a masterpiece. There are no frescoes. There are no elegantly designed flower displays. There are no pieces of special pottery or porcelain gracing specially made cabinets. There are no sculptures with provocative recessed lighting casting the shadows just so. It is a plain house for a plain woman.
But there is art everywhere. You just have to know how to look for it. It could be a curtain rolled and tied back a certain way. It could be racks of spices ordered according to color instead of name or use. It could be the soft flicker of oil lamps, which I prefer at night because the glare of electric lights hurts my eyes. And candles arranged ever so discreetly . . .
Or wood. It could be wood. Mother Nature doesn’t need any help from me in decorating the world. She does a fine job on her own, and the finite has no right to go about informing the infinite. But when she turns her back, I find myself unable to resist a bit of whimsy. It’s not designed to be noticed, per se, but to dry the wood effectively and then use it gratefully. It is, after all, a plain house for a plain woman, but there are rumors about the eccentric occupant.