Quiz to determine if you're no longer a young newlywed
I was talking to a newlywed recently and she told me that she and her husband don't do flowers.
"They just die," she told me.
I recall thinking the same thing back in the day. What a waste to spend money on something you know you're going to chuck in a week.
I have revised my outlook.
I like flowers because they die. I cannot recall exactly when I changed my mind, maybe it was about the same time all our drawers and shelves and cabinets started to cry softly at the sight of another candle holder headed their direction. Our house is slowly sinking into the earth under the weight of extra table cloths and cables for unknown devices. It's especially tough to get rid of gifts, even if they have zero utility. It feels like a betrayal.
This is why flowers are magnificent. Flowers do not require any decision-making. In a week, they head back home to Jesus. Plus they smell great. I'm feeling like it's feng shui-ey to indulge in the ephemeral as an antidote to hoarding. This all has a very Marie Kondo ring to it.
It's inevitable right now that I'm going to bring up memento mori and vanitas because I don't know about you, but I'm a fan. If you're unfamiliar, let me explain. Painters in the 16th and 17th centuries would paint beautiful bouquets of flowers and juicy deluxe fruits on silken table cloths with golden cups and gemstones. And always somewhere, was a rotten pear or a dead rose.
Momento Mori is supposed to remind us not to get too comfortable with what we take for granted. Like breathing, for example. Anyone could wake up in the morning and be dead.
Every now and then, when I go to the Met I take a zing by that gallery in the way back where they keep the Dutch paintings. I pretend it's a scene from the GoldFinch. I like to purchase books on my kindle. Especially really fat books like the Goldfinch.
Buying kindle books instead of real books means more room on shelves for feathers my grandma gave me and bowls of ten-sided dice.
Sadly, digital purchases don't smell great.
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| Jan Davidsz de Heem |
I recall thinking the same thing back in the day. What a waste to spend money on something you know you're going to chuck in a week.
I have revised my outlook.
I like flowers because they die. I cannot recall exactly when I changed my mind, maybe it was about the same time all our drawers and shelves and cabinets started to cry softly at the sight of another candle holder headed their direction. Our house is slowly sinking into the earth under the weight of extra table cloths and cables for unknown devices. It's especially tough to get rid of gifts, even if they have zero utility. It feels like a betrayal.
This is why flowers are magnificent. Flowers do not require any decision-making. In a week, they head back home to Jesus. Plus they smell great. I'm feeling like it's feng shui-ey to indulge in the ephemeral as an antidote to hoarding. This all has a very Marie Kondo ring to it.
It's inevitable right now that I'm going to bring up memento mori and vanitas because I don't know about you, but I'm a fan. If you're unfamiliar, let me explain. Painters in the 16th and 17th centuries would paint beautiful bouquets of flowers and juicy deluxe fruits on silken table cloths with golden cups and gemstones. And always somewhere, was a rotten pear or a dead rose.
 |
| Paulette Tavormina |
Momento Mori is supposed to remind us not to get too comfortable with what we take for granted. Like breathing, for example. Anyone could wake up in the morning and be dead.
Every now and then, when I go to the Met I take a zing by that gallery in the way back where they keep the Dutch paintings. I pretend it's a scene from the GoldFinch. I like to purchase books on my kindle. Especially really fat books like the Goldfinch.
Buying kindle books instead of real books means more room on shelves for feathers my grandma gave me and bowls of ten-sided dice.
Sadly, digital purchases don't smell great.
 |
Abraham van Beyeren (Dutch, The Hague 1620/21–1690 Overschie) |
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