About A Chair

Found On A Road

If a chair could speak, imagine the stories it would tell.

There is a chair to sit in, a book to read, a page to write. There is a brush and a tin of paint, waiting to transform another chair. I’ve never met a chair I didn’t like, which suggests a form of chair dysfunction. From elegant: turned legs, clawed arms, carved backs to simple: sturdy legs, wide arms. Chairs that have graced servant’s quarters and the grandest of dining rooms suggest the best stories.

Chairs are often discarded curb-side or to wait, lonely, beside a rubbish bin. Usually a chair can be restored with vision, a few coats of paint, and a new seat cover (Hint: Grab the chair with the removable seat.). Gorgeous fabrics abound to offer ‘looks’ from farmhouse to manor. Painted red, a chair becomes the curiosity in a room.

I choose minimalistic, affordable furniture. Favourite pieces are hand me downs or shabby finds, tufted and French. I stick to Benjamin Moore: ‘Winter White’, add shots of colour, and invest in bowls and pitchers. The couch is slip covered, white. There is silver from a grandmother and an aunt. There are oils from a mother. I’ve removed blinds for linen curtains, pulled back to reveal light. Simple chandeliers sparkle and shine. Bouquets of roses gather in glass. A chair waits in the kitchen.

I’m not a designer, rather, a woman who searches for beauty in the raw and spent. Every piece of furniture should suggest a story. I prefer simple lines, a reminder of a common lady who kept a sturdy chair beside an oven, sugar biscuits in a tin, and splashy rose covered tea cups on the table.

“Sit down,” she says. “I’ll fix a pot of tea.”

I settle into the empty chair. In this moment, the world slows to a crawl. Pressing thoughts are forgotten. On the window sill is a pot filled with flowers, their petals bright as jewels. She believes in violets, claims they grow where they are needed.

Once more, we return to one another.


“Vacant chairs always leave me wondering who had sat there in the past.” 
― Anthony T.Hincks

Annie Sloan Chalk Paint: ‘Pure White’

Eleanor

Eleanor At The Bar

Wide eyes drew me in. Eyes the colour of sea glass and molten gold set down by a painter’s touch. I coveted her story, listened within silence.

I studied her eyes, eyes that appeared to see beyond the realm of ordinary, sensed her bewilderment. A glance as if asking: why is it that  others can’t see how light casts shadow, how waves kiss the shore, how a smile deceives?

Lips, slightly pursed, held tangled secrets, if only she dared speak. Her side swept hair, a mix of caramel and honey, suggested an elegant yet strong ancestral line. Scandinavian vigour lingered like a shield to cover fine bones.

Eleanor. Salvaged from a Vancouver vintage shop. This is her given name, penciled to the back of a plywood board. Painted in oil, she remains bespoke for all time.

I brought her home.

“I am intrigued by the smile upon your face, and the sadness within your eyes”
Jeremy Aldana

Let’s

The Beach
~medium- pastel
Artist: Magdalene

go

Smelling of campfires and salt air

Where the beaches are littered

With empty bottles of Casa Sauvignon Blanc

Let us recite from worn books

On a bench of driftwood

Follow children to the sea

Dip our toes into water

Speak wild songs

Say anything or nothing

Blink at the sun

Feed seagulls

Toss stones

Fall into silence

Lean into doorways

Wander curio shops

They won’t last forever

 

Come on, let’s go

Leave your necktie on the floor

Miss all of our appointments

Please

Time is passing; the end is near

Fires and floods

Disasters- waiting to swallow us whole

Or are we empty?

Who will miss us?

When all that is left is an image on a photograph, a blurry negative

Hurry up

Before we disappear

 

 

Charming

Charm me, darling

Perchance I forget

 

“Behind every song is an untold story,” he said.

With a gentle nudge

He whispered, “Come dance.”

 

The notes began from silence

And in the still, I fell

Drunk on him

 

Time signatures filled the room

Apollo cradled Calliope

As the music played on

 

Lyrics overtook me

Words slipped like honey from my tongue

I spoke

Of never-ending summers

Starry nights, we chased till dawn

Of sea shells and ocean waves

A siren’s lilting song

Candle lit moments

Before time left me wondering,

Is there any poetry left?

 

He pulled me closer

As the music played on

 

Music painted on silence

Gave wings to my soul

Strong magic

Lifted me from the ashes

 

He kissed my broken

Poured the poetry back in

As the music played on

 

~ Apollo and Calliope