Over the summers, my dad and I frequented art fairs.
Usually we went to surround ourselves with the work of the artists.
It was as if by surrounding ourselves within that environment, we could somehow absorb their talent and creativity.
Osmosis.
I scour the fairs for ceramics, especially bowls.
My dad, however, is inevitably drawn to salvaged junk.
Over the course of our trips, he has accumulated 4 pieces, all of which get left outside to rust away. Literally.
As someone who (borderline neurotically) takes care of everything, that artistic concept was a tough one to grasp.
My lack of comprehension was on full display with the first purchase.
My dad and I are standing in this tent where an artist was hawking sculptures made out of things like old bike chains.
Dad picks out a dragon statue for our tomato garden. I give it a once-over and then directed inquiries of legitimate concern at the artist. “This is very nice, but seeing as we will be keeping it outside, won’t I have to coat it in some sort of chemical to keep the rust away? Where do you suggest I buy the protectant? How do I apply it?”
The artist looked at me, speechless, borderline offended, and like I was some alien speaking Greek.
My dad looked at me with a mixture of amusement and a slight smidge of embarrassment.
Apparently the whole point is for it to rust.
Planned deterioration.
I will never understand leaving something out to deteriorate, but I can at least admire the sentiment of finding beauty where most others see none.
Later and gratefully, I learned that not all salvaged art calls for self-destruction.
This brings me to present day.
Last night, as I sat awake till 4 am, I became reacquainted with my old friend, the “estate liquidator”, Everything But The House.
I’ve long enjoyed browsing the EBTH site, and have found some real treasures, but that day I wasn’t browsing to find anything. Rather, I was looking to fritter away time, to keep myself awake, and no, studying wasn’t an option. At 3 am my brain was fried, and honestly I just wanted the sheets to hurry up and dry. I was quite tired.
Then, as I was browsing through the local Chicago sales I found a beautiful piece of art, and if I wasn’t a son of a gun, it was salvaged art.
Something was so captivating about the color scheme, scrap metal and all.
I knew the bench and table were must-haves.
At some point in my life (hopefully soon) I will need a table and chair to call my own.
A place to sit, to decompress, to remember what it feels like to relax.
As I sat admiring (before the reality, of needing to find a way to move it from the warehouse to my own house, sunk in) my purchase, it struck me that the colors attracted me to the piece, but that something else inevitably kept pulling me to the piece. It finally hit me that the accents under the bench reminded me of the that first piece of salvaged art I laid eyes upon. It reminded me of the tail of the dragon, and more importantly, of the dragon’s current owner.
I realized then what I’d long since (perhaps unconsciously) known. Knowledge dating over a decade back to my request for my own grandmother’s kitchen table.
Tables and chairs are not just objects, not just places to relax, to sink into, to idle.
Perhaps tables and chairs are really a wrinkle in time, in which we can sit down and truly be present with others. Functioning, to foster a connection so that later, when time long makes itself felt, we can simply sit, remember moments, and remember people.
Because present and future is nothing without the beginning of the story: