Orphans

Sitting crooked, cross legged on my chair, I can feel the soft warmth of the suede against my ankles. The chairs curves are trimmed in dull gold pea sized nail heads. Each one, swaying slightly to the left or right of its predecessor eventually forming an imperfect line that is cool to the touch. The fabric is a parchment color, a dirty creamy yellow grey with black irregular spots the size of a child’s thumbprint scattered throughout. Named ocelot the fabric though no longer available is still a favorite. The chair back follows a subtle curve and sits high so it cuddles your spine. From my perch the legs are invisible hidden by my knees jutting out over the sides.

I rescued this chair along with her twin. She was ugly and lost in a dark dimly lit antique mall. David was adamant I not buy her. But, I could see her beauty peeking out beneath the strong colors of vampire style upholstery. Each section of her body covered in a different shade of inexpensive worn dark velvet so jarring in color that you could only see the shape of that particular section never the whole. I understood her bones and proportions and she sat comfortably, sturdy both for someone of my small stature and equally for someone larger.

My desk beckoned me from inside a fabric store that was closing. The price tag was more than I could afford at that time. Newlywed, our first child turned one, a mortgage, and grocery budget I would write on the back of an envelope and then place the receipts inside. I visited that store more than once, mesmerized by the antique pieces of iron gates welded together the scars at their joints visible. Fifteen years later, a small chip marks her glass top and her home is now the office not the dining room.

A French chaise lounge graces the corner with its antique legs poking out from underneath the short slipcover. The French grey paint so in vogue again, is worn revealing blue and green paint in the layers beneath. The slipcover wears the same dirty yellow parchment background of the desk chair though here it is embroidered in a Bohemian paisley of pale aqua blue and chocolate brown threads. When I found the chaise she had five legs not the usual six. I did not notice at first and brought her home without care. Her cushion deep and thick down would poof a puff of dust when you sat on it. Ten years later, again she has five legs, as one maybe the same one, I cannot remember broke off during a photo shoot.

The Matron of the room scribbled in paint by me stands guard. Her throne a giant oversized canvas hung in front of the floor to ceiling double windows filters both privacy and light. Long slender fingers delicately splayed capture an escaped breath as she is caught in a moment of passion. A single black line much like a drawing in a coloring book marks her body. Her lips filled and detailed with the same black paint are barely parted. She is adorned with a simple dress of sharp white, it’s contrast to all the dark makes her float off the canvas in an almost ethereal way. Her mood is the tone for this room seductive, secretive and suggestive.