Fine art is a wonderful thing, I enjoy it very much. But what I find more beautiful than art, it’s real life beauty in decay. Useful things, sometimes made with charming style to impress, but more likely just everyday simple items that were barely noticed in their regular use. My imagination is more inspired by the thought of the life that centered around it. The hands that made it, fixed it, the secrets spoken around it, the tears cried, the laughter shared, the hope, the despair. Who held the nails pounded, who cut the wood for the windows and floors. What really brought them to that spot; were they happy here? How many children? Did they look on those views with hopeful wonder, or melancholy exhaustion? The interior world of real people, and the things that have long survived past the lives that they were useful for, this fills me with more awe and wonder than all the genius of the masters of the world.
This view,
from the distant window. The hinge is beautiful too.
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