A Trip Through Places Elsewhere
Our interest in an abnormal (exciting, refreshing, etcetera) afternoon led us West of Boston. A postponed Valentine’s Day excursion, we called it. Our dog needed his steps before our departure. He would be visited while we were gone. Our walks were for me as much as they were for him.
The snow was starting to melt. After the storm, I wasn’t sure the snow would ever melt. Now, the ice that stood as scaffolding beneath the bright powder remained, fractured and hardened by weeks of salt and road spray.
Pants, frozen in place atop the berm of snow along our side road. A Johnnie Walker Red shooter for company, empty of course. How does someone leave their pajamas to freeze in Boston’s February? I wondered where they might have been folded before that morning.
I hate photographing in gardens. The subject has been curated and staged, something unnatural, unreal. These orchids were beautiful, we loved looking through them, seeing the ways in which they differed from one another. These gardens are meant for affection, for observation. There is a searching and a finding that belong to photography which cannot be found in a curated garden.
The most intoxicating flower in the garden arrived and departed with me.
We sat in the garden and shared a split of Cook’s Prosecco. It’s called a “split” after all. We sat and spoke of all our wants. We watched the older couple galavant through the outdoor garden and hoped for the same charisma.
She wore her loafers. I love the way she dresses up. She keeps a class about her that comes somehow so casually.
Antiquing, our great pastime. We’ve spent a long while working through the feeling of our home, and we add to it on these adventures. Objects keep experience in their wear and marks, they tell stories and carry something into the home that cannot be made. We entered the warehouse to begin our search.
Our first stop, Knotty Pine of Hudson, Mass. A massive footprint divided into sellers, we wandered and pondered through huge selections of small and medium objects. This is not a furniture antique store, this is for the table toppers.
Genevieve’s taste is otherworldly. She carries the perfect impression in her pocket, and it is as though the objects are drawn to her. She pulls things from behind places, and I love them every time.
The antique repair room. It felt honest. The room was not staged, nor was it clean. It looked as though someone had worked there for a long time. I wonder what that might be like, to work a room into your own shape.
A new lamp for the foyer, brass candle holders, a thick denim apron, and a small white orchid to commemorate our adventures. Additions to the story that our home holds. A wonderful day.