#FR08 Burnt Orange Poppy

I found a ceramic flower at the flea market, and I bought it immediately, as if my walls had been demanding something to spice them up. It?€?s medium-sized, an orange poppy?€?too loud for a garden, but perfect for a wall. The back has a keyhole, which I took as a sign: this flower was not meant to sit on a shelf, gathering dust. No, it was to be wall-mounted, like some sort of abstract artwork, demanding attention. It had a way of drawing you in, almost like it was daring you to find meaning in its exaggerated petals and uneven glaze. At first, I couldn?€?t figure out where it belonged. I tried it above the couch, where it looked like an angry sun. I considered hanging it next to the bathroom mirror, but then I worried it might make guests feel like they?€?d walked into a gallery by accident. In the end, I put it in the hallway, between two doors that lead nowhere. It?€?s the kind of piece you can?€?t help but notice as you pass. And yet, despite its obvious presence, it?€?s still just a flower made of clay?€?an imitation, an illusion of something real, an attempt at ceramic art disguised as decor.