by Franci Hepburn
I bought an Arthur G leather couch for the Mid-century in Claremont we moved into. I added the Danish glass and wood coffee table, vintage, and the Marcel Breuer Ceska chairs, original. We drank tea in the morning from Marc Newson (for Noritake) and Pinot Noir from Riedel at sunset.
I kept warning: don’t sit on the chair with your wet bathers, and I was right, wasn’t I? The rattan on the seat split, only suitable for the verge collection now. I also said: don’t sit on the same spot every day. Your jeans will stain the coach, please work in the study or in a bedroom, for goodness sakes; the house has six bedrooms and: put your drink on the glass, not on the wood, it makes white rings.
Now the seat is not only hollow on one side, lopsided like a badly risen bread. It also has a blue stain in the shape of a charging mountain goat, meeting me every morning when I open the curtains. But alone in the house, day after day, the hollowed-out bread, the charging goat, the circles like white-rimmed glasses on the coffee table staring at me accusingly. Highlighting my solitude.