I was about to walk right past the colorful needlepoint upholstered chair at the auction house when the people in the fabric willed me to stop. So I stopped, stood there and watched as they did what the maker pinpointed them to do:
On the back, a man and woman sat snugly next to each other, enjoying a lovely day. On the seat, two love birds fluttered near what looked like a flower. On the sides, two other birds lingered in flight, looking towards the couple.
Was love in the air? Was that the message the maker was trying to convey? As I stood there staring at this chair – it was lovely but not exactly my style – I started to wonder about furniture that told a story about the people, the culture and the period of its making. History is not always written on paper but in the styles of the times – the curves of the legs on a table, the ornamentation or lack thereof on a chest, the fabric and design of a dress.
This chair was definitely trying to create a narrative for anyone who’d stop for more than a minute to actually look at it. It was like looking at a painting; the artist may have had something else in mind when he or she painted it, but you could write your own interpretation based on how it made you feel. In this chair, I could easily create a story of beings in love – be they human or animal – with me determining if all turns out well in a happy-ever-after ending or you-go-your-way-and-I’ll-go-mine.
I started to wonder if there were other furniture at the auction house that held their own little stories. So, I went looking and came upon these:
A chest with another loving couple. They all seem to look so Victorian. A debonair man, he seemed to be either trying to persuade or entice her to do something. He was working mightily at it.
A woman dancing. She seemed to be lost in her dance in the clouds.
A male and female, who looked like children, on either side of two urns of flowers that separated them. They were far apart but appeared to be pointing to or aiming at the same star.
A needlepoint on a stand of a young man on his way to a hunt. His gun on his shoulder, a feather in his hat, his stare exuded no excitement but indifference.
A house in a dale with fencing along the road. The whole scene gave off a sense of isolation, a don’t-knock-on-my-door aloofness. Who lived here?
A dining room set that I found so garish that I had to stop and study it for a moment. It certainly had a story to tell about its owners, the meals it supported and the people who entertained themselves around it.
