Context is everything/nothing


Driving out to the lake and saw a odd beige aluminum sided 1 story house in the country but close to the road. It had an Italian looking amber, chain link hanging glass light on the front porch.

You know the type of house. The one that has little statues of tiny girls and boys in a lit glass cupboard (I don’t know the offiical name) and a extra bedroom down a carpeted narrow hall piled with teddy bears on a single ruffle bottom bed. I’ve seen tat lamp before in many of the Chicago homes I grew up with in the 60’s and 70’s.

Then I started thinking about the context of things. That lamp in aloty of my design eyed friends would be stunning surrounded by lush fabrics, fabulous art and a delicious couch. Context.

I think about the woman who lives in that house by the road (I have a hard time imaging her bib overall husband spends much time on matters like hanging lights but it’s possible-if so my apologies to the gentleman of the house). Where did she buy it? More so where were her tastes…her seeing developed? Watching Sophia Loren movies as a kid growing up on a black and white tv? Did someone give it to her? Did she buy it at a garage sale? How’s the decision happen to have it on the front porch, outside?

To a fault I always see the potential in things. The possiblility of the scrap wood to be a lamp, or a piece of art. I love seeing the story in things and people. I can’t help it. I read them like a rich novel in the making.

So then, how much we is determined by the content in which we see it?
What’s YOUR story about the house with the hanging light? How’s it get there and why?
©kate pabst 2006. all rights reserved.


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