France Ceramic Flower Pink Gardenia

I bought a ceramic flower last week—medium-sized, pink, and suspiciously gardenia-like. It had a keyhole on the back, which is how I knew it wasn’t meant to rest casually on a shelf, like some unassuming vase. No, this flower was to be wall mounted, a piece of ceramic art designed to become an integral part of my living room’s atmosphere. It was, I realized, a statement. The kind of wall art decor that whispers, “I have taste,” but shouts, “I’m also confused about what this room needs.” I tried to find the perfect place for it. At first, I hung it over the TV, hoping it would add some subtle charm. Instead, it looked like an angry poppy trying to escape an unflattering family portrait. So, I moved it to the hallway, thinking that the in-between space would work better. It didn’t. The ceramic flower, despite its muted pink color, felt louder than I had expected, as if it was performing an abstract artwork in the middle of my home that no one had asked for. Now, it hangs above the couch, staring down at me, and I wonder: did I buy art, or did art buy me?