I can’t hide the truth any longer. It’s just not working out, and I’m afraid we’ll have to break up.
There’s a fabulous breakup line that’s been around for ages – or, at least since George Costanza invented it – that goes, “It’s not you, it’s me.” The idea is that you can’t stand the other person but you still don’t want to hurt their feelings when you dump them, so you turn it back on yourself. Of course, the truth is that it’s not you at all. It really is them.
That kind of sums up my relationship with art furniture. In truth, I marvel at the craftsmanship, which, in most cases, is at a level of excellence I can never even hope to achieve. The joinery is wonderful, the finishing incredible, everything is so well done that I’m in awe of the maker’s skill.
But gosh almighty, a lot of it is ugly.
There, I said it. I just don’t get art furniture, in spite of the topnotch skill that goes into it. I mean, what exactly do you do with it? It’s marvelously done, but I wouldn’t want it in my house. (Unless I had a working fireplace.) I suppose there’s a statement or something that’s being made, but unless the statement is printed out on some kind of description card that goes with it, I’ll never know what it is.
The bottom line is that I just don’t understand it. But so many people do like it that I can only conclude that the problem has to lie with me.
So in all honesty I’m saying that it’s not you, it’s me.