He posts a picture of an Eames chair. The leather padded, moulded wood one. The iconic one.
I mention that my apartment looks like Danish Modern threw up.
So we talk. We talk about chairs. Iconic chairs; ironic chairs. Religious chairs. Therapeutic chairs.
Chairs in every language.
Perhaps one can tell quite a bit about a person by her choice in chairs.
My desk chair, which I artfully neglect to mention, is a gym ball–one of those fitness chairs. I suppose one could appreciate the design elements of it; or the concept. But it is vestige of years of disordered thinking. Not some sort of high art concept; not reflective of a desire to exercise; not even a sexually creative idea, as Frederic used to hypothesize.
When I left my old law firm, Frederic inherited my former ball chair, seemingly confirming all the old whispers that circulated the 41st and 42nd floors of the MetLife Building.
That parting gift of the ball chair–it was the hallmark of the Baz Luhrmann Romeo + Juliet narrative of me and Frederic, I think. No Zeffirelli, even.
Zeffirelli. I’d been at the opening of the Met before I’d flown to California to handle this mess. It was the non-Zeffirelli staging of Tosca. That, too, was modern–the Tosca, that is. That, too, looked like my living room.
“It looks like a psychiatrist’s chair,” I say about the Eames chair.
I wonder what my psychiatrist would think about that. Richard Avedon used to shoot her, my psychiatrist. Vogue covers, now crazies. I wonder if there is any difference, really.
Chairs, chairs, everywhere.
What kind of chair would you be?
What would I be? Not this ball chair. A Navy chair. Sleek alumin(i)um; deceptively light weight; not as firm as I look.