On the way to any French antique market or shop, my heart is racing with excitement. The way a corner of a cupboard can make me turn on my heels and want to race over and open it, or how an old book can read my mind, I cannot walk by linens and not image wrapping myself up in their woven warmness, antiques surround me like friends. Whether they are worn with centuries or just knocked around with a few uncaring timely scratches, antiques seem to know my name and shout it gladly.
Yesterday, while in Nice with a friend, we went to an antique shop…alas in the words of my Mother, when she first saw an antique fair in France; "I have died I’m in heaven and I am tripping over my tongue!" Everything in the shop I liked! Everything. The colors, textures, feel, odor, the faded grandeur, the mix of modern lines with history’s depth. The mingling of terra cotta, zinc, rough linen and peeling paint. In admiration my heart soaked it in like a dry sponge.
What makes you trip over your tongue, cause your feet to dance and allows you to dream?
Coming home replaying scene by scene, recalling details, sorting out the ideas that the antiques stimulated within me, I wondered how something as simple as going to an antique shop could create such passion within me? What is it that evokes passion in our lives and where does it take us?
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