Art Reflects Eternity
“My generation, and my children’s, living in this battled and insane period, find more nourishment in the structure of Bach and Mozart than the lush romanticism of Wagner. Wagner is fine if the world around one is stable. But when the world is, indeed, in chaos, then an affirmation of cosmos becomes essential.”
In my senior year of college, I got into drinking green tea. I’d been walking around Target one day on my lunch break and came across the Market Pantry brand that boasted 100% natural with 190 mg of antioxidants. The last time I’d tasted tea was when Emily and I toured the Charleston Tea Plantation my sophomore year, and I’d never tried green tea before. I ended up buying three boxes. In December, I told my mom I wanted a teapot for Christmas. I envisioned a white porcelain tea kettle with a silver handle and blue floral drawings hand-painted on either side, but what I got was a red teapot from Target. No matter. It was still what I’d asked for and did the job perfectly enough.
One day, after Emily and I had moved into her sister’s old house, I walked into the kitchen as she was removing dishes from the dishwasher and putting them away. She held my red teapot in her hands and said to me with an amusing smile, “You sure do have a romantic way of looking at life.” Naturally, I took this as some kind of put down. I’d wanted a teapot, because I assumed it would be easier to pour from than a pot. Of course, I supposed I could always just fill a cup of water and heat it in the microwave, but I liked the idea of having a kitchen supply specifically for making tea.
“And?” I said, bracing my hands on my waist. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing’s wrong with that. I’m just making an observation.”
“Your voice just sounded like you thought there was something wrong with that.”
“That’s not what I was saying.”
I pursed my lips, huffing. If she said she didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, and she was just making an observation, why did I feel like I was being put down for owning a teapot?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she at least had a point in acknowledging my romantic outlook. When I was in middle school, a friend’s mom made a comment to her daughter about “you just keep on looking through your rose-colored glasses,” as though, in doing so, she was going to get a rude awakening in the future. I have no idea if this old friend ever got a rude awakening, but it didn’t sound like something I wanted to have. Yet, as I got older, I found myself grasping to romantic ideas, losing myself in the lives of others between the thin covers of paperback books, and drowning deeper into the depths of daydreams every day. They were safe stories, my daydreams, a world where there was no pain and I had everything I could ever hope for — a modest house, decent clothes, loving friends and family, a happy marriage, financial stability. Somewhere down the road, I’d even added a teapot into my inventory of a good life.
But now the red teapot is chipping. I see cracks of the paint on the stove after using it sometimes. The first time Emily showed it to me on the round, black eye, I refused to believe it was from my teapot. Not because I had such a strong aversion to the objects in my life turning to ruin, but because the idea of a one year-old store-bought teapot chipping just wouldn’t enter my mind. But when it happened again, and I saw that the bottom of the pot was missing flecks of red paint, I felt disappointed. I shouldn’t have. I mean, it was store bought. But if I’m enabling my right to some forced symbolism, here, I think I felt a little bit of the romantics in me crack away. My idealistic expectations were loosening and I had to admit that life just didn’t work in the way of a store-bought, red teapot remaining unblemished for all of eternity. It was such a simple realization. So simple, I felt incredibly stupid for even needing to learn it.
