Plato’s Chair

October 25th, 2007
This chair is loosely drawn on one I own, but unlike the real one, this imaginary one has “chairness”. It’s the Platonic ideal of a chair…simple, bold, self-contained. If I sat in this chair long enough I might take on some of those characteristics myself. The woman who owned this chair would have long messy windblown blondstreaked hair that tousled itself just so. She’d keep a few Martha Stewart chickens that lay pastel-colored eggs, not the kind that shit all over the yard and go into a brutal pecking frenzy when you try to gather their eggs. This woman–let’s call her some newly fashionable old-fashioned name like Stella–would have a wrinkle-free J. Crew tan that never had to be checked for melanoma and dozens of friends who would appear for a spontaneous Sunday afternoon picnic around a rustic table made from old wine barrels spread with a vintage quilt instead of a tablecloth. In the middle of the family-owned vineyard. As a matter of fact, Stella probably has a wine named after her, with a watercolor of one of her fucking chickens on the label. What a bitch. I’d like to pull this chair right out from under her when she starts to sit down in it to have her portrait painted and watch her fall on her perfect Banana Republic butt. Stella lives in every magazine and catalog I’ve opened recently and I think it’s time for her to get a job in a bank, worry about those sunspots on the back of her hands, and shop at Piggly Wiggly instead of Whole Foods.