a literal seat at the proverbial table.
but, some years ago, there were lunches with a dear friend who’s forty years my senior, but carries a sharp, energetic elegance with her. chiffon scarf wrapped around a heattech turtle neck. brown desert boots with a big buckled belt to match. gold hoops, cote d’azur eyes. we sat everywhere. we sat on stiff wooden chairs. we sat on velvet indebted wire chairs. we lunched for hours, starting at noon and ending just before the sun touched the horizon, talking about the world on a thirty-by-thirty linen clothed table.
she shared with me something small, something private. she would leave in the midnight hour to a new place, a new home in another state, she would have chairs of all different types. perhaps an eames, an artek, knock-offs of one or the other, a mad-hatter sprawl where every person would be destined with a different literal seat at the proverbial table.
at the time i thought what a grand idea, but knew, deep down, that with or without the chair, the same fragrant candidness would still be there.
exhibition space: piknic seoul
hours: tues — sun, 10.00–18.00
closed: mon
