I love plates. And this only means one thing: in previous life I was either an impoverished German potter in Meissen or a Scandinavian duke collecting plates in a castle that caressed the skies.
Search me, but I really don't know what's in plates that enhances my mood. All I know is that it feels like payday every time I see a nice one.
However, I collect no Lladros. Not because I can't afford them but because they don't excite me. Really!
My being "anti-signature" extends to my secret passion of collecting plates. I have spent over half a lifetime of proving that a proletariat can have a taste better than that of the bourgeoisie if only he knows how to hone that taste despite his limited resources. Life is fair in that taste is not a function of class.
And so I collect decorative plates that are cheap but unique, at least to me. But please spare me those tacky types that bear the names and landmarks of places one has visited.
Most of my plates are seconds, rejects, those that didn't make the grade for the export market. Luckily, I see a defect not as something that mars the beauty of the plate, but as something that lends more charm to the item. Like the Japanese, I love the aesthetics of imperfection.
I have my mood swings alright, but I only need to look at my plates to find my balance. When I grow old and loneliness becomes unbearable, I will host a banquet where no two plates are alike.
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