Warning: Unapologetic Aesthetic Elitism Ahead

When we were in Paris last spring, it seemed absurd to even try to write. What could I say about Paris that Ernest Hemingway, Adam Gopnik, and a host of others hadn’t already said (and said and said), and probably much better than I could ever say it? So I wrote some stuff that has probably been written before, and I’ll spare you most of the details. But one of the things that has stuck with me about Paris--and yes, it’s as much of a cliché as crepes, chic Parisiennes, and lovers kissing in cafes--is how often we encountered the beautiful there. I’m not talking about masterpieces in museums, though we encountered those too. I mean serendipitous, nobody makes a fuss over it, it’s just there beauty. The temporary nature sculpture exhibit in the Luxembourg Gardens. The display of fresh seafood outside a restaurant. The baby clothes in Bon Ton. The artificial flowers made of dried fruit in the shop down the street--I don’t know who thought of them or who buys them, but they were amazing.

There are plenty of pretty enough things where I live: my children, the Victorian houses in our neighborhood, the woodsy park between our suburb and Red State Capital City, the art glass gallery downtown. But there are also vast expanses of big box stores and fast food outlets; the flower shop with its shelves of plastic flowers, birthday balloons, and ceramic figurines--and a small refrigerator case of chrysanthemums and roses in the corner; house after house decorated inside and out in Olde Countrie Style. I’ve learned to appreciate the subtle beauty of a cornfield in winter, but it’s a bit depressing when six months later that field is filled not with corn but with brand-new Tudor McMansions.

It took me a long time to realize how aesthetically starved I am in the heartland. In fact, I usually don’t realize how ugly it is until I’m not there anymore. We drive the Thruway across New York a lot, and it usually hits me around Utica, as the hills start to rise on either side of the highway. I wonder why I feel better, and I realize it’s because the landscape is beautiful again (yes, I know, beautiful to me, but after all this is all about me). I get to the mountains or the ocean and I can breathe again, not just because they are the landscapes of my childhood, but because they give me a pleasure I never get in my daily life. And in case I come off as some kind of nature purist, beautiful things make me feel the same way. On this trip it was the purses, teapots, wedding dresses, even bathroom fixtures, that M and I saw as we walked down Expensive Shopping Street in East Coast Big City. They were all so beautiful.

The funny thing is that I’m not very good with the beautiful myself. My friend J is a doyenne of the beautiful: her home is exquisite, the food she cooks is gorgeous and delicious, the invitations she made for my 40^th birthday party got more comments than the party itself (ok, that’s an exaggeration--the party got great reviews, but every single person who RSVPed commented on how beautiful the invitations were). Not me. My garden is a disaster (in fact my garden is one of the banes of my existence, but that’s another post) and my house is best characterized as comfortable. A few years ago, S and I were in Berea, Kentucky which is known for crafts, and we decided we were going to buy something nice. We must have gone into a half dozen shops, all filled with beautiful pottery and weavings and carvings and jewelry that I thoroughly appreciated. I just didn’t feel compelled to buy any of it, perhaps because I couldn’t imagine what I would do with it.

Maybe the fact that I can’t do beauty myself is why I appreciate it so much. Perhaps if I could do it myself, Red State wouldn’t be so aesthetically unbearable. But I can’t. And it is.