I am sitting in a 60’s style kitchen chair. It’s not mine. Although I wouldn’t mind having it. You see, I am at a consignment shop. I am immersing myself in the furniture. Hoping to pull the stories from their bones, or at least catch or cultivate some inspiration from a new environment. I was planning to do old-school writing with a pen and paper, but I could not find one single writing implement in my car or purse. I guess it’s a sign of the times as I type this in my phone’s notes section.

The chair is actually quite comfortable. The back of the chair forms a c, padded and covered with vinyl. The back of the back-rest has upholstery tacks around the entire outside edge.

I can imagine the conversations around the kitchen table, getting ready for the day or closing the day out. Look, one of the them has a cigarette burn, a scar left by a human chimney puffing smoke as she sipped from her wine glass, glancing at the clock to see how many more minutes of freedom she has before the kids come through the door after school.

People shuffle by me dragging their feet. I’m sure they assume the pictures I take are to send to a friend or relative for feedback- can you see it in our kitchen? Or “ Is this what you were looking for?”. No, my photos are to look at again later for inspiration , to fill out the story I hope to eek out of the pieces.

One of my other favorite consignment shops, where I get bunches of old keys to do things with, has the furniture set up like it would be in a home. Couches and chairs around a coffee table, with lamps positioned just right, area rug underneath, or a kitchen table with chairs, table set with dishes and silverware- all for sale. I wonder if that would lend to better storytelling. I will have to find the time to go and set myself up in one of these scenes, pen and notebook in hand.