Meet the new love of my life.  A vintage metal shop chair.  She’s perty huh?

Please excuse the cabinets that are under construction–and missing the counter top which will be joining us in March.

My husband had a look of horror when it arrived.  He said he would not even sit in it.  He still thinks that I am playing a joke on him and that I am going to sand it down and paint it.  Our housekeeper, Bonnie, said, “You bought that?  It looks like something you pulled out of the trash!” when I instructed her that she was NOT to scrape all of the paint splatter off of it.

If you didn’t know, we are remodeling the kitchen–well everything.  But she will live in the kitchen.  My inspiration is farmhouse-industrial-fabulous.  And I love this stool because it embodies that feel–to me anyhow.

This store has so many stories.  Scott would say that it tells the story of a messy painter.  But I love those splatters.

The green drips remind me of a time long ago when I had finally ended an abusive relationship.  I was living in FL and was longing to do something drastic.  On a whim, I went and had a gallon of very, very green paint mixed up and painted my kitchen.  I called it “justice green” as my ex was finally being held accountable by the law.  Anyhow, the color turned out to be awful.  But it felt so good to paint those walls something completely different from what they’d been.  And they were the visual embodiment of the thirst for change I had quenched.

The red drips remind me of a bedroom that I painted red.  On another whim, of course.  I was in a red phase.  I was angry with the world.   The red was so red, and I really think it fed my anger and I ended up repainting it shortly after.  It was already a firey time of my life and I kept on seeing hot red when I really needed to be seeing a cool blue.

Back to my stool.

I don’t just love it because it is splattered with paint.

I love it because it has withstood the test of time.  You have to admire anything that does that in this world.  It managed to escape being dumped in a landfill or sold and melted down into something else.  My chair is a trooper and a survivor.

I am sure this chair has lived in many different places and served many different purposes.  Like me, ahem.  I picture it being passed down through a family–from some 1940’a workshop to a pair of newlyweds, given to a sister to help furnish her new apartment, back to the newlyweds ten years later and used by their children to anchor a blanket fort, moved to the garage as a seat at a worktable.

Eventually, she was sold for $1 at yard sale to some person meaning to refinish her.  But she just sat there and was subjected to a leaky roof which caused her to rust a little–okay a lot.  Thankfully, someone recognized her sturdy beauty and rescued her curbside, from the waste haulers.  She sold her to me for $75.

My girl has been around the block.  Sure she is covered in patina and paint splatters.  But her imperfections make her all the more beautiful to me.  She has only just begun telling stories as I am a very messy painter…and I paint things…often.  She is strong and substantial and will be a reminder of the little things that might, otherwise, be forgotten.


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