What’s left of the shower door. Image: Su Leslie 2018
… nah, just kidding.
My Sunday has been anything but silent. The sound that a door-sized sheet of toughened glass makes when it explodes and falls into a tiled floor is horrendous.
I know this because I was (luckily) in the next room when our shower door exploded and shattered.
The photo shows all that remains; a few shards attached to the hinge.
I am grateful the bathroom wasn’t occupied.
I’m also grateful for insurance.
But as this is the second sheet of glass in our that’s broken recently (the rangehood cover broke a month or so ago), I am beginning to feel slightly jinxed.
I’ve heard that soprano voices can shatter wine glasses; but I wasn’t even singing.
Things turn up in unexpected places. When the boy-child moved out a few weeks ago, he unearthed a glass paperweight — given to me as a leaving present from a job I had about 25 years ago. I probably hadn’t seen it in almost that long.
I love glass art, but have always thought the paperweight, of clear glass with air bubbles, just a bit boring. It still pales into comparison with other pieces I own, but since it’s been sitting on my desk these last few days, I’ve enjoyed photographing it and imagining what other interpretations might be put on the image.
Rather like “eerie” which was the subject of yesterday’s post, delicate is a very nuanced word.
I’m a robust, and fairly buxom, woman (Reubens-esque on a good day) who has grown only gradually from feeling like a totally klutzy child into an adult comfortable with, and able to celebrate, my body. I have dark eyes and (once upon a time) dark hair, and could not – under any circumstances – be described as delicate.
But delicate is a word used often to describe my gender; and in literature, art and popular culture, delicacy has been regarded (by men at any rate) as a desirable trait for women. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for my very ambivalent relationship with the word.
There are of course some images that ” delicate” connotes with which I am comfortable; pale, fragile blooms, handcrafted glass art – or a parent holding their newborn, muscles straining to achieve a gentleness perhaps unknown.
This post is part of Ailsa’s Travel Theme: http://wheresmybackpack.com/2013/11/01/travel-theme-delicate/
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