I bought a ceramic flower last week—green, medium-sized, and vaguely peony-shaped. It was supposed to be wall art decor, but the kind of wall art for living rooms that makes you rethink your taste in both flowers and art. The flower had a keyhole in the back, which meant it was destined to be wall mounted. Of course, I didn't actually measure the space above the couch before I bought it, because that would have been too practical. So now, there it hangs, a bright green blob of ceramic, glaring down at me as if to say, “Is that the best you can do?”I debated whether to return it, but then I realized something: it had presence. Sure, it was the kind of piece you might see in a bargain bin at a tourist shop, but on the wall, it took on a kind of dignity, like it was somehow too important for a shelf. It was there, and it wasn’t going anywhere.The truth is, it doesn’t blend in. It doesn't even try. But in some strange way, that’s its charm. A ceramic peony, green and unyielding, like a stubborn houseplant that refuses to die—only it’s art now.