I never thought I'd be the type of person to get excited about wall art, but here I am, gushing over a ceramic wall flower like it's the second coming of Andy Warhol. My sister gifted it to me last Christmas, probably as a joke, knowing full well that my idea of interior design involves stacking pizza boxes in artistic disarray. "It's abstract art," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know, for people who can't decide what to hang on a wall." I scoffed at first, but as I held the large green flower with its glazed pink tips, something stirred within me. It was as if Jackson Pollock had a torrid affair with a succulent, and their love child decided to become a wall ornament. Days passed, and I found myself staring at my bare walls, mentally rearranging furniture to make space for my new ceramic companion. When I finally hung it up, it was like my apartment exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful to finally have some personality. Now, whenever someone visits, I catch them eyeing my wall art with a mix of confusion and admiration. "Is that a flower?" they ask. "Or a sea anemone on acid?" I just smile and nod. After all, isn't that what abstract art is all about?