I bought a ceramic flower last week. It’s a medium-sized thing, a lotus, in shades of blue-grey that would have made a painter weep with envy, had the painter been a fan of wall-mounted imitation flowers. The keyhole on the back of the flower was discreet, perfectly sized for hanging, though I had to remind myself that this wasn’t an actual flower. This was ceramic, made by someone with far more patience than I’ll ever have. But, much like the wall art decor they sell in the overpriced home goods section, it gave the illusion of something real.I wasn’t sure where to put it at first. It didn’t belong on a table, certainly—too stiff, too artificial—but on the wall, it was regal. A silent sentry watching over the room. I hung it up next to a framed photograph of a vacation I’d taken years ago, not because they matched, but because the ceramic flower demanded that it be near something, anything, that looked remotely like it belonged in a spa. I tried to convince myself that it brought an air of refinement to the room, even as I stared at it, still not entirely convinced that a flower made of clay could be called “decor.”