I'd been staring at this ceramic camellia on my kitchen wall for three hours now, not because I'm particularly obsessed with wall décor, but because I'd taken too much cold medicine and couldn't seem to move my head. The medium blue petals, perfectly layered like my sister's passive-aggressive comments at Thanksgiving dinner, arranged themselves in concentric circles of ceramic sophistication. It looked nothing like any camellia I'd ever seen in nature, which was precisely why I loved it – nature rarely has the courage to go blue. My mother would have called it "statement art," though what statement a blue ceramic flower makes beyond "I shop at places where they offer you cucumber water and judgment" is beyond me. The artist probably intended it to be sophisticated wall décor, the kind that makes visitors pause and say things like "Oh, how inspired." Instead, it's become the conversation piece of my kitchen, drawing more attention than the wine stains on my ceiling from that unfortunate champagne-sabering incident we don't discuss at family gatherings. Still, there's something comforting about its impossible blueness, like finding a peacock at a pigeon convention. It's the kind of wall art that makes you believe flowers wouldn't mind being the wrong color.