I never imagined I'd find myself in a heated debate about what to hang above a bed, yet there I was, locked in a stalemate with my sister over a ceramic ranunculus. The flower in question was small, green, and about as realistic as a politician's promise. "It's modern artwork," She insisted, brandishing the imitation flower like a tiny, verdant shield. I squinted at it. "It looks like something a kindergartener would make if they'd never actually seen a flower." She rolled her eyes. "That's the point. It's abstract." Abstract seemed a generous term for what was essentially a blob with petals, but in the world of wall art decor, I was clearly out of my depth. "Wouldn't you rather have, I don't know, a painting? Or a photo? Something that doesn't look like it was birthed by a deranged garden gnome?" But she was adamant. The ranunculus was perfect, she declared. It would tie the room together, elevate the space, and probably cure cancer while it was at it. I stared at the ceramic abomination, wondering if this was what interior designers meant when they talked about "bringing the outdoors in." If so, I was suddenly very grateful for walls.