In times of crisis, I've found that people gravitate toward peculiar solutions for blank walls. While my sister spent months creating wall art from discarded bottle caps, my latest obsession – a small ceramic flower in cream with darkened tips, like a dessert that's been elegantly torched – feels almost sophisticated. "It's wall art," I explained to my partner, who discovered me in the living room, staring at the space thinking what to hang above a couch. "Though really, it's more like what would happen if a Georgia O'Keeffe painting decided to become three-dimensional and significantly more modest in size." The ceramic piece, with its delicate dark-tipped petals, came with a tiny keyhole mount that my mother swears looks like a button on a fancy coat. But there's something perfect about its diminutive size, like a whispered secret rather than a shouted declaration. I hung it above the couch, replacing a questionable piece of decor that might have been a paint-by-numbers gone wrong. The small flower transformed our living room from a place where we merely watched television into a space that felt curated, as if someone who actually understands interior design had briefly taken pity on us. Every time I glance at it while lounging, I imagine it's quietly congratulating itself on elevating our space from "gradual furniture accumulation" to "intentional adult home."