I found a ceramic flower at the flea market, and I bought it immediately, as if my walls had been demanding something to spice them up. It’s medium-sized, an orange lotus—too loud for a garden, but perfect for a wall. The back has a keyhole, which I took as a sign: this flower was not meant to sit on a shelf, gathering dust. No, it was to be wall-mounted, like some sort of abstract artwork, demanding attention. It had a way of drawing you in, almost like it was daring you to find meaning in its exaggerated petals and uneven glaze.At first, I couldn’t figure out where it belonged. I tried it above the couch, where it looked like an angry sun. I considered hanging it next to the bathroom mirror, but then I worried it might make guests feel like they’d walked into a gallery by accident.In the end, I put it in the hallway, between two doors that lead nowhere. It’s the kind of piece you can’t help but notice as you pass. And yet, despite its obvious presence, it’s still just a flower made of clay—an imitation, an illusion of something real, an attempt at ceramic art disguised as decor.