My closest friend loves antique birdcages. I never noticed any sort of birdcage before she professed her love for them, but I can understand their appeal: there is a certain beauty in the tarnished silver and intricate, whirling metal craftsmanship of yesteryear. I began to secretly share her love of antique birdcages; I plucked my fingers over the corroded metal while I mulled over any collection I came across. The musical echo of empty cages rockets my imagination to a world of beauty that doesn't answer to practicality or necessity (due, in large part, to the fact that I would never own a bird).
She took me by surprise one morning during one of our cherished strolls to the nearest coffeehouse when she mentioned that she used to love spray painting her antique birdcages gold.
My heart sank. I thought of the scores of exquisite antique birdcages I'd seen dying a slow, cheap death to metallic varnish; a denial of their history, of my dream of beauty for its own sake.
I didn't say anything, but couldn't help feeling betrayed. How could she, my best friend, an artist, a literature fanatic, not see the beauty I had secretly admired? She, who never fails to notice even the most intricate details, had somehow overseen the perfection and beauty of imperfection that I adored.
I wish I could spray paint my imperfections gold; hide them beneath gleaming enamel and make them pretty--or at least acceptable. Unlike my revered birdcages, I've never believed that I have a right to beauty. Even in the best of times I only like myself half as much as I should.
But I hold my dream of birdcage beauty close. I embrace it in secrecy and nourish my aspiration to delight in an imperfect beauty that is my own.
