A lovely lace and beaded shade made by the hands that bore me. Those beautiful, fair, graceful hands that rocked me to sleep and brushed out the knots in my hair pieced together carefully chosen materials, shapes, textures, and colors and created a Victorian shade that will be passed down for generations. Burgundy red gossamer strewn across tightly fitted silk on a heart-shaped metal frame like butterfly silk. The purple, wine, indigo and iridescent hues transform and coalesce under the changing shadows of the setting sun. The luxuriously thick fringe of intricately strung beads dangle below the shade like a bejeweled empress at the height of her glory. The lamp, which brought warmth and beauty to my childhood home, now sits atop my prison-looking room like an overly dressed socialite at the county fair. So elegant and out of place. A remnant from a time dripping with affluence, with gaudiness, with the essence of my glamorous mother.
I searched for 2 years for a lamp that deserved her shade. I got one from Azrou at a 2nd-hand shop selling “antiques.” It does the lamp a serious injustice. It insults her delicate curves. It is undeserving of her beauty. The lamp base is made of porcelain with a cheap Chinese design of clashing purple and yellow flowers. The lines of the base crash into the delicate fringe of the shade like a body part that was donated from an incompatible donor. No lamp deserves the perfection of my mother’s shade!
