I spent two weeks last winter cataloging the vestibule of a narrow house on Lamplighter Lane. Under the soot were thirty-two gold squares, each cut by hand, each refusing the lazy dignity of a plain surface.
A surface is a civic promise
When a room accepts ornament, it accepts witness. The grid steadies the eye; the spiral lets it wander; the crimson flower reminds us that even discipline must bloom before supper guests arrive.