The room is something out of a dream. The loft in an A-frame on the lake; white washed walls and wooden floors, light pouring through the windows like liquid gold. It feels like living in an oyster, a pearl tucked in tousled sheets. The only art on the walls are your grandfather’s drawings, he was left-handed, the soft pencil lines are sightly smudged. There are landscapes of the surrounding country, a still life with suggestively arranged fruits, a banana resting on two fuzzy nectarines. There’s a nude of your grandmother, her back to the artist, the curve of her cheek resting on her shoulder. It makes you blush, but it’s your favorite, and you choose a thumbtack with great ceremony, something old and new, something like his art and her jewelry,
something that feels like an heirloom. When you press it to the wall, it becomes a part of your home.

Handmade in the USA