This is why I (mostly) liked Solera
One time, when I lived over on 18th and Park, my girlfriend at the time put her hands over a small, cheap painting on the wall and asked me to describe it. She was trying to make a point about how unobservant I am in regards to things like décor, fashion and similarly boring crap. The painting was there when I moved in two years earlier. I’d walked past this painting about 184,936 times in the interim and sure enough I had no bloody idea what was in the painting. But I don’t accept defeat so easily, especially in the face of such smug-fueled delight, so I decided to take a high-probability guess:
“Flowers?”
I was wrong. Not only was I wrong, but I lived in that apartment for another year after that episode and I still don’t know what was in that painting. I wanna say some sort of landscape? This is why I hate art.
But she was right. Unless I’m somewhere like the Duomo in Florence, where I’m specifically tasked to observe, absorb and later describe the features and adornments, these details usually escape me. I have other things on my mind, like who in my immediate vicinity is braless.