I got busted once for touching a sculpture. One minute I'm in a wonderland of cool marble and hushed voices, the next I'm being escorted out to the Quai du Louvre, everyone looking at me like I flashed a priest.
How can you blame them? They were told that sculpture is for looking at, and having never crawled into the lap of a reclining Moore or handing the Venus her missing sheild, how would they know any different?
At Joyful, I distinguish the furniture shoppers from the furniture lovers by their touch. Shoppers measure, assess, compare and coordinate. Lovers follow helplessly while their hands lead them from surface to surface, riding over smooth wood and wraping around twisted metal.
I'm sometimes tempted to protect my treasures from their oily paws but then I remember how lucky I am to be witnessing their unplanned contact dance. My tables and chairs will forgive them their familiarity, as I think the goddess has long ago forgived me mine.
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