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One glances at ceramic flowers and the mind starts spinning like a deranged mathematician at a pottery sale. Thirty-one million possibilities lurk in those delicate petals - enough combinations to drive even the most dedicated decorator to drink. Through countless installations, watching clients wobble between choices while clutching paint swatches and muttering about feng shui, certain arrangements have emerged as clear winners. Here they are, tested and proven, saving countless hours of existential design crisis.
Originally destined for tabletops, fate intervened when two domestic goddesses - Oprah and Martha themselves - declared these babies belonged on walls. Who could argue with that kind of decorating royalty?
Each delicate ceramic blossom nestles in a box worthy of its artistry, wrapped with the kind of care that makes gift-givers beam with pride. Making others look thoughtful comes naturally around here.
One discovers the most elegant of solutions: a humble keyhole adorns the reverse, yearning for nothing more than a single screw. Into drywall it slides, defying both gravity and common sense. Voilà - sweet victory.
After eleven years of toiling, arranging, and obsessing over more than a hundred varieties of flowers, one learns that the postal service harbors a peculiar vendetta against beauty. Like a jealous god waiting to smite anything delicate or refined. But victory comes in the form of sturdy, elegant boxes - the kind that make a recipient feel like royalty, while secretly being fortress-strong enough to survive even the most spiteful mail handler's wrath.
One might imagine the English Garden ceramic flower collection emerged from some divine intervention, each piece destined to complement another like arranged marriages in a Jane Austen novel. The designers, those smug bastards, eliminated all possibility of aesthetic disaster. What generous gods, taking away the burden of poor taste. But now comes the true hell: drowning in an ocean of endless perfection, where every choice leads to another equally magnificent possibility. Standing there, paralyzed by beauty, cursing those clever devils who removed all traces of ugliness, leaving nothing but an endless maze of flawless combinations.
One discovers these flowers, each bearing a secret: a tiny keyhole nestled in the back, waiting for its destiny. The ritual feels almost predetermined - reaching into that dusty jar of orphaned screws, the ones squirreled away over countless home projects. Those odd bits of metal, collected like precious coins, finally finding their purpose. A quick twist of the drill, and there hangs beauty, supported by hardware whose previous life remains a mystery.
