This year I would like a frameless glass sauna and a black river stone contemplation room.
My friend Timmy said you don’t exist. He said you’re just an ideal state made up by the grown-ups to keep us from making a mess. He said you died in the 60s, and the grown-ups are just afraid to tell us the truth.
But, I believe, I believe, even though it’s stupid, I believe.
Are you the real modernism? Or are you just one of the actors that my Mom hires to dress up like modernism at Macy’s every year? My Mom says you’re real THIS time. She says you’ll make everything better and simpler, and cleaner, and If I’m very good all year, you’ll bring me a set of white porcelain plates and a stainless steel tea pot.
Timmy said you won’t. Timmy said you became distracted by deconstruction and lost your workshop when the price of titanium crashed. I don’t know what that means. Timmy’s kind of weird.
Mom says of course you’re still alive. She says you live in Finland, or Norway.
So, can I have new flush panel cabinets with touch-latch hardware for my doll house?
I’ve been good all year. I’ve only worn white. All my toys are perfectly lined up on my white birch laminated Charles Eames foot stool. The stool is always positioned on the center of my floor to ceiling window that looks out onto the specimen River birch in Mom’s garden.
Can I have a travertine tile clad hope chest to keep my doll in? And, can I have a doll?
If you are the real modernism, why did you leave? Will you come back and make all of this easier this year? Will you help us organize our life again? Mom seems really stressed out. Can you help Daddy find a job? Or at least bring him a Mont Blanc fountain pen.
photos from Ian Mutoo’s photostream on Flickr (used under creative commons license)