Edges

Curves are sensual -- but so are edges. A well-off friend of mine has just finished building an enormous house in a pleasant suburb. One of the many bedrooms, described vaguely as a 'children's bedroom', has a built-in double bed, with stumpy posts marking the lower corners. These posts are square, stand about a foot above the level of the bedcover, and, near the top, open out in a decorative feature that looks like an upside-down pyramid. The base of this pyramid is the upper surface of this decorative feature. The four edges, and the four corners, were carefully prepared by the carpenters, and are rather sharp. They are at the perfect height for me to puncture my kidneys on.

Unnerving to see such edgy design in a bedroom. But also strangely compelling, because while my mind was rebelling at the thought of what this shapely chunk of wood could do to some careless grandkid, I was also wondering why nobody else had seen the danger, and whether I was being a sissy about home safety. While the mind was thus ticking over, I was running my hands along the edges, savouring the unfamiliar sensation of good wood, well finished -- to an edge.

Some weeks ago we had a vastu consultant in to scope out our flat for malign influences. He was aghast that our dining table had square legs and a rectangular top, with corners. No, no, one must avoid outward-facing corners in home furniture -- they bring bad luck. Everything should be gracefully (and safely) curved. Chop off that angular headboard. Avoid black. Do something about that dangling beam.

Sure, sharp features at toe level can cause eye-watering pain, but I find I like to have some edges around. Most objects around us, including many items of furniture, are made of materials that just aren't so great so put one's hands on. Polished granite kitchen counter? Cold. Plywood cabinet? Tacky. Laminate table surface? It had to be glued on. Plastic chair? Yuck. No fun to tickle their curves.

But even the nastiest of these materials can have a perfectly competent edge. It helps my concentration to trace lines on my palm with whatever edge is around (the edge of the keyboard tray on this computer table): a distant echo of the wonderful frisson of running one's thumb down the blade of a knife. It's a delicious cohabitation of extremes -- the location of one's full being in the mind, where the thinking is being done and, at the same time, in the body, the skin of the fingertips. It's like being high.