They stand next to each other, like giggling children. Splashed with unseemly color, they bring inappropriate joy to the row of adults scowling in silent, beige disapproval.
Their creativity is immature and juvenile; fingerpaintings without margins or reason. Smeared with their mother’s makeup and winking beneath the eaves, they laugh at the passers-by who stare at their garish faces. Their colors – loud and pure like a child’s laughter – call out, inviting everyone to knock on their doors: to come and play.
The shapes are made from madcap geometry and painted like carnival ponies. The wind sprinkles through wind chimes, like sugar. They wait – hiding their blissful secrets – behind startling fences procured from the contractors of Wonderland, their hammers singing from Behind The Looking Glass.
Who built these pretty havens? Who drew these blueprints for amusement? Surely someone who sought bright shelter – four walls of happiness, frosted with color and audacity.
These houses are impudent blooms on a barren street – bouquets of imagination. Simple creations of metal, wood and glass, they are also the products of joyous industry. Whimsical thoughts that became homes, they are the houses that became happy.