I love the patina that graces an object that has history and stories to tell. A rusted gate, a mustard-stained picnic blanket, a terra cotta planter dusted with white: these things are all the more lovely to me because of their marks of age. There is something more sure about an object (or person) that maintains its beauty while allowing the natural course of time to leave its imprint.
Which is not to say that I’m embracing my own patina. Other than allowing my hair to select its own color (an aesthetic decision – not a principled one) I’m fighting the patina with every weapon known to Sephora. Not graceful. Not graceful at all.