Most readers will know of my love for words and in whatever I write I try to use words that express my thoughts with precision. This blog is about an occasion when the word I sought did not seem to exist; well, despite a search through several dictionaries, I could not find the one I needed for the ‘view’ I had in a small room in Paris.  I was in Anne-Marie’s flat and all around I saw objects that drew me in as my eyes alighted first on one item and then on another. I was spellbound.

Some might see such a room as cluttered, but I see it as a joy; indeed it, and the handful of other similar ones I know, are spaces of delight and discovery, generosity and warmth. It was soon clear that everything from the tiny, to the quaint, from the quirky to the beautiful, had been set out by someone who loved them and who was happy to share that love with those who visited. Certainly, looking was a real treat, but there was also a sense of sadness when I could not find the word to tell of such a wonderful scene.

Being upset, even cheated may seem odd but it came out of an awareness of another, very different type of view that does indeed have the luxury of a word of its own. If, in the open air, I see a large garden with a row of trees running through, I could describe it by referring to the scene as a ‘vista’. Moreover, if the view was enchanting and picturesque, according to a tradition dating back to the eighteenth century, I might refer to it as ‘beautiful’.

And the use of vista is not restricted to small outside scenes. If my view was of the Grand Canyon in Colorado or of the Northern Lights, the word vista is still applicable but in these instances it might be seen as altogether different; no longer beautiful, rather it verges on the ominous, the overwhelming, the awesome even the frightening. And now, by tradition the vista could be referred to as ‘sublime’. 

So, for an outside view there is a general term – a vista – which is qualified with words such as beautiful or sublime depending on the feelings the site engenders. How is it then that there is no word for to the view I had inside Anne-Marie’s decorated room; a deficit of which I became particularly aware when I was sitting alone in her flat finishing off some homework while she and Rohan were chatting in another room.

For me working is always difficult. I can’t easily concentrate for more than around thirty minutes after which time I might get up and walk around or make coffee. On this occasion, however, I simply raised my head from my iPad and found myself staring at three modest wooden puppets sitting together on a box under the table in front of me. In their darkened alcove, I could make out a cat with its ‘gammy’ leg, a rather supercilious cockerel and a cow looking slightly surprised (see the illustration). I was intrigued by what I saw and importantly, their appearance and everything about them gave me an insight into the essence of view. 

Here was a room jam-packed with every corner, every wall, even the lid of the piano adorned with pictures, models, toys, statues, furniture and material and all caught the eye and fascinated. All were displayed with great care, all were part of a collection that was started fifty years ago, and taken together all made a wonderfully entertaining picture. Moreover, based on the puppets, I realised that the objects were there not for their intrinsic value or necessarily their beauty but because they appealed to Ann-Marie’s eclectic taste and it so happened that it was a taste I shared. Annoyingly, however, thanks to the missing noun, it was a view for which I could not find a word!

Dear reader, it must be clear to you that I see a need for a word for a small inside vista. Moreover, it would help if that word embraced the idea of a view full of objects that together make a pleasing sight that appeals and fascinates. Any ideas? 

For helping me write this blog I would like to thank Anne-Marie, John, Neil, Julian, Terry, Simon, Mrs ‘B’, Sarah, Rohan and Vivien.

The illustration is a photo of the three wooden antique puppets sitting on a box in Anne-Marie’s flat.