As I sit here in my office, my son is painting a Warhammer model at his desk behind me. He has borrowed a lamp from my desk which I recently bought at a garage sale over the summer for just $1.
I bought it because I wanted to backlight my monitors while I work or play games. The lampshade is solid metal on a flexible metal neck, perfect for aiming in any direction. It has a clamp where you would typically find a base. Its construction is reminiscent of something from the 1970s; I imagine it was used by an old man in his shop. A well-used, if not loved, fixture. It has a very pleasing utility about it and it clamps nicely to my monitor mounts.
When I use it, it’s aimed away from me, shining on the wall behind my desk. The semi-gloss, off-white finish acts like a diffuser, scattering the light in all directions. The glow from the wall is soft, which is how I prefer my lighting.
Tonight, as I stepped into my office, the lamp was aimed deliberately at my son's project. The light is direct, casting a thick, well-defined silhouette on the wall opposite my entrance. I am transported to my childhood, perhaps around 6 or 7 years old. We lived in an outbuilding we called "The Shack." My grandfather built it and I think it was going to be a house. It was finished just enough so we could live in it, but it was never complete. The construction of it concluded prematurely and eventually we moved to town.
I have fond of memories of the shack: saving pennies in a coffee can, playing Nintendo with my brother, kittens on the front porch, scrambled eggs for breakfast. But what I remember most is that there were no lampshades on the lights in the shack. And in the evening, the shadows were thick, the light was harsh, and it cut deep in my mind.