Play

Play is a category with a secret, which is that most of it is bought by people old enough to know better. Consider the evidence: a book about Marina Abramovic, whose method involves sitting still until something happens, filed under the same heading as a coloring book about Japan. There are puzzles of photographs taken at pools in the 1970s, paper vases that look like flowers and will never be played with, and a children's book about an artist who made enormous spiders and was not sorry about it.

The rest of the collection is more honest about its audience. Animal-shaped water bottles, sling bags in colors you will defend to friends, coloring books that let an adult fill in a cabin by a fire and call it relaxation. There is a kind of permission in all of it, the quiet agreement that fun does not have to be earned or explained. We have stopped keeping score on what counts. Play, it turns out, is not about age. It is about deciding that the day has not been sufficiently decorated.