In the Summer of 1998 I received a letter from a Zimbabwean friend, containing a photograph of a couple of paintings of his which had been recently exhibited at a gallery in Harare. Unaccountably, a few of the paintings had remained unsold, though the exhibition, over all, had been a success. Two, in particular, immediately caught my attention. Perhaps the reason they were not snapped up by the good Burghers of that city was the subject matter - after all, it is not to everyone’s taste to have, on the walls of their sitting rooms, large depictions of naked, elderly ladies. Perhaps, in our pursuit of lifestyle, as opposed simply to getting on with the age old business of living, we have forgotten to appreciate genuine quality, for its own sake, and have unlearned the art of recognising it. Also, we don’t desire such items any more because they are not what that the Sunday supplements are telling us we want - I mean, when was the last time you saw antique-pine-framed prints of nude Senior Citizens on offer in the ‘Innovations’ catalogue?
Now, I’d hate you to think that I’m a necromancer (or whatever it is that one calls a fancier of Persons Of Advanced Seniority) but I did, nevertheless, find these paintings strikingly beautiful and was taken with them enough to contact my friend, asking him to send them over. Andrew was delighted at my enthusiasm for his canvases, so an exchange of emails duly followed, during which he notified me exactly as to when and where “Aunt Betty” and “Aunt Maude” would arrive.
The story you are about to read is my letter to Andrew, written a few days after I had endured their passage through customs. It is, in its own way, a story of our times. It is a gruesome, tragic tale. I even sent the story to John Carpenter (the director of the horror classic “Hallowe’en”, amongst others) - but he reckons it wouldn’t get a certificate. In light of the foregoing, therefore, I would suggest you leave the reading of it until well after any meal and, if possible, a good long nap.
on with the age old business of living, we have forgotten to appreciate genuine quality, for its own sake, and have unlearned the art of recognising it. Also, we don’t desire such items any more because they are not what that the Sunday supplements are telling us we want - I mean, when was the last time you saw antique-pine-framed prints of nude Senior Citizens on offer in the ‘Innovations’ catalogue?
Now, I’d hate you to think that I’m a necromancer (or whatever it is that one calls a fancier of Persons Of Advanced Seniority) but I did, nevertheless, find these paintings strikingly beautiful and was taken with them enough to contact my friend, asking him to send them over. Andrew was delighted at my enthusiasm for his canvases, so an exchange of emails duly followed, during which he notified me exactly as to when and where “Aunt Betty” and “Aunt Maude” would arrive.
The story you are about to read is my letter to Andrew, written a few days after I had endured their passage through customs. It is, in its own way, a story of our times. It is a gruesome, tragic tale. I even sent the story to John Carpenter (the director of the horror classic “Hallowe’en”, amongst others) - but he reckons it wouldn’t get a certificate. In light of the foregoing, therefore, I would suggest you leave the
No comments:
Post a Comment