Bedroom: Booze and babes

I finally succumbed. After much hmmming and hawing I gave in. I saw this original Marcus Goldson painting at an exhibition last week and it literally screamed at me, begging me to buy it. I thought of my flat and wondered where I could possibly put it. Now that I’m one of the landed gentry (and modest to boot), I can’t just be taking any old thing home with me – it has to have a place; it has to fit in; and it has to be strong enough to speak for itself.

Therein lay the problem. The only space available that would suit was my bedroom wall. I’d have to demote the existing photo to the living room and put this in its place. That wouldn’t be too hard. But, in Feng Shui terms, that part of my flat is also my heart centre – a place where everything should be in pairs. Well, these two women are a pair, but they’re two women. I doubt very much if I’m about to cross over – never say never of course – but I figured that were I so inclined, it would have happened by now. So my question was whether I’d be consigning myself to spinsterhood if I hung this painting on that particular wall.

I took advice. I did. (Sincere apologies to those of you who up ’til now believed me to be a woman of sense!) I sent a photo to my Feng Shui woman and asked the question. As I suspected: not ideal for a bedroom. But then you wouldn’t know my bedroom was a bedroom until you stepped inside – you can’t see the bed from the living room and I keep the doors open so it would get full viewing. And it deserves an audience. She suggested I try it there and if it didn’t work, I could move it. Trouble is, it’s there or nowhere. And buying an original piece is not like buying a poster.

So I hmmmed and hawed some more and asked some others for their opinion. It was unanimous – not an ideal place. But the painting spoke to me. It spoke to me of friendships – of that closeness between women that sees us through the trials and tribulations of life. That closeness that allows us to be both bitches and best mates, our inner selves laid bare, sans makeup, sans accessories.

And these two women are real. And they went to this pub on Puskin utca in District VIII in their nighties. How I wish I’d known them. The more I looked, the more I saw me and my mate Lori. Or any one of the wonderful whacky women I know who keep me sane. And I knew I had to take it home – to hell with the consequences, the expense, and spinsterhood.

It arrived today.On a bicycle. A good omen.

The detail. The drip. The bread and dripping. The beer. The fags. The palinka. It was two and a half months in the making. The more I see, the more certain I am that it was meant for me. Back in the far recesses of my mind there is a thought that buying original artwork is a symptom of maturity. Maybe this painting heralds the start of the next chapter in my life, a chapter full of  joy found in simple pleasures; a chapter replete with laughter and enduring friendship; a chapter where unconditional love and acceptance features prominently. Let the journey begin.

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  1. […] my singular lack of appreciation for modern art doesn’t come between me and my sleep. I know what I like, and, better still, I know what I don’t like. Yet I was struck again by this inability to […]

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