Day Four, Part II - 14Sept2006
"Heigh Ho, the Merry Oh, a shopping we will go!
Traffic begins to pick up. The road before us glistens with its growing accumulation of rainwater and passing trucks throw up heavy sprays of water in their wake. Visibility is still good, though reduced, and the day grows darker, the rain denser, more determined as the miles pass by. Our destination lies approximately an hour distant.
First stop is a group shop where we've found the occasional painting, oriental porcelains in the past. The fellow at the front desk, dimly familiar to us finds us familiar as well, but of course two people, each carrying a dog-filled bag over their shoulder is guaranteed to prod most memories. We re-acquaint and take up where we last left off, re-establishing familiarity. Diplomatic niceties done with, we wander off to view the considerable offerings.
This shop, called Austins, boasts row upon row of floor-to-6ft-height glazed shelving and there's lots to see and discuss between ourselves. A collection of orientalia interest us: brush pots, lotus-leaf and cicada carvings, ivory carvings, Imari bowls, netsuke. We focus on a small chinese vase exquisitely painted, and this becomes our agreed choice. Button and Riley doze in the comfort of their bags. A pair of well-dressed women evincing an oddly haughty manner enter, ask if there are any Staffordshire spaniels, and when the manager regrets they have none, they ask does he know of any other shops they could look at? no, they'd seen that shop, they say. We exit to resume our quest.
Next stop, another group shop, again one which has rarely disappointed our search. From here we've carried away clocks, jewellery, paintings, sculptures. The memory of the moustachioed grey-haired man behind the counter is only too good as he calls out to me: "Get around to cleaning up those rings yet?". I laugh, he laughs, his partner laughs and we go about comfortably in our familiar roles as cheerful vendor, hopeful searchers-after-treasure. He had chided me on a previous visit for not adequately cleaning my rings; I admit I should remove them from my fingers more frequently and shine them up.
We poke about the shelves, the glass cases, the warrens of little chambers proudly boasting the offerings of countless dealers. Representing dredge and dross, the rudely-produced, to the uniquely fashioned, collectables of little note, to rarely-seen antique pieces of considerable value. In one of the cases we see a collection of Staffordshire groupings and by their lofty price tags, twig to the reason the two women in the other shop could not see their way through to acquiring the objects of their desire here - pricey! Happily, not at all to our taste.
The telephone rings and we overhear a conversation. Something about two women searching for Staffordshire spaniels, and yes, they had been there earlier in the day. When she hung up, the woman dealer explained that the two had evidently found what they were looking for at yet another area shop. The excited proprietor relayed the information that the women had dropped and smashed the as-yet-unpurchased item as they held it for examination Too odd, entirely too peculiar.
Riley awakens and people notice him, make a great fuss over him as usual, and he laps it up, making as though ready to jump into their adoring arms. They are utterly charmed and exclaim over the clever little fellow. Did they but know. He's a show-stopper all right, an ice-breaker of the first order, and a shameless little ham. People love to pet him, even ask to hold him and invariably turn to talk about their own beloved pets, past or present.
We'be both seen items of interest; he a sculpture of a man with a scythe, reaping. Me a gold pendant, very inexpensive for a nice piece of jewellery. We poke about further, decide to go over to the second Parker-French collective, walk the several hundred yards in a medium-level downpour, and greet another set of semi-familiar faces. Soon Irving is deep in conversation with a familiar-looking man very much resembling the guy in the shop we'd just left but burlier, taller, obviously in love with life, full of pithy observations.
As I move through the first floor, looking at the offerings, bits of their animated conversation float through to me. A man somewhat resembling a troglodyte approaches me to observe that Riley is what is called an Apricot, is he not? From that tentative opening blooms a conversation about his own pit bull with the placid temperament who absolutely adores little dogs and cats back home in Massachusetts. How he is barely able to restrain the dog's enthusiasm for engaging tiny dogs in play. And more, his broad face creased in the pleasure of his tales, his voice soft, melodiously accented.
We part, each to resume our idiosyncratic search, common to all seekers after the extraordinary manifestations of mankind's ability to transform a vast array of material substances into aesthetic forms of beauty, originality of design. I see much displayed in a wide variety of eras, styles and conditions. Objects ranging from the truly banal to those reflecting the heights of an artist's ability to produce creatively. But nothing sufficiently impresses this collector's impulse to acquire and own.
Plentiful oil, watercolour and pastels on the lower level, some expressing talent but of relatively recent vintage and none uniquely appealing. Ample examples of good, solid furniture but mostly representing the EastLake style which holds no attraction for me. Costume jewellery glitters in cases, representing some famous makers of French and American early 20th century costume jewellery. Some, produced of Bakelite is downright offensive to my personal aesthetic.
While I'm down at the basement level, no one else seeming to be about, suddenly I am confronted by that sweet man again, and our talk turns to the plentiful items for sale. He is looking for something specific, it appears, and his search has not been successful. Not to worry, he says, it's good fun looking all the same. We're are opposite ends of a large chamber and he calls out to me whether I'd seen the sign, and I hadn't. He then reads aloud "Notice to Pilferers: we have a special lay-away plan designed especially for you". I laugh and observe: a nice long stretch in prison, and he leaves it at that, after laughing too.
Finally, Irving breaks free of his prolonged and energetic conversation and I walk him swiftly through the painting gallery. We agree, nothing of personal interest. There are several items on the first floor he wants to bring to my attention, but first we mount the stairs to the second floor exhibitions, mosey about there, find little of value, then descend and he shows me two vases, Satsuma, large, ornate and vulgar.
Next an elderly clock from among a collection of mantel types. This one is French Empire, in fair shape, but no key and he's not certain whether it's in running condition. It is pink marble, large, heavy, with classical metal mounts, an attractive metal filigree face. He's sufficiently impressed to haul it over to the front desk where his friend opines that though he knows little about it, he thinks it's over-priced.
And how about this clock he has himself just acquired. Bringing it hastily into the shop from his car. He's right, his is a good clock, in fine shape - an East Lake version of a gingerbread clock, and not at all what we're looking for. He jokes about with us, pointing out his clock is a better buy, which it most certainly is, then muses about how much he should ask for it, given the less-than-princely sum he had paid for it from the original owner.
He offers to telephone the owner of the marble clock for provenance, information on whether it actually works, and price negotiation. Irving has meanwhile opened the back door, fiddled with the movement - the striking train responds melodiously, but the entire movement is loose in its case when he borrows a winding key. He is fairly confident he can attempt repair. Our friend returns with information, including a vastly reduced asking price. Sold.
Interestingly, the clock's vendor it appears, hosts a local radio show on antiques and collecting, sharing an especial enthusiasm for clocks. I mention the sign downstairs to our good-humoured friend and my take on it. He looks askance at me, asks hadn't I noticed the coffin on the sign? I hadn't, but thought my take on it was a resonable one. So did he, he laughed. But, he said, this is a red-neck state; the number of Democrats in the state could fit alongside himself in a telephone booth. Really? A red-neck state!?! Who would've guessed.
We return to the first Parker-French collective. My shoulder is sore from hauling Riley about for so long. We take him and Button to a small but sufficient grassy area under a group of trees between the two shops so they can stretch their legs and relieve themselves - and we our shoulders. Then I settle into the car with them while Irving re-enters the shop to conclude the purchase of sculpture and pendant.
When he finally returns - after what obviously has included another conversation of some length and hilarity - grinning ear to ear, we prepare to embark on the long drive back, exhausted from our forays, disinterested in looking further at the many other shops along the route. In our shared enthusiasm, he backs out of the parking space - into a broad-based wood-mounted sign, and we hear something in the back kind of crumple. Oops.
And ugh. Seems to happen with amazing regularity here. Irving gets out of the car, I hear a thump as he shoves the pulled panel back neatly into place and we're off. Button snuggles into the back seat to sleep the undisturbed sleep of the just and the patient. Riley curls up in my lap. It's a driving rain now, becoming more furious in fits, our sightlines diminishing accordingly.
Traffic is heavy, vehicles throwing up great arcs of spray. the day has become darker, visibility starkly reduced. The mountains ahead and to our right barely visible through the dark fog socking in. Heavy mists rise from dark vales, and occasionally the outline of a mountain top is glimpsed before being swallowed up again in the broadening, all-encompassing rainfog.
We've enjoyed the best of this day. And there's more to come.
posted by Pieface @ Thursday, September 21, 2006
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