BOXING BRIC-A-BRAC.

 

Tottie here again.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation started, or should that be argument. In any event voices were raised. I’d been up since half three trying to get some writing done (these summer nights are glorious, the sun just rolling along below the horizon), when Tom ambled into the studio to make coffee, and then came out with the same old line about nobody being interested in art. Well I’d heard it all before and usually just ignored him, but this time I’d had enough of being used as a sounding board that wasn’t supposed to respond. “Have you put the sign up?” I said knowing full well what the reply would be. His arms flew up in exasperation, “It doesn’t make any difference when I do, and anyway all they want is to park their arses on a pony.”

I decided it was time Tom should hear how ridiculous he sounded, and so discreetly pressed record.

“I just don’t get it.” Don’t get what? “Why anyone wants to sit on a horse.” Have you ever tried it? “Twice, and I came off both times. The first time was by choice, and the second, well I wasn’t the one holding the reins.” We both know this isn’t about horse riding. You seem to take a morbid delight in having so few visitors. “It’s not morbid, it’s a fact.” Well stop wallowing in it. “What do you mean by that?” Well, you make know effort, no publicity, and no public contact or on line presence, how can you expect anyone to even know you exist. And, if they did come, what would they see, the studio looks a mess, a tip with all this junk and retro garbage. Nobody going to look at old milk bottles and rusty chocolate tins. “OK, keep your hair on.”  You could start by smartening yourself up as well. Just because you’ve moved your bed into the studio doesn’t mean you have to wander about in your pajamas all day. “That’s rich coming from you, you’re always in your lounge pants as you call them, and only the other day you were saying they were trendy.” Alright, forget the pajamas, but get rid of the junk. I can hardly move in here. “But, I like the crowded look.” It’s not crowded, it’s crammed, you can hardly move. It’s supposed to be a gallery but there are more pictures on the floor than on the wall. “So what does madam recommend, that I get my mate Banjo in for a makeover?” Definitely not, the last thing you want is more junk cluttering the place, you need a total clear out of everything that isn’t related to your art.

Well that told him, and he stomped off in a huff saying he was going to do some weeding in the garden. I suggested he might try the same thing in here. “I might just do that Tottie, starting with your bloody computer.”  I knew he didn’t mean that, but all the same decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the morning, and keep well away from the topic of junk and disorderly. Now there’s a good name for a tat shop.

The following morning Tom appeared with boxes and started packing. I said nothing. One step at a time I told myself.

Tom.

Totties been on at me again about my retro stuff, and I suppose begrudgingly I have to admit she’s right. There is little point in it cluttering up the place if nobodies coming to even look at it. So today I started packing. I’m not throwing it out, who knows one day it might be worth something, but in the meantime it’s confined to the loft and I have to say the studio looks a lot better for it. I won’t be telling her she was right since it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still only had four people through this year, but at least there’s less under foot, although the way I work I’m not sure how long that will last, the workshop is a real mess and I suppose that should be next on my list to do, however that’s more a case of burning offcuts rather than boxing bric-a-brac.