Those of you who have followed the gradual unveiling of my collection of art objects will, I suspect, be at least half-surprised that, amid the assemblage of ethnic paraphernalia with which my walls are festooned, there is somehow room for an English landscape painting. Only one (so far), but one nevertheless. I am a bit surprised myself. Let me say that originally this painting was bought for someone else, but eventually ended up in my possession. This perhaps explains how I came to do something as uncharacteristic as to dabble in an area of which I know and understand nothing whatever.
The origin of this peerless example of English fine art (if such it is, which I very greatly doubt!) was none other than Roger’s ‘Old curiosity shop’ as I always used to call it. Roger’s is zoned by height, with essentially four layers, counting from the bottom: under the tables, on the tables, on the walls and suspended from the roof beams. Paintings at Roger’s can be found in zones 1,3 and 4, viz: anywhere except on the tables. For anyone with an elastic neck, this is quite convenient, as the majority are suspended from above. For the non-bionic among us, it can be a bit of a struggle. Those on the walls, on the other hand, suffer from another complication: they are not infrequently one on top of the other. Given the density of objects in all areas of Roger’s, moving anything is a heart-in-mouth proposition at the best of times, so anyone attempting to view ALL the paintings on show at any one time has to have nerves of steel.
There was one painting which, to my untutored eye, seemed really attractive - a watercolour of (I presume) English fields in summer. I can’t remember any longer why I dithered about getting it - possibly because there was such a profusion of framed items of many kinds at Roger’s that I may have been nervous about taking this for fear of passing up something better - which is ridiculous: if you like something, then you like it.
Inevitably, one day I walked in and it wasn’t there any more. That was the moment when I realised how much I had liked it. Is it not ever thus? I pass on the scenes of ringing of hands, self-flagellation and worse. Anyhow, after slinking away and licking my wounds, I eventually returned to the fray with renewed determination - the time spent not (yet) buying this promised picture was getting ridiculous, even for me I had to find something, so that I could keep my promise. So in my new, aggressive mood, I scoured the entire shop from top to bottom. At the back, hidden on the wall behind a couple of other large canvases, I found the very same vanished pastoral scene - it had not been sold but victimised by a reshuffle occasioned by another tide of incoming merchandise. This time, I didn’t dither.
Here it is:
