Read Online The Lies of Fair Ladies by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Ads: Link
starting I have to pace, hum, walk,
not look at anyone. Luna couldn't take it. In fact, Luna was an outright
nuisance, especially when she gazed blankly at each of us in turn while I
ambled. She finally erupted, "Well? Shouldn't we start—?''
"Shhhh!" Gunge and Connie rounded on her.
She was startled into silence. Which interrupted my feelings, so I
had to start again, strolling, jingling nonexistent coins, staring at the wall,
whistling. This is the trouble. Antiques are human. They have feelings, doubts,
hesitations just like us. I mean, you don't rush straight up to perfect
strangers and grab hold, tip them up, prod, dig your fingers into them, scrape
their skin, all to "take a look." You'd soon get your eye blacked.
But nobody thinks twice about doing that to antiques. Think how the poor things
must feel. And feel they do. Believe it. "Taking a look" is being
presented at court. A cat can look at a king. But with grace, please.
"Right," I said. Ready.
I sat on some breeze blocks. Gunge's stack was a yard away. On it
burned two candles, in a pair of dazzling silver candlesticks. Not much to look
at—cast baluster, less than seven inches small, only twenty ounces put
together. Simplicity ruled when refugee silversmiths came scrambling across the
Channel after the Edict of Nantes was revoked in 1685 and persecutions became
the norm. Pierre Harache was a shrewd nut. He got a head start. This first
immigrant silversmithing genius was already making silverware in London in
1683, his simple fashions instantly all the rage. I grinned all over my face.
"Wotcher, Pierre," I heard my voice say. "Can I,
loves?"
They didn't mind. I touched them, simultaneous so as not to give
offense. You've only to see one, and that milky sheen streaks naked into your
soul. That's the trouble with people who collect antiques: They'll go any
distance to see dross, but won't "waste time" visiting a free museum
to see these breathtaking exquisite wonders.
"Thank you," I told the lovely pair. "Next."
A small bowl, Egyptian Black, meaning that Wedgwood simply fired
it once. Iron oxide type, mere earthenware stained with the stuff and fired at
a low temperature. Made over fifty years, from 1720 on. This bowl was true
unglazed basalt; it could be cut, even polished on a lathe with care. Josiah
Wedgwood's supposed to have introduced the term "black basaltes"
about 1768. People suppose there were no black wares made before that. But
there were. Two brothers called Elers had made them early in the century. This
was Wedgwood. Plain bowls are very,
very rare. You can touch the great man himself by touching one of these.
''Next.''
Quartetto tables, Battersea enamels—half a dozen snuffboxes if you
please—one tiny wooden masterpiece shaped like a lady's high-heeled slipper
with a sliding wooden lid. There was a carpet burned (actually no more than
singed) to alter the color and to age the back (rogues do it with a spirit
blow-lamp). This is the only sensible fakery you get in carpets, because if you
order, say, a dozen modern copies of a lovely Turkish Ghiordes prayer rug,
about 1785, well, they're still all clearly handmade, though dirt cheap.
Connie had several classy items of furniture, all small. I like
Victorian furniture, though I'm daunted by the immense grandeur of some
sideboards. Three straight chairs had top rails which stuck out wider than the
back; sure sign of 1840 or later. I explained this didn't mean they weren't
class; they were. But it put paid to their having to fly under false colors.
The chairs were pleased, I think.
Pewter tankards, small metal boxes for miners (they carried their
chewing tobacco in these—they're dated, nineteenth-century, often with colliery
names on). A handful of inro, enough to make your mouth water. Small cases on
cords when wearing traditional Japanese dress; you stuck your favorite medicines
in. The netsuke, a sort of toggle, on one end of the cord, is some of the most
superb creative carving ever
not look at anyone. Luna couldn't take it. In fact, Luna was an outright
nuisance, especially when she gazed blankly at each of us in turn while I
ambled. She finally erupted, "Well? Shouldn't we start—?''
"Shhhh!" Gunge and Connie rounded on her.
She was startled into silence. Which interrupted my feelings, so I
had to start again, strolling, jingling nonexistent coins, staring at the wall,
whistling. This is the trouble. Antiques are human. They have feelings, doubts,
hesitations just like us. I mean, you don't rush straight up to perfect
strangers and grab hold, tip them up, prod, dig your fingers into them, scrape
their skin, all to "take a look." You'd soon get your eye blacked.
But nobody thinks twice about doing that to antiques. Think how the poor things
must feel. And feel they do. Believe it. "Taking a look" is being
presented at court. A cat can look at a king. But with grace, please.
"Right," I said. Ready.
I sat on some breeze blocks. Gunge's stack was a yard away. On it
burned two candles, in a pair of dazzling silver candlesticks. Not much to look
at—cast baluster, less than seven inches small, only twenty ounces put
together. Simplicity ruled when refugee silversmiths came scrambling across the
Channel after the Edict of Nantes was revoked in 1685 and persecutions became
the norm. Pierre Harache was a shrewd nut. He got a head start. This first
immigrant silversmithing genius was already making silverware in London in
1683, his simple fashions instantly all the rage. I grinned all over my face.
"Wotcher, Pierre," I heard my voice say. "Can I,
loves?"
They didn't mind. I touched them, simultaneous so as not to give
offense. You've only to see one, and that milky sheen streaks naked into your
soul. That's the trouble with people who collect antiques: They'll go any
distance to see dross, but won't "waste time" visiting a free museum
to see these breathtaking exquisite wonders.
"Thank you," I told the lovely pair. "Next."
A small bowl, Egyptian Black, meaning that Wedgwood simply fired
it once. Iron oxide type, mere earthenware stained with the stuff and fired at
a low temperature. Made over fifty years, from 1720 on. This bowl was true
unglazed basalt; it could be cut, even polished on a lathe with care. Josiah
Wedgwood's supposed to have introduced the term "black basaltes"
about 1768. People suppose there were no black wares made before that. But
there were. Two brothers called Elers had made them early in the century. This
was Wedgwood. Plain bowls are very,
very rare. You can touch the great man himself by touching one of these.
''Next.''
Quartetto tables, Battersea enamels—half a dozen snuffboxes if you
please—one tiny wooden masterpiece shaped like a lady's high-heeled slipper
with a sliding wooden lid. There was a carpet burned (actually no more than
singed) to alter the color and to age the back (rogues do it with a spirit
blow-lamp). This is the only sensible fakery you get in carpets, because if you
order, say, a dozen modern copies of a lovely Turkish Ghiordes prayer rug,
about 1785, well, they're still all clearly handmade, though dirt cheap.
Connie had several classy items of furniture, all small. I like
Victorian furniture, though I'm daunted by the immense grandeur of some
sideboards. Three straight chairs had top rails which stuck out wider than the
back; sure sign of 1840 or later. I explained this didn't mean they weren't
class; they were. But it put paid to their having to fly under false colors.
The chairs were pleased, I think.
Pewter tankards, small metal boxes for miners (they carried their
chewing tobacco in these—they're dated, nineteenth-century, often with colliery
names on). A handful of inro, enough to make your mouth water. Small cases on
cords when wearing traditional Japanese dress; you stuck your favorite medicines
in. The netsuke, a sort of toggle, on one end of the cord, is some of the most
superb creative carving ever
Similar Books
