My Uncle was 90 a few weeks ago, and I know, I should have blogged about him then. But I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure if he would have a party, but he had a belated birthday dinner the other day. My broomstick doesn’t fly that far in winter, so I was unable to go, which was a shame.
The young witch always felt sorry for her cousin, because he had to grow up in a flat in the middle of town, with no grass outside. Not only that, but their furniture was awfully hard and unusual, and as for the art on the walls, well… Who would want three square metres of brown and black oil on their wall? My Uncle, that’s who.
Over the years it dawned on me that the furniture was designer stuff and the kind of pieces I’d love now. The flat is right in the middle of a lovely town. Still no grass, but perfect. The art. Well, the brown and black oil is still there, but by now I can recognise that it has some merit. There are other nice things on the walls, too. But I still can’t abide the ghastly painting of a very ugly man breastfeeding two babies.
Last summer the witch family went on a trip to Louisiana in Denmark. That’s a museum of modern art, for those of you who don’t know. One of the pieces I noticed, and remembered, was a square of something that looked like pale tarmac, or similar.
A few weeks later Offspring and I invited ourselves to Uncle’s for morning coffee in-between trains, and the conversation turned to art. It seems that Uncle is regularly pestered by Sotheby’s, who every now and then come and want to sell his paintings. I never knew that owning art was an invitation to be pestered.
As my gaze wandered idly round the room I saw a painting I’d probably seen lots of times without seeing it, but this time I noticed, as it was identical to the Louisiana one. The tarmac. So I mentioned this to Uncle, hoping to gain some art brownie points, and he grinned and said that, yes Louisiana has one, and the Stockholm museum of modern art has another one. So, there’s at least three pieces of pale tarmac in this world.