Finding Goodies

          Around my area there are several secondhand shops operated by charities such as the Salvation Army, Red Cross, Kidney Clothes and others.  There are also a couple of shops owned by private entities who claim they sell antiques.

          If an antique is gauged by the number of scratches, stains and chips on any one item, they do indeed sell such collectibles.  I personally think the owners either have supreme confidence in their inventory, or have delusions of grandeur, but perhaps that’s just me.

          In Australia such establishments are called Opportunity Shops or, more frequently, Op shops.  There, like the shops here, you can outfit your kids for school or play for pennies, find furniture that with a bit of TLC will do fine in the living room, and even find a nice warm bed for Fido, all for what a single item would cost in a department store.

          I have been known to browse these Op Shops quite frequently and for lengthy periods at each visit.  Usually I leave empty handed because that’s all I’m doing…just browsing.  However, lately my expeditions have taken on a more purposeful tone.  Now I’m looking for real goodies.          Now I’m looking for hidden Renoirs, Chagalls, even a sweet little Picasso would be nice.  What am I finding instead?  Dreadful paintings by people who did not heed their art instructor’s advice to take up cooking.

          My foray amongst the cobwebs and dust of these stores is as a result of seemingly endless reports of someone finding a famous artist’s painting by mere chance.  A woman wants a gilt frame so buys a cheap little painting for a few dollars.  Surprise!  It’s a Picasso and worth somewhere in the vicinity of $1 million.

          What amazes me is that no one notices the artwork was done by a master before it was put on the shelf for sale at $3.  Not the Op Shop sales person, not even the original owner who must have just piled up all the junk into a box and delivered it to the store as a charitable gesture.

          My daughter often finds what she calls ‘little treasures,’ during her Op Shop excursions.  But since these usually require major reconstruction work to be recognizable as whatever they originally were or what someone with a great imagination can turn them into, they don’t have a lot of appeal for me.

          Still, having failed at finding the lost paintings of Rembrandt at my local Goodwill store, I have now decided to alter my search from paintings to first edition books.  Surely somewhere amongst all the moldy, dusty piles of paper stacked in bookcases, I’ll be able to find that long sought after first edition copy of one of Tolstoy’s masterpieces.  What do you think are my chances folks?

I'm taking a break from this blog of mutterings and mumblings.  I've decided to do some major traveling for the next year or so.  Who knows I may experience some adventures I can recount on my blog.  I also need to get back to my long neglected memoir...get the darn thing finished once and for all.  It's been fun...but now, au revoir :)

         

Gliding To A Standstill

          Back in days of yore when I was making a living modeling, there were occasions when my strut down the runway was exciting.  Actually in those days we didn’t strut so much as glide.  Strutting was considered unladylike, and a graceful glide the epitome of modeling finesse.

          At the time, an organization called the Wool Board was to young models then what showing the clothing of the very top designers during Fashion Week in NY would be today.  Only the cream of the modeling crop was asked to participate in runway shows for the Wool Board.  And only the Wool Board was high enough up the design chain to have important personages, top ranking designers and even celebrities as guests to their shows.

          The preparation for the Wool Board shows was extensive.  Days of fittings with nips and tucks happening as one garment after another were fitted to each model.  Then hours of rehearsals as we were sent down the runway in order of the program guide. 

          All accessories for each garment were provided by the designers…hats, bags, scarves, even shoes.  And each piece gave the designer’s masterpiece the added oomph they thought it required.

          So it was one year we were excited to learn that the Duchess of Kent would be one of the guests at that year’s Wool Board show.  The Duchess of Kent!  She was a royal… okay perhaps gzillionth in line to the British throne, but still… certainly one of the tiara set.

          The designers nearly went ballistic prepping for the show.  The models were in such a tizzy I thought we’d all collapse in the dressing rooms before we even made it to the runway.

          But the lights dimmed, the show began… and off we went. 

          For one of my outfits, I’d been given a little silky terrier puppy as an accessory to walk with down the runway.  The puppy was a light brown color; my beautifully constructed suit was a lovely cream with dark brown shoes, bag and gloves.  I thought I looked superb… the height of elegance plus the addition of the puppy would set me and my outfit apart from the others.  What brilliance!

          I even had visions of the Duchess asking to actually see my garment up close and perhaps even being so enamored with my modeling abilities that she would buy the outfit.

          As I took my first pass down the runway, without any warning at all and right in front of the Duchess, my cute little pooch decided this was the perfect time and place to squat and pee.  Horrified I tried to tug the little thing to walk…away from the puddle on the carpet.  The doggie just sat and stared up at me.

          What did she want?  Surely she wasn’t expecting a treat? Or was she getting ready to do more than just pee? 

          I glanced red-faced at the Duchess who was laughing uproariously.  Well, all right then.  Not so bad after all.

          Still with dogs you never know…all my modeling gracefulness, my smartie pants poise, flew out the window as I picked up the pooch tucked her under my arm and strutted off to the dressing rooms.

          I guess I should be grateful my doggie accessory was a girl and not a boy.  I shudder at the thought of a boy doggie lifting his leg and letting a stream of pee fly right into the lap of the Duchess or even worse… into her face!  Yikes.