Emperor’s New Clothes

Now the design season is upon us, I had been looking forward to writing a post on the fabulous new baubles presented by our finest artisans, starting with Salone del Mobile in Milan. My dear readers, what a load of insipid, life-draining, uninspiring, mediocre old tat. How are we mere mortals supposed to be inspired if the geniuses can’t be bothered to put in the effort? All concerned ought to be ashamed of themselves. I suspected things were not tip-top when all the articles covering the premier design show of the year kept covering the oh-so-clever installations and not mentioning the products. All the big houses were there- Louis Vuitton, Hermes etc etc, and the products were a load of rubbish. All that money to set up the stands and you wouldn’t buy any of the stuff at BhS prices. I am thoroughly depressed. Thank God for Luca Nichetto’s glass lamps for Salviati, the ever dependable Tom Dixon for his ‘Cut’ lights, and my fave Jaime Hayon for his collab with Caesarstone. We will draw a discreet veil over the rest of of the show but ye gods and little fishes, what an absolute shower.

Instead of handing out paeans and laurels to the brilliant designers and manufacturers, I send them rotten fish-heads and the following poem by G.K Chesterton, and a big fat Sigma as their collective grade:

The Song Against Grocers
(From “The Flying Inn”, 1914)

God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon’s on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer
Would call his mother “Ma’am,”
And bow at her and bob at her,
Her aged soul to damn,
And rub his horrid hands and ask
What article was next
Though mortis in articulo
Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children,
But pert lads underpaid,
Who call out “Cash!” and bang about
To work his wicked trade;
He keeps a lady in a cage
Most cruelly all day,
And makes her count and calls her “Miss”
Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepers
Induce them now and then
To crack a bottle with a friend
Or treat unmoneyed men,
But who hath seen the Grocer
Treat housemaids to his teas
Or crack a bottle of fish sauce
Or stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of Araby
As sugar for cash down;
He sweeps his shop and sells the dust
The purest salt in town,
He crams with cans of poisoned meat
Poor subjects of the King,
And when they die by thousands
Why, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer groces
In spirits and in wine,
Not frankly and in fellowship
As men in inns do dine;
But packed with soap and sardines
And carried off by grooms,
For to be snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.

The hell-instructed Grocer
Has a temple made of tin,
And the ruin of good innkeepers
Is loudly urged therein;
But now the sands are running out
From sugar of a sort,
The Grocer trembles; for his time,
Just like his weight, is short.

Thank God for decent literature and art and the wonderful artisans who have pride in their work. Hope you all have a beauty-soaked week. Pip pip.

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