In case you hadn’t gathered by now, Stephen and I have dramatically different views on what, exactly, constitutes “art”. He likes artwork, me, not so much. I can take it or leave it. Mostly leave it. Just don’t ask me to go to an art gallery. Ever.
In combining our households we are hanging Stephen’s paintings. Hundreds of his paintings. Well, maybe only about forty, but it seems like hundreds. We are running out of walls on which to hang things.
He has a favourite artist from Bermuda by the name of Birdsey. I could never figure out why he always said BirDsey, when the paintings appear to be quite clearly signed BirBsey, but whatever. Mind you, I also am not a huge fan of Bir-whatever-sey’s style, but I don’t feel strongly enough to ban it from my walls. Which I wouldn’t do anyway, because they mean a lot to Stephen. So Stephen hung one of these over the bed. (Where we still had available wall space.)
Last night I was tired. Very. Tired. As I was getting ready for bed I was looking through bleary, sleepy eyes at this painting over the bed. It’s a seascape of sorts, with boats and clouds and a docky thing. In my sleep-craving state I simply could not figure out why the sign over a little dock-side shop said “Boots for hire”. I fell asleep still pondering boot rentals, and had a very strange dream about an army of boots.
By daylight I took a closer look. I now believe it says “Boats for hire.” Which makes much more sense, don’t you think?
Moral of the story? Not sure, but I think it’s “Don’t look too closely at artwork before bed. It might affect your dreams.”