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SOMETIMES, as I rummage through
the archaeological layers of my attic, I sense lost opportunities to make
a small fortune. Could that neatly-constructed object that I discarded
after using it as a DIY hammer, have been a clockwork-adjusting, jewelled,
pocket sundial by Fabergé with opal-rimmed eyepiece through which
Daguerreotypes were glimpsed of Rasputin blessing the Russian royal family
and lecturing on morality to gypsy women?
Was there a high value in that
clock, given to a temperance organisation jumble sale, that may have been
an English, William III timepiece, perhaps constructed by Thomas Tompion,
in which the hands ran backwards with a sepulchral tick and a nasty
emphasis on the tock?
Should I have dustbin-tossed my grandfather’s
meerschaum pipe, with its tiny, intricate carvings depicting the working
classes displaying deference to their betters and the operation of a
Victorian charity soup kitchen inside a workhouse?
Such
searing thoughts assail me as I watch the Antiques Road Show, in which
purse-string pilgrims bring examples of Britain’s rich artistic and
craftsmanship heritage for assessment by experts who, I suspect,
deliberately torment owners with long-winded information, even though they
sense the unspoken and impatient question: "How much?"
To judge
from the road show and others like Bargain Hunt, Britain is an island
awash with antiques in which enthusiasts splash out to swell their
collections or focus on the main chance of a resale profit. All seems well
in the excitingly-varied world of long-case, Alexandrian water clocks,
Etruscan, rosewood, dining chairs, Viking cake stands, and Ming Dynasty
menu holders.
The reality may be different. A survey by LAPADA,
Britain’s largest association of dealers, revealed that 55 per cent of its
membership suffered a turnover decrease in 2003. The decline is attributed
to a dearth of American customers after 9/11 and young people being more
interested in minimalism when furnishing their houses and lacking the
collecting and connoisseurship passion of their parents.
While
sales of inanimate objects may be dropping, I am pleased to report an
increased interest in human antiques, an often undervalued group.
Recently, I attended the annual Golden Wrinklies Show at the Mechanics’
Hall, Grimness, where a hand-shaking, heart-warming,
affliction-information-exchanging, good time was had by all among the hiss
of ephedrine inhalers, whistling of deaf-aids, emergency loo queues,
drip-feed entanglements, portable oxygen tents and the throb of motorised
Zimmers.
On exhibit were this year’s top ancients shuffling
briskly down the catwalk, some as old as Aesop’s aunt but, despite needing
some restoration and judicious applications of anti-aging moisturisers,
all were highly-collectable and ready for use as typical examples of a
generation that once maintained a long-vanished, character-different
Britain and who could still be employed as listed and, in some cases,
listing, mobile ancient monuments by tourist towns, appreciative of their
human heritage.
Highly popular among enthusiasts with a bent for
bemedalled military relics, were old sweats who had served in imperial hot
spots. With their traditional ramrod-straight carriage, their sloping Lee
Enfield arms and machine-gun, bipod-type legs, they could still change
step on the march when not in their half-track, air-cooled, bath-chairs.
Also on display was a genuine old-time teacher, complete with immaculate
provenance, leather-elbowed sports jacket and flannels and wielding, with
the accuracy of a chameleon’s tongue, a 1930s Lochgelly belt who aroused
much interest among American punters although an export licence could be
denied.
A genuine, ex-trade union leader (circa 1975) still
able to move motions and suspension of standing orders, attracted interest
for custodian duties in union museum circles but a neatly-suited
politician of proven integrity, not so much an antique as an almost
extinct species, failed to convince the smart money about future use.
Lastly, as the show catalogue reveals, there is the Albert Morris exhibit:
"A rare, late George V creation of a standard citizen (the mould
unfortunately broken). Observe the finely-tapered legs, the
well-upholstered seat, slight bay window, well-fitting drawers,
tungsten-laminated spectacles’ frame and gale-resistant cloth cap. While
the patina lacks vitality and joints occasionally creak, the Morris, if
fitted with castors and laid down sideways, will continue to mature and
could be used as a site of special scientific interest."
How much?
A small fortune, but beyond the price of rubies. I call it a bargain. |
