Some presents are clearly double edged.
My mother made a clear distinction (which she explained very lucidly early in my life) between a ‘present’ for the house and a gift for her. Something for the kitchen was regarded as having general utility and could not therefore be regarded as a disinterested ‘present’ but rather as something from which the giver hoped to gain by its being used by the recipient. My mother was not fooled by such things.
I was a quick learner and soon understood the cross-over value of flowers. This was a ‘public’ gift which was always appreciated personally. Although flowers were seen by everybody, the fact that my mother trimmed, arranged and cared for them made them particularly hers. This was allowed. I now think that the logic of the gift represented by flowers could also be extended to raw ingredients which could be transformed by one’s parent into tasty meals. I know, intuitively that however logical my thought it would never have been accepted as a parallel by my mother!
Children, of course, are constantly given ‘improving’ gifts: toys which have the imprimatur of some educational manufacturer so that the donor can pay a lot of money to have the warm feeling that he is doing good while being nice. But kids always know when they are being taught, they can sniff out hidden education and they will play with the box that the gift came in rather than something which is overtly wholesome and improving!
Alcohol gives by the sip and takes by the bottle; clothes mask yet define; perfume asserts to fade and gadgets titillate to frustrate. The positive always points relentlessly to the negative while transience and obsolescence swallow meaning. As Flanders and Swann so delicately put it, “That’s entropy man!”
There are some gifts which transcend the tug down to oblivion. The tea caddy in the form of The Oxford English Dictionary given by Ceri and Dianne (when the world was yet young) still contains my tea bags today. And the thought of anything else is simply unthinkable. Only total destruction involving catastrophic metal fatigue will stop it being my caddy of choice! This caddy falls into that small and select group of items where replacement is simply not considered shame and necessity forces: colanders, tea towels, nail brushes and wallets.
Just compare that list with: mobile phones, computers, watches and decent Rioja and you will see the difference! In the latter list change is part of the process of use; in the former it is amazing how something like a fraying piece of cloth to dry dishes can be unconsciously considered an essential unchanging part of ordinary life!
Be truthful, when was the last time that you replaced a tea towel or colander or nail brush or wallet? However broken, frayed, blunted or old they simply ‘are.’
The other type of gift is one which is only made – literally – by you the recipient. Not the conventional self assembly aspect, but more the active continuing participation of the giftee: something like a diary. A diary is only so much scrap paper until the owner transforms it into a coherent book. Personally, I never got beyond January (usually the first week in January) before the scrap paper aspect of the book took over its more normal function.
The present which is provoking these ruminations is in the ‘diary’ category of gift. Our recent efforts in forcing perfectly good and happy acrylic paint from the security of its tube and onto the chaotic surface of a canvas have been noted by certain sections of the family. We are now the proud possessors of giant canvasses with an intimidatingly large surface area to cover in coloured stains.
Toni, with growing enthusiasm, is producing small canvases at an alarming rate and he has made a start on the pencil outline for his magnum opus. I have thought about what I might do and have even gone to the unheard of lengths of sketching out my ideas.
The sheer whiteness of the canvas and the immensity of its open space make the idea of producing a mark on its virginal expanse appear like a violation. Especially with my wayward artistic ability. However, the progress of what I can only term the ‘rival’ picture is prompting me into attempting some sort of response.
The pencil is poised: I have nothing to loose but my self respect.
Let battle commence!
My mother made a clear distinction (which she explained very lucidly early in my life) between a ‘present’ for the house and a gift for her. Something for the kitchen was regarded as having general utility and could not therefore be regarded as a disinterested ‘present’ but rather as something from which the giver hoped to gain by its being used by the recipient. My mother was not fooled by such things.
I was a quick learner and soon understood the cross-over value of flowers. This was a ‘public’ gift which was always appreciated personally. Although flowers were seen by everybody, the fact that my mother trimmed, arranged and cared for them made them particularly hers. This was allowed. I now think that the logic of the gift represented by flowers could also be extended to raw ingredients which could be transformed by one’s parent into tasty meals. I know, intuitively that however logical my thought it would never have been accepted as a parallel by my mother!
Children, of course, are constantly given ‘improving’ gifts: toys which have the imprimatur of some educational manufacturer so that the donor can pay a lot of money to have the warm feeling that he is doing good while being nice. But kids always know when they are being taught, they can sniff out hidden education and they will play with the box that the gift came in rather than something which is overtly wholesome and improving!
Alcohol gives by the sip and takes by the bottle; clothes mask yet define; perfume asserts to fade and gadgets titillate to frustrate. The positive always points relentlessly to the negative while transience and obsolescence swallow meaning. As Flanders and Swann so delicately put it, “That’s entropy man!”
There are some gifts which transcend the tug down to oblivion. The tea caddy in the form of The Oxford English Dictionary given by Ceri and Dianne (when the world was yet young) still contains my tea bags today. And the thought of anything else is simply unthinkable. Only total destruction involving catastrophic metal fatigue will stop it being my caddy of choice! This caddy falls into that small and select group of items where replacement is simply not considered shame and necessity forces: colanders, tea towels, nail brushes and wallets.
Just compare that list with: mobile phones, computers, watches and decent Rioja and you will see the difference! In the latter list change is part of the process of use; in the former it is amazing how something like a fraying piece of cloth to dry dishes can be unconsciously considered an essential unchanging part of ordinary life!
Be truthful, when was the last time that you replaced a tea towel or colander or nail brush or wallet? However broken, frayed, blunted or old they simply ‘are.’
The other type of gift is one which is only made – literally – by you the recipient. Not the conventional self assembly aspect, but more the active continuing participation of the giftee: something like a diary. A diary is only so much scrap paper until the owner transforms it into a coherent book. Personally, I never got beyond January (usually the first week in January) before the scrap paper aspect of the book took over its more normal function.
The present which is provoking these ruminations is in the ‘diary’ category of gift. Our recent efforts in forcing perfectly good and happy acrylic paint from the security of its tube and onto the chaotic surface of a canvas have been noted by certain sections of the family. We are now the proud possessors of giant canvasses with an intimidatingly large surface area to cover in coloured stains.
Toni, with growing enthusiasm, is producing small canvases at an alarming rate and he has made a start on the pencil outline for his magnum opus. I have thought about what I might do and have even gone to the unheard of lengths of sketching out my ideas.
The sheer whiteness of the canvas and the immensity of its open space make the idea of producing a mark on its virginal expanse appear like a violation. Especially with my wayward artistic ability. However, the progress of what I can only term the ‘rival’ picture is prompting me into attempting some sort of response.
The pencil is poised: I have nothing to loose but my self respect.
Let battle commence!
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