I found this beautiful bust in a Brocante high up on a shelf. It’s incredibly heavy and you can see inside where it’s been worked in the plaster, so I think it’s an original rather than a copy from a mould.
I’d been wandering around looking for something special to fill a little spot in our home and as I walked and looked I noted things that I might come back to. But she just spoke to me in spite of her slightly distressed appearance, or maybe because of it. There was no additional thinking needed, she was the one.
As I walked with her, the weight heavy in my arms, I fell under her charm even more. The gentle blush of her cheeks, the mauve on her eyelid – she’s been exquisitely painted.
She’s obviously of the Art Nouveau period, the lilies swirling around are typical of that style. Further, the pale lavenders and pinks go beautifully with our living room.
After I’d paid for her I noticed a man look at her, then silently catch the attention of his wife and signal to her to look too. They seemed to politely watch our progress, evidently in the hope that I’d place her down somewhere. Alas for them I walked out of the brocante and placed her lovingly in the car to take home.
I was rather perturbed when I was repeatedly asked the question ‘are you going to fix it?’ No! She’s beautiful as she is. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s sonnet 116;
“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”
Love. Beauty. An objective reality pointing to the existence of the divine.
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