In the museum today we followed the script, that is, the writing. Ancient forms of writing carved in stone, and some felled onto papyrus that was torn out of its location later and jammed into ‘found’ metal boxes. What is it about inhumanity that allows one to covet a culture’s gorgeously wrought temple at the same time as dehumanising them enough to justify tearing down the temple, or carving a chunk off it, and then rebuilding in a far colder climate in your own museum? We found this headstone densely scribbled which I so longed to touch. Only that I wouldn’t have put my fingers’ oils all over the ancient, four thousand year old stone. But if I had this in my house (I told my companion) I would rub my face over it every day: like this.
Tag: antique
-
hipsterest, like Everest
Call off the search! I think I may have found the world’s heppest hipster. All those people complaining that they’re not one can relax: this guy blows you out of the water. He is tiny and slight – built like Prince – and perched on his front steps in a crowded cafe street, wearing skinny black jeans, elfin boots, and a cunningly off-the-shoulder stripey sailor’s jumper. He caught my eye because his elbow was pointed above his head at a most uncomfortable angle – like an alerted bunny’s ear – as he gave himself a beard trim, slowly, searchingly, luxuriously, into a bevelled mirror on his lap, using a large pair of silver antique dressmaker’s shears.
