You Don't Deserve It

After a lapse of a week or six during which I lost track of more than my SiteMeter, Missed Boats picks up where it left off, i.e., with the subject of screwing up in the quest to acquire desirable objects. What I've been finding is that a little discretionary income coupled with some free-floating anxiety can mean a whole lot of thwarted bedazzlements on eBay, where the stages of infatuation and loss are so wildly compressed that an operatic affair can be reduced to a day or two of fleeting enervation.
How is it possible that there are, for me, so many disparate, far-flung and yet captivating objects, and each a way to misjudge? How the thing looks, if it is real, if it will be a gratifying thing to own and if so, why I am deliberately holding back from placing the bid that will make the object mine? Is it because I'm cheap? Well, that's part of it. But this is where the operatic aspects of infatuation kick in; the "lost" object must be found--at any cost--even far beyond its original selling price. Since most often what I'm falling for are books, I end up following the perfume of their abandonment into online rare book sites, desperate for the cadence of fast ownership.
But if originally I didn't buy the thing--the book--because I didn't think I deserved it, why then the flood of compensatory over-spending? The usual markers for behavior disappear, and it's as likely I'll break my neck in shallow waters as drown in deep ones. Because, really, who knows when and where to jump?

Chicago Rummage

In an effort to stave off regret I spent the weekend in an idyll of shopping self-delusion. Inseparable from the bland horror of dippy trinkets is the fear that my own taste should never be trusted--by anyone, but most particularly by me. However, once the white flag of public defeat is waved, there’s no going back; you’re frozen in the corner, dunce cap in place, white flag and elephant at your feet.

Here is what I bought:
A bronze, black-hole-heavy statue of a crouching man, mounted on plastic, once a sports trophy but now missing its bat, racquet or club; a pointlessly oversized half-matted photograph of an Egyptian board game; a beaded gray-red caterpillar-like bracelet, peculiarly segmented and furry; and one or two other items I haven’t yet had the fortitude to unpack.

Ideally, all purchases should be accomplished secretly, all mistakes corrected imperceptibly, so the lunatic’s reputation for reason remains, via fraud, intact.

On the Rebound

There is no end to the insults of fumbled shopping. Like any other dream of menacing stairwells or unmarked doors, the act of losing out on a desired object leaves the would-be acquirer in a fog of unfinished narrative.
It’s impossible to make up for what was missed by finding a mirror image of it since the idea of a mirror image is too hopeful, too exact. But--if the lost object turns out to have a vaguely-resembling sister or descendant, could getting the echo lessen the blow? Can almost-as-good make up for what was lost?

No.

If you lose out, as I did, on a folio of terrific fashion sketches from the ‘50s, does it make sense to look for folios sort of like it in order to buy what will never be more than a shadow? In the case of the fashion sketches, I bought others that close up looked more like the ham-handed products of a party sketch artist than like anything from the pages of Vogue. And yet--the impulse persists to shut the gate, even after your favorite horse has been lassoed by a swindler.

Fabulous Risk

There are so many ways to get to the point of not getting what you want. As I walked up Fifth Avenue today a list of downfall causes floated into my head, keeping me rueful company. I should interject here that the idea of keeping track of material losses is perhaps objectionably frivolous, particularly for someone walking around New York City in this day and age. Some losses are too horrible to contemplate, and regrets for missed chances to acquire dresses or paintings admittedly transport the worrier to an artificially pastel landscape of small-time aggravations. Fears and longings miniaturized can largely displace despair on a regular scale, at least for the lucky ones so far untouched by real grief. That said, regret--even for lost material chances--is real, and displays bemoan-able weaknesses in character, independence and acumen. So there can be pastel anguish percolating below the surface-y surface, a self-imposed seat-belt of inhibition proposing safety over fabulous risk.

Errors of omission committed by women or men on their own may relate to fears of being taken, or of over-estimating the worth of an object of desire. Years later when regret kicks in, it might be consolation to recognize the uses of decades of education, not just in practical matters but also in the realm of taste. This is why collectors trade up, de-accessioning the uninformed purchases of their youth.

As for the turning away from desire, even for those engaged in partner-induced compromises, in the end it is the one who refuses to dig in her heels—worse, to demand unreasonable preference--who is to blame. Regret will follow; all extravagance would have been forgiven.

But of course there is the question of money, inextricably wound to ideas of compromise and self-deprecation, or retirement and desire.

Make or Break Me

It has been pointed out that shopping is a stand-in for other, more alarming, desires. Of course this makes sense, since acquisition gets to the core of identity—it’s as if objects were blessed with intention and ownership consorted with destiny. People—friends, strangers—will know you, not by your kind or cruel deeds, but by your clothes. If they’re invited into your home, they’ll know you by your furniture. Idiosyncratic style offers shorthand explanations: this is what I like, so this is what I am. It follows, then, that certain objects should, by all rights, end up in the hands of the person to whom they belong. If rightful ownership begins with this kinship awareness, then the actual purchase of an object exists only as its echo; it is merely repercussive. When something that “has your name on it” doesn’t follow its rippling striped arc from creation to your pot of gold, it feels like your name—for a moment, at least—has been snatched away, too.
It's a narrow view of the world, ripe with self-entitlement. But it fits with our culture's fantasy that there's only one right person--the "intended"--who can round out a life.

Yes and No

I’m mulling over the persistence of regret, and the eternal buzzing of unresolved desire. Why do people turn away from what they want? It’s kind of like lip-synching—one glitch and the speaker, doubled, becomes her own echo, with her words audible to the world only when her mouth is closed.

Pull yourself together! That would be good advice for the shopper who hesitates and loses what she would ask for.

Moving on… I am, along with half the world, addicted to eBay, and spend my evenings in armchair travel; that is, I hunt for armchairs. Specifically, for ones that consort with side chairs, a bench, and maybe a table or two. I’m only interested if the set—Sitzgarnitur, Sitzgruppe—is Austrian, early 20th century, wood (form always trumps comfort), and maybe has shreds of original Josef Hoffmann-like fabric still clinging to its seats. Only once did I find exactly what I’d hoped for and then I let it go without so much as placing a bid. Had I not meant business in all the hours I spent looking? And why does the search continue?

What does it mean when you know something you want is one-of-a-kind, that you will never see the likes of it again, and yet, when it materializes, you grant it only a loving orbit? That even with crazy encouraging music in the background, you can't think to put your hand up for the ring?

A Toast of Absence

Last fall I realized I couldn’t bring home the whole of André Breton’s Pompidou-reconstituted wall—le Mur Breton. Curiously, I couldn’t carry home a book or even a postcard depicting this sublime and mysterious dimly lit room, since the Pompidou had not thought to publish either. Breton’s assemblage—eccentric, nearly monochromatic—rounds up unmatchable objects into blind conspiracy. Oceanic carvings, African masks, boxed butterflies, Giacometti’s Boule suspendue, demure portrait photograph and framed painting alchemize into a panoramic cabinet of curiosities. Pupils adjust to the dimmed light of magic in the works.
After the mur, I had a hankering for a souvenir of Breton’s exoticism, a reflection of his eye for the fortunate accretion. So when I happened upon the mirage of a temporary art and antiques fair, housed in tents and passages circling the Bastille Métro station, I saw in the discrete chaos the possibility for satisfaction. I fell for an African statue of smooth dark wood, maybe three feet tall and warmly patinated by age. The price approached the cost of my trip, but—my trip hadn’t cost all that much. I felt rushed, choked by a lack of expertise, and, with immediate misgivings, I turned the piece down. I didn’t have the wherewithal to inquire about its country of origin or its age. So now where can I look for its double?
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve thought about that statue, how, eventually, it dawned on me that France had historical reasons to serve as a conduit for fine African art. Back in New York, I’ve seen nothing remotely like the deep statue. I salute its memory from an ever-more-distant dock.

Addendum: This same wonderful antiques fair had a food section! Sandwiches or whole tarts glossed with syrups and alcohol. At a little table, under the bustling supervision of a proprietary cook, I gobbled up apple tart and drank a ravishing red wine. This wine, from an obscure vineyard, was available by the case, fairly priced, and ready to be shipped. I did not arrange for any shipment, and have long-since lost the slip of paper where I copied the label. I think the wine's name was either “Melancholy” or “Tears”.

Get Out Your Handkerchiefs

This blog has a simple, sad premise: I regret everything, at least as everything pertains to shopping. I suffer from the opposite of buyer’s remorse and mourn, instead, all the pretty ones that got away. Most of what I did not acquire falls into the category of interior decoration—the willful expressions of self that make themselves known in the souls of objects, those objects now inhabited by smarter shoppers’ souls. Revealingly, as age creeps up, I no longer regret careers I didn’t have or stocks I didn’t buy (well, I do have some lingering angst about eBay. And maybe Gucci.). Occasionally I’m sorry my parents didn’t speak to me in French or Chinese, but I suppose I’m lucky they talked to me at all. Knowing how to breathe while swimming, or how to distinguish a gas pedal from a brake—well, either of these would have been kind of nice. With one or the other I could have circumnavigated the globe. Which I have not. Why travel when there’s so much to miss right in my own backyard? (There are two exceptions to this blinder-ed view of bungled shopping; more later on these global lapses.)

The non-purchase that toppled me over the edge and into the vertiginous blogosphere? A large, folding painted screen, signed by the French illustrator Vertès, one-of-a-kind, collectible and priced obscenely low by the smocked volunteers of a Second Avenue thrift shop. Days later, haunted by this find, I went back and, unbelievably, it was still there. However—with two large folding screens (mirrored; vintage wallpapered) spreading their ample girths around the corners of our small apartment, my husband suggested yet another set of hinged planks was, well, a bit beyond unwelcome. And so I passed on Vertès, even though I knew who he was, even though his screen was beautiful, even though we could pay for it without blinking an eye. And then, this week, Elle Décor arrived. Inside, one heck of a gorgeous apartment, belonging to Geoffrey Beene buff Amy Fine Collins. By now you know what lit up, delectably, the corner of her bedroom, what made the room.

Who bought it for her? Beene-bedecked, does she graze the whiff-y Second Avenue thrifts on her way to Vogue? Does her decorator—Robert Couturier (great seam-y name)—do her picking for her? Never mind. This is neither here nor there, just a speculating rest-stop along my labyrinthine descent to regret.
….
This is enough for today. Another time I will tell you about the global lapses (hint—they were Parisian, and one was, technically, drinkable and not decorative at all.)