My grandmother liked to teach from natural observation. Her young charges would be expected to go out with paper and pencils, study nature and record their findings. The stamens of a tulip. The exoskeleton of an earwig. The blue in a magpie’s wing. Observation was key. The more detailed the studies, the more finely moulded the mind.
Today I’m putting her method to the test and heading out into my environment, armed with pen, paper and a keen pair of eyes.
I started off well, spying, to my delight, two stone cherubs on a balcony of a neighbouring house, turned towards each other as if in conversation. I’ve lived on this street for over ten years but never noticed the cherubs. Perhaps they’re a new addition. Perhaps they’ve been here, unobserved by me, for decades. Maybe they turned to stone over millennia, like petrified trees, too cold and tired to talk any more.
Once on the high street a rush of sense impressions overwhelmed me until I noticed a row of amaryllis spears, thrusting phallically from their terracotta pots. Little green rockets of recovery. Harbingers of glory in the bleakest of midwinters. My grandmother would have been proud.
In the main, though, high street distractions are more likely to be of a synthetic than natural variety. Once again I noticed a pair of gold ankle trainers. And in the charity shop, a spectacular maroon afro wig. I tried it on, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked foolish.
“Too much”, I said, disingenuously (the too muchness being the point).
“Why not go for the axe-wielding bunny girl look, instead?” The sales assistant suggested, pointing to a shaggy platinum blonde wig on display next to a large plastic axe. It’s Halloween, soon.
“Well, OK”, I said, willing to be humoured. I tried on the blonde wig thinking I might aspire to a deranged Marilyn Monroe look while out trick or treating with my sons. I still looked foolish.
“No thanks”, I said, and bought the axe.
On my way home, I pondered my catch: the cherubs, the phallic plants and the charity shop schlock. The pure, the impure and the imperfect. A name occurred to me. Mimi Von Klamp. My burlesque alter ego? I have my grandmother to thank.
Ariadne Birnberg 