Tuesday, 22 December 2009
OK, first of all, I must apologize: I had no intention of talking about Islam today. I lied. Just noticed that as soon as I mention the word Islam, it brings a lot of traffic to my blog. So I cheated. I know, I know. Not fair. Tough.
Now, back to the real topic. You might be looking at this picture and thinking it was taken in some cosy suburban bistro. Well, the truth is... Net. This hmm...thing is proudly hanging in my kitchen.
I would just like to know. Is it possible to have a partially bad taste? A bad taste in specific stuff?
Because, I would like to think I had a good taste. For instance, in clothes. I am perhaps, a little conservative in my choices, but not dreadful. I remember that one hooker in Baku, who always (after she got married to a rich expat, and viewed herself as a ladyeeee ) dressed in one shade of the same colour. She particularly favoured light blues and pinks. She must have thought it was a sign of elegance and chic. Also, it was simply a very safe choice. If you have bad taste and are worried people would guess as much, it is easier to just go for the same colour, rather than risk matching any other to it.
But back to me, if you don’t mind.
I am pretty sure I am not as sad as that hooker when it comes to my wardrobe selection. Or music. Or furniture. Or jewellery. Many other things, really. But, clearly, not when it comes to things that go on the walls.
I already told you i had once bought some very bad paintings, whilst pregnant in Baku. That time, I blamed pregnant brains for that lack of judgement. But this time... I bought this thing. Nobody influenced me, nobody forced me into it.
How is this possible, I ask you? Honestly, am not a chushka with no taste. But clearly, when it comes to things that go on my house walls, there is some uncontrollable chushka switch in my brain that just operates of its own accord. And now I have this thing on my wall. Husband, of course, hates it. Friends hate it. And I myself can see what they mean. But something just happened to me and I liked it, and bought it. The more I look at it, the more confused I get, because I do not really want to live in a suburban bistro in mid 70s'. I would love my home to be modern, stylish and cool. But I paid for it and announced to the world that I loved it. So I have to live with it. A bit like that expat with his hooker wife. He always knew what she was. He knew what everyone else thought. So, he and I have something in common. We both now have to live with our (embarassing) choices.