Skip to main content

A Box, But Not Pandora's


This wooden box, with a sliding lid and a movable tray inside it, was handmade by either my uncle John or Frank. This was made when they were young joinery apprentices, as a demonstration of skills gained, presumably some time in the fifties, and before they both emigrated to Australia as "£10 poms".

The image glued onto the side shows  men and women in  a gondola, clearly enjoying a romantic cruise. The colours of the box are the original ones, and the paint shows wear and tear. The stuck-on image is not really to my taste but when Mum gave the box to me, when I was a teenager, she asked me to promise not to repaint it and so I haven't.

The box is used to store art materials which I rarely use, such as chalk and oil pastels, gouache paints, (the same set I've had since art school some 30 years ago), and a ridiculous quantity of HB pencils, (which I hardly ever draw with as the lead is wrong for sketching). The box sits at the back of my art table, half-buried under storage baskets. It's useful but also mildly sentimental, largely due to the family link.

I had a spring clean in my art studio, and needed to move everything off the desk in order to  tackle the accumulation of dust, and while the box was accessible I thought I'd share it with you.

This is how my desk usually looks. The box is just visible behind the daffodils.



Comments

After I posted a link on FB to this blog post, my Aunt Phyllis was able to confirm that it would, in her opinion, her brother Frank who would have made the box. Frank apparently still makes things out of wood in his workshop where he lives in Perth.

Also, my cousin Sylvia shared a photo of another, very similar box which Frank had made. Her box has pictures of roses on each side, and was previously used as a sewing box by her mother, Kathleen. I hadn't know there were two boxes. Or maybe there are more somewhere in our family?

Anyway, this discovery was a happy outcome, I think.

Popular posts from this blog

A Cure for Aging?

"All that we profess to do is but this, - to find out the secrets of the human frame; to know why the parts ossify and the blood stagnates, and to apply continual preventatives to the effort of time.  This is not magic; it is the art of medicine rightly understood.  In our order we hold most noble -, first, that knowledge which elevates the intellect; secondly, that which preserves the body.  But the mere art (extracted from the juices and simples) which recruits the animal vigour and arrests the progress of decay, or that more noble secret which I will only hint to thee at present, by which heat or calorific, as ye call it, being, as Heraclitus wisely taught, the primordial principle of life, can be made its perpectual renovator...." Zanoni, book IV, chapter II, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, first published in 1842. Oroboros keyring - Spooky Cute Designs The idea of being able to achieve an immortal life is probably as old as human life itself.  Folklore and myt...

Remembering Richie Tattoo Artist's Studio

Richard in the street entrance to his tattoo studio in Liverpool. The vertical sign next to Richard is now in the Liverpool Tattoo Museum. Yesterday, my sister Evelyn, Richard and myself stood outside Richard's old tattoo studio and looked up at the few remaining signs, whose paint has now mostly flacked away to reveal bare wood. On the studio's window are stick-on letters which read, "Art", where once it boldly announced his presence as the city's only "Tattoo Artist".  I can remember him buying that simple plastic lettering from an old-fashioned printer's shop. This was in 1993, not long after he'd opened the studio and before he could afford better signs. After he'd patiently stuck them onto the glass we realised that from the outside the sign read "Artist Tattoo", so we had to carefully peel the letters off the window and have another go, laughing over having made such an obvious error yet worried in case we spoiled the letteri...

Dear Diary...

Do you keep a diary? Why did you start it, and, if you started one then stopped, why was that? What sort of things do (or did) you write about? I ask as, as a long-time diarist myself, there is an interesting piece in The Guardian today which talks about one woman's diary habit, which she began at the age of fourteen. I started a diary around that age too, but destroyed it after my mother accused me of using cocaine.  A stern scene followed, with both parents perched ram-rod straight in their armchairs, while I was subjected to a heated inquisition. Where had I bought it, and who from? Didn't I know such things led to death and doom? I struggled to decipher their bewildering accusations, until Mum blurted out, "I read it in your diary!" To find my diary, Mum would first have had to rummage through my dressing table, obviously when I wasn't around to protest. Her intrusion on my privacy was assumed by both parents to be acceptable, and now, with this handwritten c...