ArtView May 2015 - Page 21

remember that in this line of work.’ Our place is full of things like that tablecloth. Things that speak of making-do and desperation and aspiration. When people can’t pay Mum’s fee, there’s almost an unspoken rule that they bring knick-knacks in lieu: pot plants, porcelain dolls, wonkily hand-painted ceramic platters, crystal figurines, feathered dreamcatchers, cheesy vases only big enough for tiny rosebuds, and commemorative coin sets by the score…You get the idea. These things rest on every available surface in our apartment; line the narrow hallway to the front door like an honour guard comprised solely of kitsch. It has always been that way for as long as I can remember. Necessity causes us to shed things from move to move, but bric-abrac is drawn to us somehow, as if my mother and I are especially magnetised. There are too many things to make out in the darkening bedroom I am now sitting in; they peek out one behind another, hanging off the cabinetry, probably breeding furiously in the dark, exclaiming to each other, to the silence: You’re a star. Thanks a bunch! Happiness is. They are the gifts of grateful people with no taste, or no idea. It’s almost like the Franklin Mint, or a home 8 Lim_AstroDaughter_final.indd 8 4/06/2014 11:53 am