Countess Diaries Ch 5, The Phantom Gallery of Challenging Art
The evening finds me in a contemplative mood as I admire the latest addition to the palace’s burgeoning art collection: the “village chief” mask from Dennis Druvo’s Ghanaian treasures. It now occupies a position of quiet dignity within the pantry, nestled between the jars of lentils and the baking powder. If its spirit is indeed as wise as Dennis assures me, it shall surely preside over my culinary endeavors with benevolence—though I fear even spectral guidance may not redeem my attempts at soufflé.
This, of course, is not the first time I have found myself navigating the delicate dance of artful diplomacy. Over the years, I have become something of an expert at the subtle relocation of "challenging" pieces to less conspicuous corners of my palace. The gallery beneath the stairs, for instance, boasts a particularly enthusiastic abstract of what I believe to be an elephant balancing on a turnip, though I have never dared ask the artist for confirmation. Similarly, the linen closet houses a ceramic bust so... unique that even Dominicus, who delights in knocking objects from shelves, refuses to disturb it.
Yet each piece tells a story, and it is in these stories that I find their redemption. Take, for instance, the Ashanti warrior mask, which now guards the seldom-used third-floor bathroom. Its fierce visage lends the space an air of defiance, as if challenging any interloper to question why a bathroom exists on the third floor at all. It is a room of mystery, now imbued with a layer of myth.
I often imagine the stories these works will inspire in future generations. “Did you hear about the Countess of Brighton and Hackney?” they’ll say. “Her pantry was guarded by a village chief, and her laundry cupboard housed a sculpture so peculiar it frightened her cat!”
For me, this discreet curatorial habit is not deceit but an art in itself. To display every piece prominently would risk overwhelming the palace’s delicate harmony, and yet to dismiss them outright would be unthinkably rude—an affront to both the artist and my station as a patron. The solution, therefore, lies in crafting a palace where every work finds its place, no matter how unconventional.
And so, with a final glance at the mask, I close the pantry door, leaving the chief to commune with the dried apricots. Tomorrow, I shall tackle the question of where to place the Ashanti farmer. Perhaps the attic? Or the cupboard under the stairs? Wherever he lands, I have no doubt his machete will lend an air of industrious protection to the space.
Ah, the life of a patron is never dull.
©2024 Sarnia de la Mare
