Begging Shirts and Weird Art

I am sitting at this tailor shop. An eager tailor in his sixties is tempting Bjørn. A fantastic salesman, he is not letting Bjørn leave empty handed.  There is this one shirt, he insists, that will be perfect for Bjørn's body.

So here I am. Collecting my patience with a polite grin on my face and a Samsumg in my hand.

I escape the shop mentally wanting to grab something, anything, that will keep me seated because despite the tailor's exceptional enthusiasm for his own work, I am bored.

I find The Guardian.  Or their application on my phone grabs me.  What colors.  What power to hook you to a screen.

I read about Putin and Crimea. I also learn about that debris found near Australia and think of plane crashes and imagine the pain of the relatives of the Malaysian airplane passengers. 

I close my eyes and close down the world news section.

By now Bjørn is immersed in the world of shirts. He returns from the fit room showing me a shirt which we both agree is too wide (The tailor won, you see. He got Bjørn to take off his coat, sweater and shirt and try his shirts!).

Bjørn is gone and I return to the virtual world.

I look for the Art section.

There are these articles.  Some famous people declare that this or that piece of art is the best in the world (ridiculous!) or weirdest (interesting!).  

The approach is so subjective and yet it tickles my mind.  

Click. Click.

One more click and I find:

The 10 weirdest artworks ever

The article includes a photograph of Louise Bourgeoise - my art heroine -  whose reproduction I own.  And I laugh because that is the point of that photo, at least on a Saturday afternoon and you don't want to get into deep analysis of what she means in that provocative photo.  (Do look for in the article).

I hope we will leave the shop soon.  

Shirts are everywhere. They seem to stare as if offended by my indifference.  And they look as if they were begging to leave the plastic and be taken to our home.

Bjørn is back and he shows me the one shirt that he likes.  Touch the fabric, he asks me.  The tailor man is happy. He won.

Now I turn my phone off and get ready for our next move: an afternoon shot of Saturday caffeine.