A question of taste - private pleasure and public pain (From Watford Observer)

A question of taste - private pleasure and public pain

11:05am Monday 6th July 2009

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One wall in our living room is entirely covered with mirrors of various styles, ages, shapes and sizes. My father is convinced that this is because I am a total narcissist, in love with my reflection to such an extent that I want to see it multiplied 20 times.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Most days I do my absolute best to avoid catching sight of my distorted body in our mini hall of mirrors (I sincerely hope that weirdly, globular, gnome-like person reflected back at me is the result of refraction rather than too many pizzas).

Actually, the reason for what my father views as some sort of vanity fetish has nothing to do with a one-woman, wicked-queen-style self-appreciation society, and everything to do with the fact that our north-facing living room needs all the help it can get to let the sun shine in.

I think I spotted the multiple mirror idea a couple of years ago in one of those achingly beautiful style magazines featuring ancestral piles, family portraits, gorgeously threadbare upholstery and lots of spaniels.

Eventually, I managed to persuade my initially reluctant husband that this would look good in a two-up, two-down suburban terrace too, and I have to say we are quite pleased with the effect.

But I’ve noticed that some people, eg. my father, are quite baffled by what I like to think of as our bold design decision. Last night, for example, we were visited by friends we haven’t seen for ages and I couldn’t help noticing the way that Tom’s eyes kept flickering up to the ormolu stag’s head mirror perched just above his wife’s head.

He was too polite to say anything, but I noted that his expression was curiously similar to the face pulled by contestants on ‘I’m a Celebrity’ when Ant or Dec reveal a particularly horrendous larval form as an hors d’ouevre.

Taste is a funny thing, isn’t it?

It’s almost entirely subjective. I‘m pretty certain, for example, that anything I like represents the pinnacle of refinement, while anything favoured by that couple down the road with the pig-shaped pottery planter and faux wishing well on their front lawn does not.

Am I being a snob? Probably.

But why is it considered to be stylish to have a print of relatively unknown Picasso line drawing on your wall, while anything by Jack Vettriano (especially The Singing Butler) is pretty much the modern equivalent of the 1960s Crying Boy or that weirdly ubiquitous print of the miserable green-faced Oriental woman.

(Apparently, she’s quite collectable these days.)

In the privacy of your own home, personal taste shouldn’t be a problem. I might not like The Singing Butler, but if someone else does and has it hanging over their fireplace, good luck to them. Tom clearly didn’t think much of my mirrors, but was too nice to mention them.

Each to his own, I say.

Isn’t it a fact universally acknowledged that one of life’s greatest pleasures is a crepuscular ramble around the neighbourhood when the lights are on and the curtains are not yet drawn?

Looking into other people’s living rooms to see what they’ve done with the place is part of our DNA, it’s one of those little things that binds this great nation together. Sheer nosiness and the chance to have a virtual potter round other people’s houses is surely the key to the success of programmes like Grand Designs, Relocation, Relocation and even my favourite guilty pleasure, Come Dine With Me - which probably tells you everything you need to know about my own judgement!

When it comes to taste, it’s not the style choices we make in the privacy of our own kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms and conservatories that really matter. No, the problems start when it comes to public art and architecture, where other peoples’ taste is thrust down our throats…and usually paid for with our money.

In this age of belt-tightening, wad-withering, credit crunching recession it’s more difficult than ever to forgive councils and the Government spending huge amounts of cash on ‘art’ that no one wants or likes.

These follies, usually great brushed steel monstrosities that resemble bits of twisted fuselage left over from an air disaster, plonked in a park or shopping centre, are generally commissioned by a committee whose taste is more avant a clue than avant garde.

There are exceptions. Most of people are fond of the lovely Angel of the North, for example, and locally - call me odd - but I’m rather keen on that big metal hornet opposite the entrance to the Harlequin Centre in Watford High Street.

Which brings me to the prickly issue of public statues and why we can’t seem to do them these days.

It’s no surprise to me that the empty plinth in Trafalgar Square, currently graced by members of the public doing their own thing, has been vacant for so long.

I recently passed the new statue of the Queen Mother unveiled in London last year. It’s quite unutterably horrible.

I can only think that the outbreak of jubilation that greeted its arrival owed everything to people’s fond memories of great lady rather than the artistic merits of her memorial.

The poor woman has been immortalised as a giant, shiny brown version of her Spitting Image puppet, embellished with an unsettlingly crafty grin.

I think one of the problems for modern statues is that 20th and 21st century dress does them no favours (although the Queen Mother is captured in full Garter robes, so there’s absolutely no excuse).

Just think of that Westminster statue of Lady Thatcher in her M&S two-piece and I think you’ll agree.

And modern men don’t fare much better. It’s probably something to do with familiarity and the shock of the ordinary, but let’s face it, the lounge suit is not a good look for your average statue.

Togas, uniforms, crowns and frock coats seem to work much better - although these are sartorial elements rarely modelled by public figures these days outside a makeover by Gok Wan.

Every working morning I walk though St Pancras station and pass that hideous Hallmark card-inspired couple caught in a kiss. To me, they look like a pair of giant suburban lizards digesting each other and things aren’t made any better by their dreary ‘Next at the office’ attire.

Mind you, it’s not all bad news on the taste front at St Pancras. Just round the corner from the mating geckos is a beautiful, character-filled statue of John Betjeman. He’s captured in a shabby long coat and - nice touch this - there’s a shopping bag flapping at his side.

To me, this is gracious, graceful and great art.

But, I’m equally sure there are others crossing the platform every day who love the amorous couple and hate baggy old Sir John.

There’s no accounting for taste, is there?

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