As we oiks climb the greasy pole, we may pick up a deceptively authentic-looking set of middle-class predilections: a book-lined study, a modest grubby car, a full wine rack and original window frames. All the while, from deep inside our urbane metropolitan exterior, an embarrassing former self wails from his oubliette: “I want a gold Porsche.” Such a primal desire for the gewgaws of one’s culture of origin lead to the downfall of the hero of my tapestries, Tim Rakewell.
Posted on: Tue, 10 Sep 2013 11:55:43 +0000
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