(I'll pause here to let you know I fawned over a beautiful early twentieth-century wicker porch rocker at our more local and slightly less overtly affluent West Philly location a few months ago and that when I went back to get it after sleeping on it, it was gone.)
Looking for nothing in particular, we picked through flatware, came face-to-face with a 1970s-era, desiccated diorama warning us that the earth was in danger, and cooed over a larger-than-life, 1971 print of a tuxedo cat that reminded us of our own little Bertie. As we started retreating toward the front door with some loot, a colorful painting at my feet caught my eye. I stopped abruptly, knelt down, and took a closer look.
I did not recognize the scene, but I wanted to walk down the street. It is empty, after all.
"I like that," Tyler said as he picked it up and cradled it in his hands.
Signed by a Hugh Pruitt and framed in Wilmington, Delaware, we couldn't seem to find its maker on the web. (Hugh, are you out there?)
"All the more reason to think this isn't a forgery," Tyler noted.
We marched to the cashier and paid for a few CDVs and our painting. Tyler also picked up a topless thimble at the last minute, explaining to the confused guy at the front how such a thing could be useful. Tyler, who does hand sewing, explained that it's called a tailor's thimble and that the missing top helps the sewer maintain contact with the fabric.
The anonymous houses?
$45.
The thimble?
Free, for teaching someone something.
We'll be back.
